The Celtic Riddle

It was relatively easy sailing, hugging the coast, past ttle bays and coves, some with houses visible, othersdeserted, others with the same derelict and abandoned houses we'd seen near Rose Cottage.

Few of the homes were as beautiful as Second Chance. From the water it was spectacular, the pale yellow of its walls in sharp contrast to the dark, dark green of the hills way behind it, and the well-manicured lawn and gardens sloping down to the sea. It looked like a little paradise, and even Jennifer, burdened very slightly by a late adolescent angst that had a tendency to show itself as chronic cynicism, looked impressed.

As we followed the coast past Second Chance, the wind whipped up, as it had when we'd hiked to Rose Cottage, and we had to tack several times to make headway. It was exhilarating, though, as the little boat crested the waves, then fell into the trough, the rugged shoreline, high cliffs at whose base the waves pounded and above which seabirds flew, receding off into the mist miles away. And high on the cliff, Alex's newly acquired cottage sat snugly facing out to sea. "Is that it, Uncle Alex?" Jennifer called out pointing toward the shore. "Oooo," she exclaimed, as Alex nodded proudly. "It's brilliant. Can I come and visit summers?"

"Of course you may," he replied.

The little wooden boat was still bobbing in the cove when we got there. Alex skillfully maneuvered our craft past some rocks and pulled alongside.

"I don't see anything," Jennifer said, peering into the Ocean Crest.

"We'll need to board her," I said.

"Be quick about it, Lara," Alex said as he pulled alongside. "It's time we were getting back," he added, pointing to the sun now dipping toward the horizon.

"Just give me a few minutes," I said, easing my way into the other boat. Once I was aboard, Alex shoved off and anchored several yards away.

I started at the stern and moved forward. I checked for wire or ropes over the side, thinking there might be a watertight package hidden in the water. I pulled the boat up to the buoy where it was moored, but found nothing there. I ran my fingers under the gunwales in case a tiny piece of paper had been stuck there. I checked the oar sockets and I felt under each seat, before moving toward the bow. I checked under that seat, too. Still nothing. Then I reached up into the prow of the boat, and came up empty again.

I was about to give up when I noticed that one of the boards in the bow looked freshly painted, in contrast to the rather worn quality of the rest of the boat. I gave the board a little tug and it came away to reveal a piece of white plastic sheet, part of a plastic bag, I'd have said, rolled up tightly and wedged into a grove between the boards, then taped to hold it in place.

"Got it," I yelled to Alex and Jennifer, slowly peeling away the tape, being careful not to tear the plastic or its contents.

"Yanpmoc!" Jennifer called out, waving her arms toward the shore. I looked up in the direction Jennifer was pointing. At the top of the cliff, round about where John Herlihy must have gone over, Conail O'Connor, son-in-law number two, stood, arms crossed, one leg propped up on a rock at the edge, looking down at us, like a bird of prey readying to strike. At that moment, I knew two things: One was that if looks could kill, I'd have keeled over right then and there. The other was that some people were taking this treasure hunt way too seriously.

"Let's get out of here," I called to Alex, who weighed anchor and navigated over to me. I stuffed theplastic roll in the back pocket of my jeans and scrambled on board the Maire Malloy. Alex started the little engine, and we slowly made our way out of the cove and into the wind.

The trip back to the harbor should have been a fast one. The wind was with us, and as soon as the sail was up our little boat leapt forward. The setting sun was to our right and behind us as we sped along.

We were about halfway back when a trawler, engines at a deep throaty roar, blasted out of the late afternoon shadow of the bay, heading directly for us. It was not a sleek boat, but it was a powerful one, its course bringing it inexorably closer and closer. "Come about," Alex yelled, as Jennifer and I ducked to avoid the boom, and scrambled to the opposite side. The other boat changed direction and continued to bear down on us. We were yelling and waving, trying to catch the attention of the driver, whom we couldn't see, before it was too late. At the last moment, Alex, an excellent sailor and remarkably calm in a crisis, did a quick maneuver, and the trawler, which was about to hit us broadside, instead just grazed the stern. It was enough, however, and, swamped, the Maire Malloy rolled over, hurling all of us overboard.