Refuge From the Sea

By Vincent Wyckoff

In the spring of 1909, four dozen intrepid individuals endeavored to construct a lighthouse atop a 130 foot escarpment over the frigid waters of Lake Superior.There were no roads or towns nearby.In Refuge From the Sea, Abby Simon, heroine of the Black Otter Bay series, discovers a journal written more than 100 years ago by one of the men building Split Rock Lighthouse. Entranced by the courage and commitment of this fellowship of strangers struggling against the wilderness, Abby engages the townsfolk to help uncover hidden clues to this historic undertaking. But when the journal comes to a sudden stop with the writer falling into the icy depths of Lake Superior, Abby is more determined than ever to uncover his fate.Refuge From the Sea is a mystery without a murder, a love story, and a tall tale of heroic determination, all set to the backdrop of the temperamental Lake Superior.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Sep 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781682011423

Vincent Wyckoff

Vincent Wyckoff was a laborer, a construction worker, and a sheetmetal worker before he became a letter carrier in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1990. This is his first book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

April 23, 1908 Aboard the America.

Clear skies and calm wind, with an overcoat against the chill.

Huge boulders, some larger than locomotive coal tenders, slid silently beneath the steel hull of the chugging steamer packet America. George Hemsing kept his back to the sea, his arms stretched wide to maintain a firm grip on the railing behind him. The relentless pounding of the steam engines vibrated up through the hull, along the upper deck railing, and into his grasping fingertips. Lake Superior ran smooth before them with barely a ripple to mar the view into the crystal-clear depths below. George ignored this unsettling perspective, however, choosing instead to focus across the open deck at the shoreline a mere half mile away. His eyes followed the tree line as it ran up and down over cliffs and across the darkened mouths of tributary streams and rivers.

The excitement he’d felt at the early morning departure from the Duluth ship canal had quickly subsided. In his exuberance to be aboard, he’d climbed to the second deck and found a place along the rail between lifeboats. As the sun rose higher, casting off its orange and pink hues of introduction for the yellow-white clarity of an early spring morning, he’d looked out to sea, where nothing existed to break the flat line of the horizon. It put him in mind of the time as a child when he’d hiked to the top of the rise behind the wheat fields back home and, pointing a finger at the horizon, had slowly turned in a circle. Nothing rose to break the imaginary line against the sky, and his knees had gone limp against the great open expanses. The encircling horizon loosened his equilibrium. It was as if he could feel the planetary rotation beneath him. He’d closed his eyes against the revolving distances, feeling an unsteady urge to topple from the flattened hilltop. When he’d sat down, and then sprawled out against the earth, he found a breath of comfort with his arms and legs stretched wide in the grass.

Early this morning he’d watched in awe as mammoth boulders passed beneath the ship. A deckhand worked nearby coiling a hawser on the upper deck, and George asked him how far down the rocks were. The sailor dropped the line and took a look over the railing beside George. Probably fifty or sixty feet, he said. He shrugged his shoulders while continuing to peer into the depths. As long as you can see ’em it’s probably less than a hunnert feet. The man straightened up to look out at the brilliant new day and the sun-speckled water undulating out to the horizon. It’s not until you can’t see ’em at all that it’s truly getting deep.

George had taken a last look over the railing, eyeing the black shadows surrounding the ancient behemoths far below. Soon the mammoth stones were gone, too, fading into the fathomless black void. In George’s mind the distance below reached to the farthest extent of the horizon, and the wide upper deck of the packet boat became the flattop hill back home. The sudden qualm in his belly turned his face away from the railing and the companionway to focus across the deck at the near distant shore.

He’d been staring at it ever since.

At the stops at Knife River and Two Harbors to drop mail and passengers, he’d considered getting off the America himself, but this fear of open spaces intrigued him. He’d lived with it for thirty years on the farm. He was keenly aware of it, but never let its presence cause him to shirk his duty to plow an open field or cross an expanse of prairie to bring in the cattle. The great lake was calm today, almost inviting, just as the waving fields and grasses back home had comforted him. Besides, George was a good swimmer. He took pride in his ability to swim long distances. Of course, that had been some time ago, and in the farm ponds of southwestern Minnesota, where depths barely managed ten feet and distances were measured in yards rather than miles.

So this was a new thing for him, this Lac Superieur, as the French voyageurs had called it. A body of water extending to the far side of the horizon, just as the fields of grain and grass rolled endlessly away, both reaching for the heavens and the mysteries beyond.

Watching the shore, George noticed where the trees had been cleared back around the mouths of streams and rivers. Small wooden cottages and boathouses stood as weathered-gray silhouettes against the rock-lined coast. Sometimes, hearing the beckon of a horn or the clanging of a bell from a village, the America approached and anchored for a moment offshore. Lake access to many of these remote fishing villages was shallow, requiring a smaller skiff to be sent out to retrieve mail, passengers, or supplies. Wooden crates of fish were taken onboard and stowed below. The upper deck around George was generally clear, with firefighting equipment neatly stacked against the rails, and trunks of tools and hardware firmly bolted to the floor. While most of the passengers preferred to sit inside, George hadn’t yet been able to release the railing to make his way down the companionway.

And now he saw the deckhand he’d spoken with at the outset of the voyage climbing the metal stairway from the main deck. A big man, he noted, broad of chest and shoulders. He bounded up the steps and landed on the open deck with an effortless aplomb. He approached George, grasped the railing with both hands, and lunged up on tiptoe to look straight down over the side. Dark down there, he said, as if commenting to himself.

George sucked a deep breath against the sudden lurch in his stomach and continued his observation of the trees along the shoreline. The man half turned to face him but let the silence run on for a while. Finally he turned around, leaned back against the railing, and pointed his wide, mustachioed face at George. So this is your spot, then, he said.

George ventured a brief look at his boots, as if considering the idea that he’d claimed this secluded roost for himself, but then resumed his study of the shoreline. A massive cliff was approaching, so high he feared it might make him dizzy to look at the top.

You’ve been here since boarding, the man continued. Hours ago. Same exact place here along the railing. He chuckled. Lifeboats on either side of you.

George had to grimace at that, and then smirked at himself, at the folly of clinging to this narrow perch along the rail. The big man rocked back from the edge, an open-mouthed grin of friendship aimed at George. My name is Carl Moen, he offered, standing easily next to George. I mostly work the docks in Duluth, he added, but sometimes I like to sign on for a ride up the shore.

George nodded while risking a look at the open face before him. Wideset gray-blue eyes sparkled back at him. A thick brush of mustache protruded over the man’s lips. He noticed a couple of teeth were missing in the broad smile, but the remaining ones stood out straight and white. He also realized that focusing on the big man’s face seemed to calm his uneasiness, in much the same way that the slow-moving tree line had settled his belly.

George, he stammered, surprised at the weakness in his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. George Hemsing, he said.

Big Carl Moen lit into a laugh, but cut it short to ask, And what do you do, Mister George Hemsing? What do you do that brings you up to this cold stretch of water and inhospitable shoreline?

George continued to study the man’s face, seeing only friendship and good humor there. Well, I’ve mostly been a farmer, he replied.

Now Carl Moen stood back and laughed, a real laugh from deep in his ribcage. The loud roar turned the heads of the few passengers riding the upper deck. A farmer, he exclaimed, reaching out to yank on the railing next to George. It’s a flatlander you are!

George grinned. This flatlander term was new to him, and sounded derogatory, but the expression on Carl’s face revealed an amicable good will. You won’t be finding much farming up this way, Mister George Hemsing.

George nodded and returned his gaze to the passing tree line. I’ve got younger brothers to work the farm, he said. It’s a good life, but I thought to knock about a bit.

Carl followed George’s study of the shoreline. That’s Split Rock over there, he said. They been logging up that way for five or ten years now, but I think it’s almost done.

George squinted at the row of small timber-frame shacks lining the river mouth. A wooden pier extended out from the cobblestone beach. It all looked so puny and insignificant against the backdrop of forests and cliffs and the endless expanse of sea.

Half a dozen ships sank along this stretch in ’05, Carl said. I believe one of ’em is down below us now.

George swallowed his alarm at the mental image of a huge ship lying invisible in the empty black void beneath them.

Carl stepped away from the railing and leaned closer. See that cliff coming along there? I hear they plan to build a lighthouse up there.

George nodded. Daring a glimpse at the one hundred and thirty–foot escarpment, he saw giant white pines crowning the top, creating a dark portal into the interior. He took a deep breath and held it against the destabilizing panorama rising before him.

Carl stood flat-footed on the moving deck, his hands stuffed casually in his canvas trouser pockets. Like the broad cliff standing solid against the shore, his wide stance appeared firmly rooted to the deck. Now how do you suppose they plan to build a lighthouse on top of that rock? he asked, grinning at George with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. No roads up there, you know. I heard the steamship company wants the government to pay for it, but there’s no way to build it but up and over that cliff. He stood back and studied the cliff face. Yes, sir, it will be a miracle of engineering, if you ask me. Then he huffed and smacked the railing beside George. But I intend to be on that crew just to see how they do it, the big man concluded.

George shrugged. He had no idea about the building of a lighthouse. Until now the logistics of it had never crossed his mind. But he knew that Congress had passed a bill last year to pay for it, meaning that eventually they’d be looking for men to fill work gangs.

George looked at his new companion. A childlike enthusiasm glowed on his face. When his features wrinkled up to study the passing wall of rock, his thick mustache seemed to consume half his face. The deckhand’s gaze roamed farther up the shore, and soon he nodded. You see that smaller cliff coming along there?

Carefully turning to see where the man pointed, George adjusted his grip on the railing and spotted another cliff face jutting into the water. Calling it smaller seemed wrong, however, as it rose like a fortress from the sea, maybe half the size of the towering wall they’d just passed, but equally as insurmountable.

"That’s where the Madeira went down," Carl informed him.

George knew about the Madeira. He’d read all the stories written up in the Duluth newspapers last winter. And before that, tales of the great storm had been written up in his local small-town newspaper. One of the sailors on the ill-fated ship took a rope and climbed the sixty-foot wall in the dark at the height of the November gale. Finally reaching the top, having withstood the battering of waves and sixty-mile-an-hour winds in a pelting snowstorm, he secured the rope and threw it back down for his shipmates.

All but one survived.

From his vantage point aboard the America, George considered such a feat to be impossible.

Carl said, If we passed a little closer you could see a part of the wreck on the bottom. Twenty-foot waves bashed it against the cliff until it broke in two.

The story was now beyond George’s ability to comprehend. Reading newspaper accounts in the safety of his family’s farmhouse was one thing, but out here on the ice-cold lake, with towering cliffs and impenetrable forests raw and vivid in front of him, the saga took on mythical proportions.

And now he found he had to make himself breathe. He looked away from the rocky coastline of epic heroism and studied his feet. Breathe, he thought. Breathe in. Breathe out.

After a time he ventured a look at the big man standing beside him. The animated face stared back, a gentle smile like a comforting hand extended to him. Quietly, with a tone of confidentiality, Carl asked, You have a wife, then, Mister George Hemsing? Someone to look out for you in this wild place?

This might be another crack at his expense, George thought, like the joke about him claiming a private spot along the nearly vacant railing, or the comment about him being a flatlander from the prairie. But he saw no guile in the open face before him. The blue-gray eyes were soft and the open-mouthed grin was gone, replaced by a grimace of concern. In that moment George nearly told him he’d never even had a girlfriend, much less a wife. He almost told him that he’d never had the courage to talk to a woman, or that he’d left home without confiding even a trace of his feelings for the young lady he’d intended to be his wife.

He could have said those things, but he didn’t.

Instead, he lowered his gaze to the small trunk placed protectively beside him against the railing. Carl noticed, and stepped around him to kneel in front of the leather-handled wooden case. He ran a hand along the smooth, pale finish and used a finger to trace the name carved in the top.

Nice work, he said, grinning up at George. You made this?

George studied the big rough hand as it passed over his name in carved relief. This was uncomfortable. He’d never had much reason to talk about himself.

My father, George finally muttered after a long, awkward silence. My father made it ten years ago.

Carl nodded. Most trunks I’ve seen are twice this size. Folks pack everything they own in them. He stood up and smirked at George before adding, For me, I got everything I own in one little bag.

George looked away, embarrassed by the man’s admission, but in the end decided it would only be polite to say something. Tools, he offered. When he saw the blank expression on Carl’s face, he pointed at the trunk, and added, I carry my tools in there.

He didn’t think it necessary to explain that, just as Carl had said, he’d also crammed everything else he owned inside. His tools were packed away snug at the bottom of the trunk, protected from moisture in waxed canvas cloths. There were two handsaws, a pair of leveling planes, and his set of wooden-handled chisels. He also had straight-edged and curved drawknives, as well as his specialized gutter adze, all tucked away securely in their own leather sheaths. He had stones and files to maintain their edges, and machinist’s oil to protect them from pitting and rust. There were short-handled, heavy-headed wooden mallets, and his father’s well-used shop hammer, a gift to him when he’d left the farm. The hammer’s old wooden handle was cracked. Years ago his father had wrapped it in wire, which managed to keep it from breaking, but did little to prevent the shock of hammer blows from vibrating up his arm. George could make a new one, of course, but he found satisfaction in using it the way his father had for so many years.

On top of the tools, like an afterthought, he’d packed a change of socks, a heavier woolen shirt, and his prized copy of A Carpenter and Joiner’s Architectural Engravings.

Carl’s open-mouthed grin was back. Tools, he said, and then started laughing. Are these your farming tools, Mister George Hemsing? Is there a deep-bottom plow and a threshing machine in that trunk?

Even George had to smile at that. And then the steam whistle blew right above them and the loud shriek nearly collapsed him to his knees. Carl turned to look ahead and pointed at a narrow strip of rocky, tree-covered terrain extending into the lake. Just around that point, he said, is the Black Otter River and the fishing village of Black Otter Bay. We’ll be putting in soon, and I get off there.

George craned to see ahead, but without letting go of the railing it was impossible to see around the lifeboats. I’m getting off here, too, he announced to Carl’s back.

The America swung around, staying well offshore to avoid grounding. George made himself look over the railing and took a little comfort in once again spotting the huge boulders below. Then Carl was there, grabbing him by the shoulders to turn him around. You’re getting off here? he demanded. In Black Otter Bay?

George nodded.

But there’s nothing here but fish houses and boats.

Standing close to the big man and that mustache and broad face steadied George’s knees. He looked back the way they’d come. We’re going to build a lighthouse, he said.

Carl’s grin couldn’t get any wider. But that won’t be for another year or two, he said.

Now George could see the cluster of boathouses, docks, and fishing skiffs in the river mouth. Farther up the ridge, on the mostly logged-off, boulder-strewn hillside, he spotted the few houses and outbuildings comprising Black Otter Bay. Closer in, a large open boat skimmed toward them over the glass-like lake surface. The America’s whistle screamed again, and the anchor chain was released. He looked at Carl. I left the farm to build a lighthouse and join the US Life-Saving Service.

Before he could say more, Carl stumbled backward in mock surprise while bursting into his most boisterous laugh yet. He held his arms wide apart at his side, as if about to hug George, but then swung them forward to point at the endless miles of water beyond the starboard rail. You know the Life-Saving Service goes out on the lake, don’t you? In the roughest weather and the darkest, coldest nights.

George stared at him. The America’s momentum slowed as slack in the anchor chain tightened. He heard greetings called up from the oarsmen in the approaching boat. The cargo door in the hull slammed open. George took a deep breath and released his grip on the railing. His fingers ached and his legs were stiff from standing in one spot so long. He half-tumbled to his knees beside his trunk and steadied himself on the leather straps.

Come on, Carl urged, easily tugging the trunk away from him. They only stop long enough to take on whatever cargo is ready. If we don’t get downstairs right now, we’ll be swimming to shore.

Carl hoisted the small trunk in one quick motion and, wrapping a huge hand through a leather strap on one end, held the load securely on his shoulder. George followed behind, keeping an eye on the broad, steady back in front of him. At the stairwell Carl suddenly stopped, spun around, and with a skeptical squint asked, The Life-Saving Service? Excuse me, Mister George Hemsing, but I thought they only took on young fellows.

George reached for the stairwell railing and let a smile come to his face. I’m told they’ll need a barracks for the men. Equipment sheds and such. Boat repairs.

His new friend stared at him, at a loss for words for the first time all day. But then the steam whistle blew again and Carl twirled around to leap down the stairs, his rollicking laugh clearing the way ahead.

Fourteen-year-old Abby Simon gently closed the journal and released a deep sigh. Running a hand over the homemade cover, she wiped dust and grit from the cracked leather binding. Almost every page had dirt and sawdust particles embedded in the paper. She studied the unadorned binding, the narrow leather or catgut ligatures, and the obviously amateur job of stitching. When she finally looked outside she was startled to see big fat snowflakes lightly fluttering past the window. She’d become so engrossed with the early summer descriptions in the journal that she’d forgotten it was midwinter in her world.

She stood and pressed up close to the window, trying to see where George Hemsing and Carl Moen had come ashore. With all the leaves off the trees she could see part of the bay, but not close in enough to see the river mouth, or what at the time had been the original location of the little Black Otter Bay fishing village. The highway cut a wide swath through the forest just down the hill from her, and with the short strip mall and massive steel-girder bridge spanning the river, trying to imagine the setting over one hundred years ago was difficult.

To earn extra credit in her social studies unit at school, Abby had volunteered to catalogue and organize the meager holdings of the Black Otter Bay Historical Society. Housed in an attached back room to the Tourist Information Center, the artifacts consisted primarily of boxes packed with old photos, books, and a few commercial fishing and logging industry relics. So far, she’d pulled out some particularly striking photos to have framed, pictures of early village life and townsfolk that would eventually adorn the empty walls of the Tourist Information Center.

Francine Ballingrud curated the building, mostly on weekends or holidays when a passing tourist would be more likely to stop. She was also the head librarian for the county, with duties spread far and wide, so Abby’s volunteer hours were much appreciated. Francine had stopped in earlier to examine some of Abby’s discoveries, but the Tourist Center was closed for the season, so she hadn’t stayed long. That was okay with Abby, as she liked having the place to herself, and enjoyed the quiet after-school hours in the old building.

Abby looked back out at the bay and tried to picture the big steamer packet rounding the point of land at the mouth of the Black Otter River. She’d seen photos of the bayside pier and fishing shacks from the early days of settlement. Black Otter Bay was one of the first villages incorporated along this wild and inhospitable coast. George and Carl had come ashore in the early days of summer, under fair skies and long hours of daylight. Now, in January in her world, it was snowing and getting dark and it wasn’t even the dinner hour yet.

Abby turned back to her small table and neatly straightened the books and photos into piles. She grabbed her coat off the back of the chair and, after tugging her thick black braid out from under the collar, pulled her Minnesota Twins cap snug over her brow. A last look around, and then she switched off the light, plunging the little back room into semi-darkness. It was just a few steps down the wide connecting corridor to the Tourist Center, where a small floor lamp glowed in the corner. Brochures and maps lined a narrow wooden countertop, upon which Abby hoped to display historical artifacts when the tourist season began in the spring.

The structure housing the Tourist Information Center was one of the original boathouses from down on the shore, patched and repaired and repurposed over the decades, and finally hauled up to its present location on the hillside above town. The walls were formed of hand-cut, square-hewn logs, providing the only insulation against this snowy winter weather.

Abby turned off the floor lamp and was reaching for the door when a loud clattering of objects in the back room startled her. She spun around to peer down the darkened, shadowy hallway. Francine? she called softly, knowing full well it couldn’t be the librarian, but having no other explanation. Francine, is that you?

The little room of log walls remained silent. Dusk had settled tight against the window, and the back room sat in hushed stillness. Abby turned the switch on the floor lamp but nothing happened. Losing power in this little town wasn’t a rare occurrence, but nevertheless she twisted the switch several more times in rapid succession.

Nothing.

Abby took a deep breath and looked around the room. A few minutes ago she’d been reading a story full of hope and adventure, but suddenly everything had turned dark and sinister. She crept back along the hallway to peek into the back room. One of her neat stacks of books had toppled off the edge of the table. In the dim lighting she noticed the leather-bound journal lying open on the floor.

Abby searched the darkened corners of the room, past cardboard boxes and the utilitarian tools needed for upkeep of the grounds. Looking at her worktable, she remembered stacking only five or six books on the pile, not nearly enough to cause them to tip over onto the floor. She tried the light switch here, too, but again to no avail.

A shiver came unannounced up her spine and tingled at the back of her neck. She looked behind her at the door in the log-walled Tourist Center but saw only a vacant stillness there, weighed down in silence, with the shadows of dusk pushing hard through the windows. Working quickly, she gathered up the books and set them individually across the table so they couldn’t possibly fall off. Then she picked up the journal and gently straightened the pages as she closed it, wiping away still more dust and grime from the old book. A last glance around and then she stepped briskly to the front entrance. When she got outside, she locked the door and paused to inhale the cold, refreshing winter air.

Abby wasn’t the sort to frighten easily, but she’d been unnerved by the sense of a presence in the room with her. She noticed the lights were still on around town, but something had sucked the power out of the little two-room building. She shook her head in an attempt to dislodge the tingling at the back of her neck. Turning to walk home, she tucked the journal and its one hundred–year-old stories tight up under her arm.

Chapter 2

The Black Otter Bay Café didn’t open at any particular time each day. The lights and coffee pots went on whenever Marcy Soderstrom arrived, but it was always very early, usually well before sunrise on these short winter days.

And today was no different. She walked down the hill with the moon setting behind her in the predawn sky. But unlike other mornings, this time when she arrived at the café she found the door locked but every light inside ablaze.

To be sure, there were times in the past when a back room light had been left on, or one of the kitchen windows left open, and Marcy would be the first to admit that she was probably to blame.

But okay, really, every single light? she demanded out loud to herself.

Because the door was locked and she’d discovered no one inside, Marcy got the coffee pots going and the kitchen griddle warming before calling the sheriff. And while it had indeed been a surprise to find all the lights on, the incident hadn’t really frightened her. Strange things were known to happen in the café from time to time. For instance, one night as Marcy stepped to the door after closing up, pairs of salt and pepper shakers were inexplicably swept off the counter, prompting a second pass with the vacuum cleaner by the weary waitress. Another incident occurred early one morning while Marcy was setting out silverware and coffee cups. A closet supply door in the kitchen opened and slammed shut, as if someone was retrieving equipment to help with the opening chores, but of course she found no one in the kitchen.

Marcy had come to terms with all this years ago. She was convinced it was the ghost of Agda Hjemdahl, the original owner of the café. In none of the episodes had Marcy felt threatened; in fact, she’d found the unseen presence to be welcoming, like an older partner in the business keeping an eye on things. On several occasions Marcy had felt someone looking over her shoulder as she washed dishes, until the day she finally turned and proclaimed, Agda, if you really want to help out here, grab a dishrag and start wiping down tables.

When Sheriff Fastwater finally responded to her early phone call and stepped inside the restaurant’s entryway, Marcy paused in her work to pour him a cup of coffee. First pot of the day, she called cheerfully.

The sheriff glanced at her, then continued his surveillance of the room. Marcy handed him the coffee cup and stood next to the big man. You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you? she teased.

Fastwater acknowledged the comment with a humph. He looked at the wide entryway to the kitchen, then swung his gaze to the restroom vestibule and coatroom at the far end of the dining room. He finally looked at Marcy and said, I don’t remember ever being here when the place was empty. He nodded at the counter, the silverware and newspapers awaiting customers. It’s a little strange, that’s all.

Not as strange as when I got here, Marcy commented. It looked like a party was going on, except there weren’t any guests.

Sheriff Fastwater had known Marcy her whole life. An only child, at the age of thirty-three she still lived in her parents’ house, although for years now Sam and Adele had been spending most of the year in a trailer court in Arizona. Fastwater had attended all of Marcy’s high school volleyball matches, including regional tournaments in Duluth as well as the year they’d gone to the state tournament down in the Cities. Having been single his whole life, and more than twenty years older than her, the sheriff often thought of himself as a father figure to Marcy, or a favorite uncle at the very least.

For her part, Marcy adored the sheriff but loved to tease him by cracking jokes at his expense or telling ribald stories to make him uncomfortable. But