Not to be Cavalier

By J. Lewis Celeste

This novella is a nautical themed thriller based out of Gloucester, MA. The origin of the storyline is, in fact, a fishing schooner named “Cavalier” which was part of the Gloucester fishing fleet in the early 20th Century. The plot suggests that the sins of our distant kin will be answered for... eventually!

Fictional horror allows us to “what-if” the unknown. If enthralling, it also has the power to take the edge off our daily struggles by pronouncing “it could be worse!” I decided to publish this story now to suggest that even in these tumultuous times, it could indeed be worse, far worse. In addition to the thrilling fear it will convey, this story highlights noble aspects of the human spirit which we can all admire— courage, self-sacrifice and unity in the face of despair.

I hope you enjoy the story, that it allows for reflection and perhaps inspires you that people have an amazing capacity of goodness when facing a bleak horizon, whether their own or others.

Warm regards,
J. Lewis Celeste

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Lewis Celeste
• Release date: Jul 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005211585

J. Lewis Celeste

J. Lewis Celeste is the author of the novel, “Gettin’ Paid,” along with several short stories and poems. He is a social commentator who encourages readers to question their opinions. J. Lewis Celeste challenges readers to evaluate their own beliefs, values, and perspectives. His writing focuses on core universal themes of the human condition.Contact: [e-mail]

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Not to be Cavalier

Published by J. Lewis Celeste at Smashwords

Copyright 2020 J. Lewis Celeste

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Not to be Cavalier

"It’s no fish yer’e buying— it’s men’s lives."—Sir Walter Scott

So, it is now 2018, and I feel enough time has passed to share a story that you can choose to believe or not, but I salute the more robust reader who decides to query further into this heart-rending tale that I am about to unfold. For me it is all too true and tragic. Before I delve into the horror I have secreted deep in my soul, I want to stress to those of you that seek to navigate the open seas, whether for trade or recreation to heed the mysteries of the deep and stay superstitious—always, for it may bide you well. Also, I highly suggest that you scour your family history and research any of your kin that may have plied a trade or traveled frequently the open water, and make sure, make absolutely sure, no ill omens attached to these relatives while so embarked. Know for sure if any ancestor perished, or worse, survived when others of crew or manifest did not. If so, I encourage you to seek new employment and travel habits as far away from the ocean as possible. You will see why soon enough.

This story begins with a bizarre re-acquaintance with a childhood friend, which took place 20 years ago, and I’ll roll right into that in a moment, but first know this— when the tragic events I am about to relay concluded, I was charged to share all the awful things I witnessed. Gratefully, I was granted the discretion on when to share them, but to share them was unconditional. I want you to understand this, and also, that this is a somber and terrible task— to put to paper these horrible things. Not the writing of it all, no, because no matter how many years have passed, for me, these things happened yesterday, and today and will again tomorrow. But this story has been my terrible secret all these years, and although I relive the nightmare every day of my life, sharing it brings a new and unknown fear to me.

But this, my final task, was unequivocal, and I really have no choice. Well I do, but the consequences of not fulfilling my charge would be another horror, and I really have no room for that. And it is for you, more than another’s demand to set the record straight, that I do so. At least that’s what I will continue to tell myself. So, this story is meant to warn you, to advise you, that evil deeds done in the past will be answered, and the reckoning can pass through generations if need be. That anyone may be taken to task to pay for some past act, even that of distant kin—any ancestral crime from your shadowed lineage, from those family unmentionables. If a price is to be paid, it will be paid, eventually. Fruit from the poisonous tree, a fine doctrine, but certainly not limited to the barristers, for a bad seed carried to a new orchard is still from that tree and the righting of wrongs, even ancient transgressions can and do happen down the line no matter how far removed.

So please consider your family tree and ponder what, if anything, may require a reckoning, especially if you desire to rock and sway in the great blue sea. For it may come to pass that you will find yourself in the undertow of the deep forevermore to pay a debt for someone you never knew.

Since the horrible events of which I am about to speak of are absolutely true, I must protect my family and my friend’s family. So, with permission from he who charged me, I have changed the names of all parties, except those related to the events that occurred over a century ago, the events that led to this horrible tragedy. Those names are real, and the events historically accurate. And so, we begin…

Chapter One

(Arming with tallow)

It was 1998 and I was in my third year at Northeastern University working towards a Criminal Justice Degree. I always wanted to be in federal law enforcement, initially interested in a nautical gig like the Naval Command Investigative Service, or the Coast Guard Investigative Service, or even Fish and Wildlife. But after my first two years in college, I realized that you take what you can get, and I landed an internship with an OIG in Boston, and aspirations to be waterborne were quickly sidelined for any law enforcement opportunity at the federal level.

On a particular night when the weather in Boston was confused—wafting between damp fog and a light clinging drizzle, my mother called. As typical, her timing was surgical, and happened during my baton pass from Heineken to Johnny Black. After normal pleasantries, she told me that she had a strange visit from Giotto DiGenarro, a childhood friend that I grew up with. Someone I haven’t heard from in years. She became pensive when she got to this revelation, and since I was four deep on the Heinekens, I immediately thought Joe, or Joe-tow, as he was known, was now a junkie or worse and looking for a handout from my family. I went from Hi mom, to what the fuck, in three seconds. But mom was quick to settle me down and said that everything was fine, but Joe could use a friend. She said he was very polite and respectful and only asked if she could reach out to me on his behalf and left his number.

I parted ways with Joe-tow in high school, but from first grade through middle school we were inseparable. Except when he was working with his uncle in the harbor. Joe-tow was sixth generation Gloucester, Massachusetts, and sixth generation fisherman. His family, the DiGennaro family, is one of the oldest families in Gloucester, and have maintained a thriving business in the heart of the Gloucester commercial fishing industry. For decades Joe’s uncle ran the biggest towing and salvage operation in Cape Ann, but by the time Joe was a toddling deckhand, he down sized to just harbor work, puttering around in a 34-foot tug named Pinocchio. Named because he painted eyes on the forward hull and the spar was light tan, so if you saw it pass by it resembled the little wooden character. Joe got his moniker at eight because his job at that age was to throw the monkey-fist and pay out the towing line. His uncle, who obviously loved puns, replaced Giotto with Joe-tow and his family has called him that ever since.

My family was not sixth generation Gloucester; we were first. My parents both worked in finance, dad in Boston, mom a little further up the coast in Boxford. They loved the idyllic and settled in Gloucester when I was three. Being raised in a fishing town, I readily took to the water and like I said, Joe and I became very close in our forming years. We loved playing with our GI Joe toys and spent hours along the shoreline having epic battles. But as the years passed, Joe graduated from casting lines with his uncle to working on the larger trawlers in his dad’s fleet. As we got older, he began missing a lot of school, replaced with work. I never asked if it was his desire, or family commitment, but as we drifted apart, I sensed it was more family pressure than his own will, because he became increasingly sullen and distant.

By my junior year in high school, I rarely saw him, and by graduation he was a memory to me and certainly to the school. So, I was perplexed that he would seek me out now almost five years later. I toyed with the idea of blowing him off, but as a kid I knew him to be very persistent, like when he insisted that Major Bludd always got away. I figured he would continue to reach out through my mother, and I didn’t want her in the middle of whatever it was, so I called him the next day.