8 Strawberry Bank Rd.

Suite 20

Nashua, New Hampshire

Prologue

Bath, Maine

Saturday before Labor Day, 1955, early morning,

Summer was almost over. Monday would be Labor Day and for this last Saturday an old man and young boy walked the narrow path beside the Kennebec river. It was an almost daily ritual in the summer for grandfather and grandson. But after school resumed, Saturdays would be their only opportunity.

Where the path met the water, sandpipers scurried about as they hunted and pecked in the sand. In the misty dawn sky, gulls screeched and made their diving attacks into the water. If you sailed South downriver about twelve miles, you would enter the Gulf of Maine.

The old man, Francis O’Hearn, Chief Boatswain, United States Navy, retired, held a tight grip on his grand-son, John. Grandad Francis, dressed in his old navy issue peacoat, its collar turned in the cool late August morning, a navy blue knit watch cap rolled and tilted forward over his right eye, with faded brown corduroy trousers tucked into his rubber sea boots, walked along the riverbank.

The kid’s appearance mimicked his grandfather. He was dressed almost the same, except he wore a faded Boston Red Sox ball cap.

John jerked his grandfather’s hand and pointed with his other arm towards the river. “Hey, Grandpa. Over there. There’s a ship!” He continued to pull the old man and point, “Look, see, over there.”

The old man looked focused, and nodded, “God, yes, you’re right, Boyo.” What they saw was a destroyer gliding in and out of the mist, heading downriver to the Gulf, on sea trails.

“Wow, it’s a big ship, Grandpa. What kinda is it and why is it all gray?” The old, retired chief knew what type of ship and, with the memories of an old sailor, he thought of the past. Time could not erase his over thirty years in the navy even now, being on the beach, retired.

“She is a destroyer, Boyo,” and attempting to hold back his emotions, he attempted to finish but the boy interrupted.

“Is that the kinda ship you were on when you were in the navy, Grandpa?”

“Something like her, but smaller, Boyo.”

He still held his ten-year-old grandson’s hand and, out of habit, he called him Boyo. The boy was jumping up and down, pointing and kept shouting.

“Now, belay the jumping, son. You’ll jump out of your sea boots.” His Grandad continued to explain. “My last ship was smaller and had four stacks instead of the two like this one.” He pointed, “See the tall chimney-like things with the gray smoke coming out of them?”

He still held his ten-year-old grandson’s hand. John, or Boyo as he called him, just like his own father long ago called him.

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