Page 52 of Smuggler's Cove
“Thanks again for the clothes. That was mighty sweet of you.” Hannah was grinning from ear to ear. “You need anything, you just give me and Charlie a jingle.” She pulled out a card that said:
CLAMS ON WHEELS
& A PINCH OF CRABS
by Hannah and Charlie
We Bring ’em, Fry ’em, Serve ’em
908-555-2784
Madison chuckled. “Clams on Wheels. That is something people will remember.”
“I hope so. With the dock all locked up by the police, I hope we can get some parties or festivals to make up the difference.”
It had not occurred to Madison how this situation was going to impact other people. She had been caught up in her own drama, which had little, if any, impact on her daily life. Again, she felt a little embarrassed about being selfish.
They said their goodbyes, but Madison secretly hoped she would be back. Not for fish, but for that catch—Viggo Eriksson.
Chapter Twelve
Ship Ahoy
Captain Viggo Eriksson was born in Norway, along with his four siblings, from generations of anglers and sailors. Even though a seafaring life was common for the family, Viggo’s mother fretted every time his father went out on the cold waters of the North Sea, hoping her husband would return unscathed.
By the late 1980s, many of their relatives had migrated to New England. A large distribution company in the fishing industry had recently opened a new facility in Gloucester, Massachusetts. There were already a handful of Erikssons who had relocated and encouraged his father to bring the family there. It paid well, overhead was reasonable, and it was a much safer environment. Everyone spoke fluent English, so there would not be a communication issue. There was truly little, if any, reason not to go, and when Viggo was eight years old, they immigrated to the United States, and when eligible, his parents completed the process to become naturalized citizens.
When Viggo turned fifteen,hebegan the process of becoming a naturalized citizen, He wanted to integrate himself into the new culture, and when he was old enough, he got a part-time job working with the delivery crew of the fishing company.
Viggo enjoyed the camaraderie but not the smell. He loved being on the water but did not like baiting a hook. At some point, he had to figure out how he could make an aquatic living and still maintain a less fishy aura. Coming from an immigrant family, Viggo was also interested in the process and the ways and means people employed to come to America. Much of it was illegal due to the backlog in processing. It was a problem, but Viggo wanted to learn more.
In his senior year of high school, Viggo applied to Salem University, where he studied criminology. His goal was to join the OCS in the Coast Guard and become a response officer. It entailed shore-based Coast Guard operations, law enforcement, emergency management, search and rescue, coastal security, and environmental response.
His diligent work and studies paid off and eventually earned him the rank of captain by the time he turned thirty. Over the years, he had been assigned to various stations across the country, particularly those that experienced more than their share of natural disasters. After crisscrossing from the West Coast to the East Coast and the Gulf of Mexico, he eventually landed in Virginia Beach, where he lived with his girlfriend Brittany for several years.
During the pandemic, there were more shifts and changes in base personnel, and once again, Viggo found himself reassigned. This time it was Sandy Hook, Gateway National Park, New Jersey, the southern part of the triangle that constitutes the gateway to New York Harbor.
New York City’s looming skyline of concrete and steel skyscrapers seemed like a stone’s throw from the station, yet Sandy Hook was eerily quiet at night. The sounds and bustle of the city that never sleeps is hushed by the narrow ten-mile spit that provides a deep channel for ships to enter New York Harbor, one of the busiest seaports in the country.
Viggo was always in awe of the juxtaposition of high-density living and the dirt roads where deer wandered regularly. There was a sense of peace and serenity on the long, narrow peninsula that was previously an active military installation.
The York Colony built the lighthouse in 1764 to assist ships entering the harbor. Today it still boasts of being the oldest working lighthouse in the country. Now it is home to the U.S. Coast Guard and MAST, the Marine Academy of Science and Technology, a four-year public high school. But before you get to the lighthouse at the tip of the hook, the seven-mile drive from the entrance to the fort provides many beaches and recreation for visitors. The winters are sparse except for the die-hard fishermen. The summer months are the most challenging, brimming with sunbathers, kite surfers, more fishermen, cyclists, joggers, and sightseers. Lots of people were running boats without having a clue how to operate them. They didn’t know starboard fromStar Trek. Then there were the yahoos on their personal watercrafts—WaveRunners or jet skis. Those were serious trouble on a Saturday night. Normally the Coast Guard is not called unless it’s an emergency, but with the influx of tourists, the local police and state police had their hands full, from the Raritan Bay all the way down the intercoastal waterway. Miles and miles of stupidity, and too often, drunk stupidity. The holidays were the worst.
Then there are the day trippers, who have no idea that there is a difference between low tide and high tide. They would drag their beach gear out to the sandbar that jutted out from the west side of the park and into the bay. They were unaware that within a few hours they, and their coolers, would be floating away. There is at least one rescue during a normal week. It was not so much a risk of drowning; more likely, it meant some nitwit stranded waist-deep for six hours. Luckily for most, the fine people who live on the hillside would notify local authorities when it was obvious the hapless holidaymakers were not getting off the sandbar without the assistance of a boat.
The park is adamant about keeping the land pristine and limits the amount of people and traffic, and it closes at sunset. If you do not get there before nine a.m., chances are you will not get in.
* * *
In 2022, when Viggo was transferred from Virginia to New Jersey, he thought Brittany would follow. They had been together for several years, but the subject of marriage never came up. Viggo decided if Brittany was not in a hurry, then neither was he. But her lack of interest in marriage apparently reflected a lack of interest in him. When she broke things off, he resigned himself to bachelorhood.
He was in his early forties when he moved, with fifty not too far down the road, and “daddy time” was quickly slipping away. He occasionally wondered if he had made the right choices, but then could not imagine himself running after a kid when he was in his fifties. He settled into his singular path and was perfectly fine living alone with his Portuguese water dog, Diogo, named after the Portuguese explorer Diogo Gomes.
When he first came to New Jersey, Viggo rented a small fixer-upper cottage in one of the local shore towns. He had already put in almost twenty years with the Coast Guard and decided if and when he retired, he would continue to live in the area. The following year, he purchased it from a family who wanted to move south.
The cottage was just on the other side of the bridge to the hook, which made it easy if he chose to ride his bike to work. He had everything he needed: a good job, a cozy work-in-progress house, a handful of good friends, lots of decent and reasonable eateries, swimming, and hiking; and, if he felt like it, there were many places with live music. Best of all, he had his roomie and pal, Diogo.
Every morning Viggo would fix his coffee and fill an insulated container. He also hooked a dog chew into his belt, and he and Diogo would go for a jog on Popamora Point, which ran along the shoreline. It was part of the great Henry Hudson Trail. For Viggo, it was his favorite part of the day. Halfway down the path, they would stop for a quick rest. Viggo would finish his coffee while Diogo fetched his stick. Unless he was called to an early duty roster, it was his and Diogo’s ritual every day.
