The Buoy

Cowes Harbour looked like a millpond rather than one of the busiest harbours along the south coast of England. The sun sat on the horizon like it was deciding whether to rise and the sky contained colours Cyril Woodnutt couldn’t identify. 

Cyril worked as a harbour master and took his role very seriously. He sailed his HM1 aluminium patrol RIB around the harbour monitoring traffic, blasting his hooter at yachtsmen being reckless and making sure the cross-Solent ferries could sail unabated. 

He loved his job. He’d quite happily patrol all day without berthing unless he needed to refuel. And he often did. 

His radio crackled into life. 

“Cyril, alright out there, int it?”

“Mornin’ Sid, it bloody is, right nice.”

“Can you check summat just out from the entrance?”

“Sure, what’s the deal?”

“There’s reports of a couple of buoys what’s come loose.”

“Righto, mate, I’m on it, out.”

He throttled his engine and turned towards the harbour entrance, scanning for the rogue buoys. 

He zoomed along, his RIB being capable of 30 knots meant he wasn’t hanging about. He lit his emergency beacon so that other vessels ought to bugger off out of his way. 

It didn’t take him long. He spotted three buoys clearly doing their own thing. A red one, a green one and a yellow one. 

“What are you lot doing here then?” Cyril muttered. 

A red buoy indicated a port channel, a green one indicated a starboard channel and a yellow one normally indicated where the deep water was.

Why would these three be bobbing about with no apparent purpose? He dropped the rib to idling speed and grabbed his boat hook. With the skill and dexterity of a man used to hooking can-shaped moulded plastic shapes with a wooden pole, while bobbing about in a small boat, he caught each buoy and dropped them into his RIB. 

He was about to sail back to the harbour when a beautifully crafted longboat appeared, which Cyril knew wasn’t the right word, yet that’s how it seemed, alongside him. A man in a pirate captain fancy dress outfit stood on the bow, pointing at Cyril. 

“I’d be leavin’ them markers where they be, matey.” 

“Are they yours? There are bylaws regarding the placement of—“

“Listen, I ain’t got the time to parlay wi’ you. I be Cap’n Robert Black of the Screaming Skull, me schooner, out there in the channel.” 

Cyril took in the tall man, his cutlass hanging from his waistband and his tricorne hat. “Bloody good costume, mate. But listen, you can’t go around dropping—“

“Now, matey, I ain’t got time. I tell thee that. I be Cap’n Robert Black from the Far Beyond and I ain’t here to fool around.” 

“The Far Beyond? What’s that then? A ship? I thought you said you had a schooner in the Channel?” 

“You can call it that, if you’d like. It be the ship of the dead, the long gone, the deceased. We happened back because of the great fog you been havin’ of late.”

“Right, so you’d like me to believe, you are in fact, dead?”

“Aye, ‘tis true.”

“Fine, but dead or not, you can’t be dropping buoys that will confuse other vessels.”

“Yer think I got time to be botherin’ with other scallywags who think they know the sea?”

“We all have to mate, it’s how maritime laws work.”

At that point, an enormous man appeared in the bow of the longboat. He wore a ragged shirt, trousers with the lower legs torn off and bare feet. His head was shaved but he had a golden ear ring. 

“What be the problem, Cap’n? Is this lubber causin’ trouble? Shall I run ‘im through?”

What the new man spoke, it was with a voice that sounded like the kraken with a chest infection. 

“Stand fast, Barnaby, We be parlaying for a moment or two.”

He looked back at Cyril. “Don’t mind him, that be Barnaby Blaste me ship’s gunner.”

Cyril thought for a moment. “This ship of yours, a schooner you say?”

“Aye.”

“Well, look, I can get you a berthing at the far end of the harbour. But you’d be better off bringing her in this evening. Less likely to cause problems for the ferries.”

Another man, tall, skinny and with sharp, piercing blue eyes appeared. Dressed head to foot in black, but faded clothing. It didn’t escape Cyril’s attention that his cutlass and knives looked particularly wicked. 

“Listen, lubber, leave us to our buoys and we’ll be out of the way. I’m Benjamin Blade, coxswain of the Screaming Skull. We need to leave them for an hour or two, to mark where the crew can collect their spoils.”

“Spoils? I s’pose you going to tell me you mean treasure?”

“Aye, that it be.”

“Right, you lads are a hoot, ain’t you? Tell you what, drop your buoys beyond Egypt point and you’ll be fine.”

The cap’n and the coxswain exchanged glances. 

“Where be that?” Asked the Cap’n. 

Cyril indicated with a pointed finger. “There. Are you sailing these waters without appropriate navigational aids?”

Benjamin Blade held up an ancient looking parchment map and an ancient magnetic compass. “We been using these for many a year and never gone wrong. Tis the naming you be usin’ that threw us off.”

“Ah, yeah, you’re all dead, right?”

“Aye, happen that be true,” said Benjamin. 

Cyril sighed. He’d had stranger days in the harbour, but this one was right up there.

“Right, sail on a dead reckoning to where I showed you. Drop your buoys and let your crew get their spoils or whatever. But if I still see those buoys in the morning, I’ll have to remove them.”

The three ghosts looked at each other and nodded. 

“That be a deal we can reckon with,” said the cap’n. 

Cyril heaved the buoys onto the longboat and watched as they rowed off with a crew he couldn’t see. Cyril, having been on the sea all his life, knew that just because he couldn’t see them, didn’t mean they weren’t there.

When he pointed his RIB out to Egypt point the next morning, he discovered the cap’n had been true to his word. apart from one small buoy with a black flag on it. 

Cyril picked it up with his boat hook and dropped it into the RIB. Which is when he noticed the writing on the small flag. It was an ancient script, but he could make it out. 

It said: “Here by a small token for Cyril Woodnutt.” He unscrewed the top of the buoy and a velvet bag dropped out. Filled with shiny, golden doubloons. Cyril smiled. 

“Well, that’ll help me pay for the repairs to the boathouse.” 

And he set off back to the harbour.