Fog Bank by P.S. Joshi
It was a pleasant evening at the boat club. A wind had sprung up and waves were slapping against the moored yachts. A fog bank was slowly rolling toward shore.
Tom, the grizzled night watchman, limped toward me, his cap pulled down on his head.
“She’ll show up tonight. It’s about time.”
He leaned forward and peered out at the fog. “There she is now. Ain’t she a beauty?”
I focused and I saw her, a stately luxury yacht, confidently gliding through the choppy waves on the edge of the fog bank.
“What a beauty.” I whispered back. “Who does she belong to?”
“That’s the Helena. Belonged to Mr. Jack Bingham. He’d inherited a gold mine or two.”
“What do you meaned ‘belonged’?”
He chuckled. “Just what I said.”
“Then he couldn’t afford to keep the boat?”
“Wasn’t a matter of affording.” He then said with a maddening smile on his wrinkled face.
“Does someone else own the boat now?”
“Nope, Mr. Bryce. He took a deep breath. “You’re lookin’ at a ghost boat. Only time you see her is on nights like this. Went down twenty years ago. A storm. Never found her, Mr. Bingham, or the crew.”
This story was written for Sunday Photo Fiction.