Destiny

By Carl Howe Hansen

Destiny...How humanity’s arrogance will lead to nature’s ultimate response.

“Don’t start this book if you have anything urgent to do! You won’t be able to put it down. Dr. Peter Petersen’s discovery of bacteria designed to clean up oil spills promises a solution to environmental disaster, but when it is released prematurely, it threatens to end the world as we know it. Wild adventures at sea, geopolitical crisis, a frantic race to avert calamity—all are made human by the story of two brilliant but estranged brothers, grappling with their past. To top it all, there’s the story of first love in the face of an impending catastrophe. This is a rip-roaring thriller with a heart.”
--Rebecca Pepper Sinkler – former editor-in-chief of the New York Times Book Review

“Big ideas, rich characters, seamless storytelling, and the scent and heave of the sea--it's all here in this powerful debut novel by Carl Howe Hansen. With Destiny, Carl starts mapping out his own as one of our best...”
--Richard Adams Carey, author of Against the Tide, Philosopher Fish, and Ravens Children.

Eminent biologist Dr. Peter Petersen reached the pinnacle of his career when he created a bacterium to neutralize oil spills. When a military contractor uses their version of his discovery for the first time, something goes horribly wrong. Could his life’s work be responsible for the chain reaction ending modern civilization? Despite the uncertainty, he is still the president’s choice to lead the effort “to defeat the greatest threat mankind has ever faced.” Meanwhile, his estranged brother may possess the means for their family’s survival...and humanity’s salvation.
Amidst the ensuing chaos, a long-held family secret haunts twenty-two-year-old Kendra Petersen. By sea and land, she and three generations struggle toward reconciliation, their rescue...and our destiny.

A portion of the author's proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit the Island Institute, a non-profit organization that promotes community sustainability on Maine’s islands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Howe Hansen
• Release date: May 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311547682

Carl Howe Hansen

Carl Howe Hansen “grew up” during summers in Sandwich, NH, while living in many other places—from Swarthmore and Chadds Ford, PA to Port Clyde and Bethel, ME. He worked as a musician, skier, freelance writer, technician, contractor, and cabinetmaker, but writing was always on his mind. His first novel, Destiny, got off to a rough start. In 1978, while he wandered the bazaar of Tangier, Morocco, a knife-wielding thief stole his bag containing the first manuscript—handwritten before the time of digital copies. Eventually, he settled in New England, returning to Sandwich, NH, to live and work, and to the coast of Maine to sail his boat. Along the way, he managed to find the lost words of Destiny and make them appropriate for today.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday morning, August 7, off the coast of Massachusetts.

Kendra Petersen’s fingers slid along the folds of skin below the man’s chin, searching for and then willing the carotid artery to pulsate with the next beat of his heart.

Please, please! she yelled, Beat, you bastard!

Her thumb joined forces with her fingers and she squeezed the fibrous artery tighter until fear gripped her that no blood could pass. Give me a chance, please! Hovering above his bloodstained face, she strained to hear anything at all. Shut up! she said as she lifted her face to the sky, imploring the shrieking wind.

One…OK, there ya go. She had not lost her sense of touch. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, she counted the pulsations, come on…thr—Shiiit…

She let her grip on his neck slip as the sailboat dropped off the backside of another wave. When they reached the bottom of the wave trough, the sudden loss of momentum sent her body, along with his, crumpling against a corner of the cockpit.

Dammit, I need you. She struggled to dislodge herself from his legs. Move!

There was no reaction in his listless face. His weather-beaten skin was wet with a mix of blood and salt water. Behind the stubble of his beard—this was their third day since they had left Maine—his lackluster color showed only a hint of the trauma he had experienced.

You’ll have to wait your turn. Despite his unconsciousness, she kept talking to maintain her focus. We’ll never get there if I don’t get control of this damn boat. She meant for her one-sided conversation to infuse some life, to help connect his errant brainwaves, to keep his mind among the living. Remember what you told me? ‘Priorities first’…you were right. A surge erupted under the hull and this time, she grabbed the base of a winch with one arm, him with the other, and held tight.

Above her head, the jumbled mass of sail remained attached to the main boom. Each time the boat lurched, the heavy wooden appendage many times her weight swung freely from one side to the other.

Now! She released her protective grip on the winch and used both hands to lasso the boom with a length of rope, which she then yanked taut to the gallows and wrapped on a cleat. When the next wave lifted the boat, she dragged him onto the cockpit floor and threw herself on top. With her face pressed against his, she felt some warmth escape from his open mouth. Touching her lips to his ear, she whispered, So, old man, you are still with me.

The boat heeled over, paused with a shudder felt throughout the seams of the old wooden schooner, and then snapped back to attention. She took advantage of the lull between breaking waves, now regular as clockwork, to brush back a curl of hair from his eye and said, Dad, you had better stay alive. I didn’t plan to be out here…alone.

* * * * * *

Five days earlier, around 2:30 a.m., Friday, Aug. 2.

Captain!…Captain, there’s a vessel on a collision course! an agitated voice blared from the intercom, awakening Lars Svenson.

Captain Svenson had a reputation within the maritime community for coolness under pressure. Commanding the oil tanker Martinique was the pinnacle of his career. It was a Dutch-flagged vessel with a Norwegian captain and a crew from seven countries. Since the massive tanker was an older single-hulled vessel without many of the safety features mandated by international treaty following the Exxon Valdez disaster, the company had scheduled decommissioning for the following year. Improvements continued—despite the status of the ship’s future—to take advantage of modern computers and navigational aids. However, old-school attitude and skepticism still marked the aging captain. The owners boasted that the Martinique could cross an ocean without the help of a human being. Lars Svenson knew better; he still wanted notification any time another vessel entered their collision zone.

I am on my way, he said through the fog of sleep as one leg after the other draped over the edge of the bed. The rush of cognition snapped him into action. He shoved his feet into his shoes and then pulled on his shirt while he skipped several steps leading to the bridge.

When he arrived he joined three members of his crew watching the radar display. An image representing a ship flashed on the screen after each signal. The digital blip indicated a distance of five miles, but the other ship was closing fast on their vessel, a vessel as big as a floating skyscraper.

Blast the damn horn! he said to the first mate. Keep trying to raise them on the radio.

Five short bursts reverberated throughout the ship and echoed across the water.

Turn to starboard and give me full power. Their course is steady enough we can leave him in our wake, that son of a bitch…and put that searchlight in his face. The beam of light penetrated the night in the direction of eleven o’clock.

* * * * * *

Aboard the fishing trawler Betty Ann, the captain had slumped over the steering wheel. Greg was a short, stocky man with close-cropped hair surrounding a bald spot. Years of heavy drinking and poor eating habits had transformed his handsome face. His heart beat irregularly while he experienced profuse sweating, nausea, and pain that radiated down his left arm.

The crew remained asleep, unaware of the drama unfolding above their heads. Greg always took the first shift at the wheel during their passage to Georges Bank. When he fell over he slid down the wheel, rotating it counterclockwise. He also hit the throttle, pushing it forward, increasing the speed of the vessel. Greg was left-handed, preferring his throttle control on the left side of his steering station. Under normal conditions, two vessels approaching each other would take evasive action by each steering to starboard, as the Martinique was now attempting. Not the Betty Ann; she continued her own sweeping arc to port at full throttle.

Greg’s heart wound down to a stop as a blinding stream of light illuminated the smoke from his last cigarette. His body relaxed and he rolled onto the floor with an echoing thud.

When the collision alarm activated, the piercing sound woke a crewmember. He bolted out of his berth, alerting his mates while he raced to the bridge. When he reached the doorway, the dark shape of a ship’s hull was visible through the windows. The alarm pulsated and a voice with a foreign accent boomed over the radio. He stepped over the body of his captain, reached for the wheel, and instinctively spun it to starboard. The 90’ steel-hulled boat continued at full speed.

* * * * * *

God damn! What’s he doing? Captain Svenson said when he made visual contact with the Betty Ann. He froze as it changed direction. If the trawler had maintained its original course, it would have, at worst, bounced off the Martinique’s hull with a glancing blow. He grabbed the compass binnacle for support and held tight. Cut all engines! Radio our position…let them know we have been in a collision! Sound all hands to their stations and give me a damage report ASAP…Hold on—!

The trawler drove directly into their side, an oil tanker carrying 250,000 metric tons of crude oil. The jolt knocked the helmsman out of his seat. Their momentum continued dragging the trawler, throwing huge plumes of water into the air. The pressure became too much and the Betty Ann popped out of the hole she had made, rolled over, and then disappeared beneath the surface.

Send a mayday! Svenson shouted before he instinctively donned his slicker, pulled his rubbers over his shoes, and stepped into the night. The tanker already listed toward the impact. When he shined his flashlight over the side, he watched the uncontained oil gushing out of the catastrophic injury to the hull—the heavier salt water was displacing the oil.

It would not take long for the Martinique to join the Betty Ann on the bottom of Massachusetts Bay.

So my life will end this day, the captain said as the oil-mixed seawater washed the deck beneath his feet. He began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Fader vår, du somer er I himmelen…

* * * * * *

…seelonce mayday, seelonce mayday…

Chris Morrison heard the alert on his VHF radio, only a segment—enough to get his adrenaline flowing. Maritime emergencies on Channel 16 took priority over all radio traffic. He slid open the hatch at the forward end of the cockpit, reached through, turned up the volume, and listened.

…vessel in distress, repeat your position, over…

Again, he heard a portion of the transmission without an answer. He stood in the cockpit and examined the horizon in all directions. There were ships’ lights everywhere he looked, but none close by, and no sign of distress. To avoid the heavy ship traffic in the Gulf of Maine at night, twenty-year-old Chris sailed his small sailboat close to the western limits of Cashes Ledge. He figured none of the big ships would show up out of nowhere from his eastern side—they would stay well clear of the Ledges. But, he still planned to be safe and stay awake all night while he transited the approaches to Massachusetts Bay on his way to Nantucket.

"…Martinique, I have your position at forty-two degrees, eighteen minutes north and seventy degrees, sixteen minutes east. Is that correct? Over."

Chris opened the Gulf of Maine / Georges Bank chart under the glow of his red-lensed headlamp and followed the hatch marks until he found the location described on the radio. The incident was located along the designated shipping channel where it doglegged northwest toward its final approach to Boston—far enough away that it was unlikely his low-powered VHF radio would pick up the signal from the ship in distress. The stronger signal he heard must be coming from Coast Guard dispatch on land.

Only a few inches away from the location of the incident, the chart revealed the landmass of Cape Cod, curving like death’s messenger, menacingly pointing a finger before it curled back on itself as if it pulled other victims toward their fate.

"…Sector Boston to the Martinique, you are reporting a collision. How many personnel onboard your vessel? Over."

Chris was alone and felt vulnerable on his 25’ sailboat. He could only imagine what was happening to his southwest.

"…Sector Boston to the Martinique, we had the fishing vessel Betty Ann in your vicinity. Are you reporting a collision with the Betty Ann? Over."

There was no response. Chris moved into the hatch opening and sat on the top step of the ladder leading to the cabin. He knew the Automatic Identification System would give the Coast Guard the locations of all commercial traffic in the area. Not him; he was recreational and not required to have an AIS unit. Besides, there was no way he could afford one.

"…Sector Boston to the Martinique, Sector Boston to the Martinique, do you copy? Over."

He listened as the Coast Guard made the requisite number of attempts to make contact.

"…Sector Boston to the Betty Ann…"

Silence. He turned the tuner back to Automatic Channel Search and overheard other conversations on several channels, so many it was hard to discern their importance. His concern had to begin with the status of his own exposed sailboat on the open ocean in the middle of the night. He left the radio in confusion after he turned the volume down and returned to the cockpit. The dark expanse of water around his bobbing boat was empty, but he had to keep listening to the night. Adrenaline and coffee would keep him going until daylight returned. He looped the strap of his binoculars around his neck and continued to scan the void.

* * * * * *

6:00 a.m.

"Mr. President, at 2:35 this morning we received a distress call from the oil tanker Martinique on approach to Boston. She collided with another vessel while carrying 1.75 million barrels of crude oil…and was sinking." In the White House situation room, a gasp of disbelief interrupted Coast Guard Captain Giles.

If you look at the map here, you can see the area I’m talking about. He pointed with a red laser at an enlarged satellite image on an easel that showed the horseshoe-shaped coastline surrounding Massachusetts Bay. Cape Ann was at the northern end and opposite, at the tip of Cape Cod, was Provincetown.

Giles’s hands shook, causing the red dot to bounce around the photograph. They dispatched rescue craft and no ships or crews were found. I’m afraid to say this, but we may be witnessing an environmental disaster of epic proportions. To understand why, I’m going to let Jim Mathews of the National Weather Service explain—Jim.

Thanks, Captain Giles, Mathews’s voice quivered as he moved a set of nautical charts to the front of the easel. We are experiencing unfortunate atmospheric and oceanic conditions in the area of the spill. This is the location. These arrows represent the normal seasonal flow of the currents…southerly to a southeast direction. The Maine Coastal Current is just east of the spill, but it doesn’t have any dramatic seasonal shift. He flipped the page to compare the summer and winter charts. Close to the spill and north of Provincetown is the Stellwagen Bank…right here. Mathews traced the faint outlines printed on the chart with his laser.

Look, is it possible to get to the point? General Gonzales, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, pushed for a conclusion. Do we really need all this peripheral information?

With all due respect, sir, Mathews said. I’ll try not to make the explanation as complicated as the conditions.

Mr. Mathews, we are all a little bit anxious this morning. The president tried to refocus the presentation. How is the current affecting the spill?

Well, Mr. President, normally the Maine Current heads east of the Stellwagen Bank and, if the spill had hitched a ride, it too would have headed away from the coast, out to sea, and been diluted over time. Unfortunately, a strong low-pressure system is off the coast of New England and its counterclockwise rotation is creating an aggressive northeast wind, pushing the surface current directly into the Bay. We believe that within twenty-four hours, the bulk of the oil will find itself trapped within Cape Cod Bay. Mathews concluded by tracing a dramatic arc with his pointer along the coast of Cape Cod.

Silence pervaded the room as everyone waited for the president to respond. However, Senator Kelley, the senior senator from Massachusetts, spoke first. We are in a world of hurt if that spill gets caught up inside Cape Cod Bay. The economy of Massachusetts and the region will be devastated. Can you imagine a black sludge washed up on those shores? For God’s sake, it’s the height of tourist season.

Kelley’s disregard for protocol piqued another’s interest. As a member of the Presidential Scientific Advisory Council participating in the meeting that morning, Dr. Samuel Petersen was highly regarded for his counsel. During a career that spanned more than sixty years, energy had been his avocation but nuclear power was his ticket to the big show. The council members were not part of the Cabinet; instead, they were advisors, called in whenever the president felt that a situation represented a threat. Natural and man-made disasters called for a thorough analysis so that the president could be in a position of informed authority when he needed to make decisions.

Samuel’s past ties to coastal Maine made him aware of the regional consequences and he sympathized with Kelley—damage would occur to the Massachusetts economy. He also considered another issue; in anticipation of the next election year, the media was closely monitoring public opinion. Rumors circulated that Kelley was the leading contender to challenge an incumbent president struggling with unfavorable poll numbers.

President Demming would not miss that point either. Criticism had weakened a previous president who led a lackluster response to an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The Massachusetts oil spill posed a huge economic and environmental challenge, and one could expect the president to take quick action demonstrating leadership to boost his numbers in his adversary’s own backyard.

Gentlemen, I need you to lay out every possible scenario. If this is a terrorist attack, what is our first line of defense? The president rose and began to pace, addressing the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "Admiral Miller, arrange for all military personnel in the region to be put on immediate alert.

We also need to think of the environmental implications, the president said as he sat down, interrupting Samuel’s thoughts. Dr. Petersen, I would like to hear what you recommend.

Mr. President, oil spills are clearly outside my area of expertise, but it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.

You don’t have a recommendation?

Time is not on our side, sir. We should call in the real experts. Samuel hoped the attention would focus on someone else.

Kelley jumped in again. You’re absolutely right, Dr. Petersen. Why don’t you contact your son?

Samuel had considered his son Peter’s research, but could not bring himself to raise the subject. In scientific circles, the younger Dr. Petersen had earned a reputation for successfully demonstrating a process using an engineered bacterial strain to digest crude oil. He was proud of his son’s success—then again, he remained skeptical of its ultimate value. It seemed too good to be true, especially in light of the predominant by-product—oxygen and hydrogen—simply, water.

Senator, he may have demonstrated the potential, but it is a far cry from real-world conditions, Samuel said, recalling previous tension with the aggressive senator.

Dr. Petersen, if you know something that could help, the president said, I don’t care if it’s just a Band-Aid. This is the time to demonstrate to the public that we are doing everything possible. What are we talking about here?

Samuel tried not to lecture. My son engineered a bacterium that consumes oil, specifically for use against oil spills. However, I do not believe it was tested on an actual spill.

That’s right…it was your son…. The president asked, It eats oil?

Well, not exactly. He discovered an enzyme that when formulated with bacteria that already exists in crude oil… Samuel found himself lecturing. All right, simply put, it eats oil.

The president sat up with both hands on the edge of the table. Then it raises the question: is it possible it could be used at the site of this accident?

Not enough time. It would take months to formulate, then manufacture the bacteria. Then there is the problem with storage and transportation.

All formality was gone. Outside the circle of chairs pulled up to the table, the hum of huddled conversations between the aides filled the room.

Mr. President, with all due respect, I have to disagree with Dr. Petersen. Kelley demanded notice as he spoke. A Texas company named Eradicoil has been manufacturing their own version of Peter’s bacteria under the name EO7. They’ve been stockpiling it and already tested its delivery with a converted air-refueling tanker.

I remember that program. It was designed to provide leverage against Iran. The president leaned forward. Right?

Yes, sir, Kelley said, continuing to act as if he was making a dramatic disclosure. Eradicoil has a contract with the military to use Dr. Petersen’s technology to develop a weapon of fantastic potential. Simply introducing EO7 to their supply will annihilate an enemy’s oil resources. The program’s been kept from the public, but my committee was updated and we were told it’s ready to go. He looked down at Samuel. I’m surprised, Dr. Petersen. Didn’t you know? Then to the president, he said, But keeping this weapon a secret is far less important than the disaster heading toward my home. The people of Massachusetts are going to be pretty upset.

The president took an audible breath. Gentlemen, look, it’s an opportunity to do the right thing. The American people won’t forgive us if we don’t do everything within our power to prevent this disaster. Looking at Samuel, he asked, Is there any reason for us not to move forward?

Mr. President, we have to be careful. This is not a war. We are talking about delivering an experimental weapon onto a sensitive natural resource. If we do the ‘right thing,’ we may be risking long-term consequences. I don’t think there has been the kind of testing that prudence would suggest. Samuel regretted that he had not been more enthusiastic about his own son’s work.

I still cannot condone the release of something that has not been extensively tested and the results published for others to review. I am not blind to what happens secretly, I am just not comfortable. However, it seems like some of you do know more than I do. So, Mr. President, what do you want me to do? Samuel knew what would be decided. Previously, he had unsuccessfully argued against deploying experimental weapons and decided he would remain the voice of caution. On that early morning, the foundation of his life’s work and the relationship with his family was about to be tested…again.

* * * * * *

By 1900, Danish immigration to America had peaked when Samuel’s father, Olaf Padersen, arrived at Ellis Island—the first step to his new life. Along with a heavy wooden chest that contained the tools of his trade, he carried a bag over his shoulder with a few belongings. The tool chest was part of his apprenticeship with a master cabinetmaker in Denmark.

Pader Padersen, or Pader, son of Pader was the traditional form of his Danish name. A portion of the name inscribed with paint on his tool chest was gone, worn away during his time at sea. The immigration official asked him to identify himself—one of hundreds of men who arrived every day. His family had nicknamed him Olaf in honor of his grandfather. Out of habit he characteristically responded Olaf Padersen and pointed at his tool chest for clarification.

The official shook his head and spelled it out as he wrote on the immigration form. O-l-a-f P-e-t-e-r-s-e-n.

No! It is P-a-d, sir, not P-e-t. See… Olaf was on his knees, cleaning the worn spot with his spit.

Next! The officer motioned for the next man despite Olaf’s protestations.

Resigned to the spelling on his new ID card, Olaf Petersen carried the sum total of his possessions through the gate and headed to the New York waterfront. There, he booked the first available passage to Portland, Maine, where a train completed his journey farther up the coast to Rockland. He found work as a ship’s carpenter and within days he was on board his first voyage with an American captain, his tool chest beneath his bunk.

Olaf was more than six feet tall with strikingly blue eyes. His golden hair was longer than usual; occasionally he tied it back to keep it out of his eyes when he worked. Freckles and premature creases from many years of exposure to the elements covered his face. Olaf knew fishing and the way of the boat. His steady demeanor and work ethic made him a great shipmate.

To escape the life of rooming houses, he purchased a small waterfront lot in Tenants Harbor. Olaf also planned to arrange for a Danish wife, but he wanted to have a completed home before subjecting a woman to the harsh environment of coastal Maine. Several years of work at sea passed before he saved enough money to send to his family in Denmark. His house was finished and now he would leave them with the task of finding him a wife.

* * * * * *

Anika was the youngest of seven children living on a small farm in rural Jutland. She had turned seventeen that May and prospects were not great for an energetic young woman with ambition to reach beyond the confines of a family farm. Anika had all of the looks of a typical Dane. In public she kept her long reddish-blonde hair in braids wrapped close to her head. Youthful freckles were fading, replaced by a tone darkened by the sun. A button-like nose was centered on a face that gave way to dimples when she smiled. Within days of receiving the long-distance proposal from Olaf, Anika said good-bye to a family she would never see again. Carrying a single bag, a Bible, and Danish/English dictionary, she traveled to the port of Esbjerg and booked passage to England and onward to America.

She arrived while Olaf was at sea and for many months studied English while living with the Lutheran pastor in Thomaston. After Olaf returned, three days would pass before he got enough courage to borrow a wagon to travel the ten miles to meet her.

Olaf’s boots fell hard against the wooden porch, alerting Anika to peek through the curtain. She removed her linen apron and tried to brush the wrinkles out of her dress. She moved toward the entry hall, pausing long enough to see her reflection in a mirror and practice her smile. She inched her way through the dining room and into the front hall as a soft knock rattled the glass pane of the door. Another knock prompted her to make haste and reach for the latch. Pulling the door inward, she held it firm as if it were a shield of armor. Enough courage arose for her to look out from behind the door to see a man, the man she would marry.

I am here to see Anika, Olaf announced.

I am Anika. Olaf?

He hesitated, examining her face as she emerged from behind the door. Ummm. Almost breaking into Danish, he answered, Yes, I am Olaf Petersen. He held out a small parcel wrapped in paper. I brought you something. Is the pastor home? Olaf stood just outside the door, his hat in his other hand.

Anika reached with both hands for the package held by Olaf’s much larger hand. He has gone to the…to the…church, but his wife is here.

I will wait on the porch and ask permission to enter their home. Olaf still held the parcel. When he released his grip, his hand brushed the tip of her fingers, and she felt the coarseness of his skin for the first time. He stepped back, made his way to a bench, and sat as she closed and latched the door. Looking out across the field, he would have seen the Saint George River below as it made its way to Muscongus Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

Anika’s first impression of Olaf was that of an older man, much like her father, and that made her nervous. She went from room to room looking for the pastor’s wife, afraid to call aloud and reveal her excitement.

My word, Anika, you startled me. What are you looking for?

Mrs. Christianson, he is here, waiting on the porch. What do I do?

Well, child, we go down and invite him in.

He will not come in until you give him, she searched for the word, permission. I am afraid I have…scared him.

For goodness sake, the man has waited a very long time for this day. I know Olaf, and he will not give up easily. Go down and sit with him. I will be right along.

Their meeting was formal and short with the pastor’s wife acting as chaperone. Olaf left with a promise to return in two weeks for the wedding. The tissue-wrapped parcel he gave Anika contained the material for a wedding dress, a gold ring, and a handful of coral beads he had collected during his time at sea. She would spend her time in the coming weeks handcrafting a dress using the beads as accents.

The evening after the wedding, Anika cooked a special dinner for two in his well-organized kitchen. In short order, she learned that she married a fastidious, traditionally-minded man. He treated her with a gentle politeness steeped in the traditions of propriety. Olaf displayed in the details of his house that he knew exactly what a woman like her would cherish. She decided that love could be possible after all.

Olaf was smoking his pipe by the fire when Anika sneaked out of the room. He found her in the loft standing naked by their bed. A candle cast her ghostly image on the opposite wall. He gathered his courage to approach her as she lingered. Towering above her, he reached out and took her forearm, stroking it like a piece of oil-rubbed cherry. While he held her arm, her body shuddered and goose bumps emerged at the roots of the hair standing up like sea grass in a tidal pool. His efforts carried his hands to her face, and he kissed her on the forehead. Placing one hand behind her head, the other at the small of her back, he positioned her on the bed, silently continuing the exploration. With admiration and a sense of discovery, he worked his fingers around her body, driving her ever closer to the abandonment of all her fears. She didn’t hold out for long.

Pader Olaf Petersen was born in 1917 while Olaf was at sea. The sinking of The Housatonic led the United States to break off diplomatic ties with Germany. Before long, most of the world was at war. Olaf and Anika made every effort to continue as usual in the peaceful village of Tenants Harbor.

Olaf dreamed of sailing the ocean in his own boat. Over time, he built a groundway along the shore below their house. An oak keel and ribs emerged, forming the shape of a working vessel with a large cargo hold and sparse accommodations. The heavy wooden schooner floated on the water in front of the house while Olaf worked out the final details.

He never fought in the war; he met his obligations by working in the maritime trade. Although he was gone for longer periods aboard commercial freighters, Olaf managed to complete his boatbuilding project before the war ended. The focus of his life to that point had been his dream for freedom, his desire for independence—it was his birthright. The Danes called the concept skæbne, but they were Americans now—Olaf and Anika christened their boat Destiny.

Samuel Neils Petersen was born in 1921 with his father by Anika’s side. Olaf left her and the boys one last time aboard a freighter and, like so many men of the sea, never returned. During a storm, the weight of the shifting cargo that he was trying to secure crushed him. The crew buried him at sea.

Jack Hillman, Olaf’s close friend and shipmate, arrived at the house on a foggy spring morning on a small horse-drawn cart. As he unloaded a heavy wooden tool chest, Anika and the boys came out to meet him. Pader recognized Olaf’s tool chest and rubbed his hands across the top, tracing the remnants of his father’s name with his tiny finger. Jack had breakfast and with unusually few words, said he was giving up the sea and heading west to seek my fortune. Then he disappeared in the fog.

A Hedebo-style tablecloth made by Anika covered the chest placed in the center of the living room between two armchairs. Hearts and flowers decorated the tablecloth with Olaf, Anika, Pader, and Samuel’s names and important dates embroidered around the border. It stayed as a reminder of the father and husband that, for a while, made the family complete.

At some point during their friendship, Jack had introduced Olaf and Anika to his spinster aunt, Thankful, and her friend Faithful. Both women had been teachers at a school for women in Boston. They had spent their working lives together and retired to a cottage in Martinsville, just up the Saint George peninsula from Tenants Harbor. Hearing of Anika’s situation and needing help at their own home, Faithful and Thankful offered her work as a housekeeper. She took the job with the stipulation that the boys could accompany her.

Faithful and Thankful spoiled the boys and soon became their surrogate aunts. Education was a routine. Every day but Sunday, the boys were instructed in liberal arts and the sciences and, after lunch, released to the world outside where they explored with wonderment and unbridled curiosity. By his sixteenth birthday, Pader had passed the exams and left for the town of Brunswick, Maine, and Bowdoin College with all expenses paid by the aunts. Samuel would follow two years later at the age of fourteen, not because he was smarter, but because he missed his brother.

Anika was content to stay at home to work in her gardens, dig for clams, pick the wild blueberries, and preserve everything she could just in case. In the summer, the boys became experts in the handling of Destiny and explored Penobscot Bay to the fullest extent possible.

She never remarried and died quickly and without complaint of a mysterious disease when the boys were away at school. She had often expressed contentment with her belief that Pader and Samuel would thrive in a world where change had left her behind.

Their protracted absences from home lengthened as the 1940s ushered in the threat of another worldwide war. Pader was the first to enlist after Pearl Harbor. A shortage of medical doctors made his service valuable. He went to the Philippines and ended up on Bataan before the army surrendered the island to the Japanese. In 1942, before Samuel completed his doctorate in nuclear physics, Dr. Robert Oppenheimer enlisted him to work on the Manhattan Project.

After the conclusion of the war, Pader and Samuel boarded Destiny for an extended trip along the coast of Maine and, perhaps, beyond. On a late afternoon with daylight waning, Pader watched to the southwest as a thunderstorm approached. After calling Samuel up from below, they discussed their options and decided to make their way to a familiar island.

Approaching Pine Island was particularly hazardous due to the rock outcroppings that lined the shore. However, between the horseshoe-shaped rock ledges facing west was the entrance to a harbor that would protect a ship from the worst that nature could spawn.

Despite the perceived hazards, the Petersen brothers sailed Destiny through and found safety. They waited out the storm after dropping anchor in the shallow harbor. Two days later, Pader joined Samuel on a hike around the island. Standing on the shore of a freshwater pond teeming with wildlife, Pader announced that he would never leave this garden of Eden. He decided that Destiny had arrived at what was his destiny. Using the money from the sale of their mother’s house and military separation pay, they purchased the entire 140-acre island.

A return to an overactive postwar society after surviving three horrific years as a prisoner of the Japanese was not on Pader’s agenda. He had suffered wounds during his imprisonment, but endured.

Samuel could still see the mainland six miles away and rest in the knowledge that an alternative was nearby, if he ever tired of a solitary life. He experienced a guilty conscience after his involvement in the Manhattan Project. The urgency of the atomic bomb had led many scientists to ignore the obvious results out of fear of a protracted war and millions of casualties. He regretted using the sacrificial deaths at Hiroshima and Nagasaki to demonstrate nuclear energy’s unrestrained power.

Together the brothers built a granite foundation and fireplace using scraps from an abandoned quarry on the island. A wooden structure emerged using timbers hewn from the pine that had flourished in a gentle valley protected on both sides by prominent ridges. To help in all their work, Pader and Samuel used the lovingly-maintained tools stored in their father’s tool chest.

Several acres of cleared land created a pasture for the livestock shipped over on the infrequent-but-reassuring trips Samuel made to the mainland. Tall fences of intertwined split logs surrounded large vegetable gardens filled with varieties capable of surviving the harsh weather.

The war had changed the course of their lives, but their education now served them