Captain Stevenson's Secret

By Noel Bodenmiller

Alone and stranded in the Pacific, a desperate sailor withstands the hardships of starvation and injury, unaware that the island was once famous for a pirate's treasure and a cabin boy. Discovering the remains of a man's tortured body complicates his hope of rescue as he learns that greater danger lay ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noel Bodenmiller
• Release date: Nov 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452401881

Noel Bodenmiller

Presenting entertaining stories of the past, present and future. (No flora or fauna were intentionally harmed during the creative process.)

Book preview

Captain Stevenson's Secret

Series: A Diary of Treasures - Book I

Noel Raymond Bodenmiller

For Mother, Catherine Gravier Bodenmiller

Granddaughter, Violet Miriam Maslowe

Copyright (c) 2009 Noel R. Bodenmiller

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Cover: Oregon Coast, near Coos Bay

(c) 2009 Noel R. Bodenmiller

I was in rough shape, the pain enormous, and it took some time, actually days, to sum up all the parts that hurt and to ascertain the gravity of all my illnesses. Hard grounding or not, I didn't know what happened to the boat. I had lost all ability to steer when the entire rudder assembly separated and disappeared under the stern. This was followed by almost twenty-four hours of constant bailing before I suffered the bump on my head, while trying once again to plug the hole left behind by the absent steering shaft. I can only guess that the MisInformed is making her way slowly, even now, toward the great trash haven in the ocean to join with the other floating debris. That is, if she's not already lying at the bottom, to sail no more.

When I first arrived on the island I had no idea of its rich history, and having washed up abruptly onto its shore after a terrific and terrifying storm, I did not care about its past. I was just happy to find myself alive.

Lying on my back I could barely lift my head away from the thick heavy wet sand that had sucked it down into the upward position that had proved to preserve my life. Groaning with agonizing pain, my first attempt to roll to my side failed and I had to rest up a bit before the second attempt also failed. The horizon was beginning to lighten and I was strengthened by the idea that a warming sun might help me out of my situation. I remember there was a passing thought that perhaps someone would wander by and help me to my feet. But that did not happen. Well, I quickly had to ask myself, why should this day be different from any other? I waited for the warmth and if I didn't move things I hurt a little less. I tried bending my knee but I passed out from the pain. In a way this was helpful because I didn't awake again until the sun was well up and warming my tired old bones.

Due to my strict upbringing in the upper social class of America, reading juvenile literature was greatly frowned upon. Instead Plato's Republic, Voltaire's Socrates and Herodotus' Histories were to be studied and discussed at great length. Works such as Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island and The Boy Scout Manual were considered pedestrian and counterproductive. A real shame for me as it turned out, because without the prior knowledge imparted in such books, I was literally cast upon the island with little hope of surviving.

Grounding, we've all heard of the term before, and in its simplest form we sailors know that if weather conditions are not too bad and only a sandbar is involved, it's just a temporary setback until the tide rises or the wind picks up or the captain pulls a tricky maneuver to release the boat from the grasp of earth.

To get to such a far away place is easy if one has only a modicum of financial assets. Keeping a close eye to the weather is of extreme importance and something which I should have done a little better.

Spending money was always easy for me. Any new invention that came along to help with navigation was easy prey for my wallet and although times could be tough for the general population I could usually find a way to purchase what I most wanted in life. There were sacrifices along the way, as in most lives, but there is no reason to detail those here, now or later. That I was now lost, became the greatest matter of importance.

On or about my sixtieth birthday I came to a number of conclusions about life. One was that my accomplishments had seemed few. He was born and then he died was more work from a stone carver than I deserved. Some tombstones at least say father or mother which, although brief, are better epithets than I had earned. Another conclusion: I was most probably going to traverse the rest of time alone. This had been a hard pill to swallow. It seemed