He liked the shore, the long endless sand and lichen encrusted rocks, but only when he was required to share it with no one.  It was, therefore, somewhat of a disappointment to see the skiff drop its sail and put out its oars.  With all the miles of deserted beach and the darkness of the moonless night, he still knew somehow that he had been seen, and that the boat was coming to him.  Well, he thought, there was enough emptiness to go around, though that was often not quite the truth for him.

         He saw but one pair of oars, and their coordination spoke of a single rower.  A hardy person there, he reckoned, to take on the cold Atlantic waters in the dead of night.  Andre lay there and wished the boat would turn; that somehow he could mentally dissuade its occupant to relinquish his quest for the shore, ship oars, and set sail for anywhere else.  It bored steadily straight towards him.  He saw experience in the way the rower plied the water.  Not the wasted effort of a novice trying to over power the sea, but the steady, easy stroke that made the most of the incoming tide and small surf.  Perhaps whoever it was would be as good at conversation as he was at manning the craft.  That would be refreshing.  After several minutes the nose beached, a man sprang from the bow, and planted a stake far up in the sand.  He tied a mooring line rather neatly and walked over to where Andre lay.  The man's appearance was, to say the least, startling, but Andre refused to be startled.  Nothing, he knew for certain, could harm him, so he just lay and watched.

         "What land be this?" the new arrival demanded with a voice that commanded respect.

         "Well, properly it's Cape Anne," Andre replied, "but exactly, it's Marblehead.  Who are you?"

         "Captain Joshua Demming, sir," the man replied with a tip of his tricorn.  "And who might you be?"

         "Andre Miller," he answered calmly, surveying his guest.  He was not overly tall, but thickly set and burly looking, with curls that spilled below his shoulders and a coal and ash beard of woven tails, tied off with small pieces of leather.  His jacket and knee-high boots were the same tone of cracked leather and in the heavy buckler that bore his scabbard was tucked a matchlock, very like the one Andre had seen in the Metropolitan Museum.  The new arrival also wore dark breeches of a material that looked as durable and comfortless as canvas.  His hands were huge and weathered, and above the almost cliché scar on the man’s cheek were wide dark eyes that spoke of a fire fiercely wrought, now somewhat on the wane.  "Are you a...  well, a pirate?" Andre asked.

         In answer the man pulled out his saber and swung it before him skillfully, making the night air hiss.  "Privateer, sir. Commissioned by the throne to search the seas for wealth and treasure." He then put away the long blade.  "A pirate still," he added with a shrug.

         "And, if I might ask, which throne would that be?"

         "Well, I'm not speaking Spanish or Dutch now am I lad.  The English throne, of course."

         "Of course, of course.  How silly of me."

         "I see you're a prisoner," said Captain Demming as he pointed to Andre's wrist.

         "I'm a what?" Andre looked at his wrist and smiled.  "Oh no.  That's not a prisoner's shackle."

         "Well then, what is it, man?"

         "A watch."

         "A what?"

         "A watch.  It tells me the time, or at least it used to."

         "Whatever would you, a landsman, need a fool thing like that for.  The time is told there as good as you could want," the captain chortled, and pointed to the starry sky.  He looked up, studied briefly, and then announced, "It's just past five bells, second night watch." This was said with no trace of doubt, and considerable pride.

         "I'll take your word for it.  By the way, what's that come out to in real time."

         The captain shook his long curls with obvious disappointment.  "Two and a half hours after midnight,” he said glumly.  “Know ye nothing of the sea?"

         "Very little.  I know it's big, full of fish and very polluted."

         "Polluted? Polluted, you say? Why I'll have you know that, save for a drink, there's nothing the good lord ever created that's better for what ails ye than sea water.  Though I'll have to say your stinks a deal more than should be."

         "You're catching on," Andre smiled.  "Where's your ship?"

         The captain stretched and shook himself free of the aches before sitting a few feet away.  "Right there," he answered, as he looked at the skiff.

         "All due respect, I hardly think running a ship of such size qualifies you as a 'captain'."

         "It does for now," Demming retorted.  "And it will continue to until I catch that mutinous lot that stole my vessel.  I'll hang every last one..."

         "And sail a full rigged ship by yourself?" Andre said and laughed.

         "Well, perhaps I'll spare enough men to sail back to Wight. Then I'll hang them and get a fresh crew."

         "Yes, I'm sure you will.  Tell me, Captain Demming, what year did you put to sea?"

         "April of ought four," he replied.  "Foul month for the sea, that."

         "Forgive me, but which 'ought four'?"

         "Why seventeen hundred.  What's wrong with you, man?"

         "Sorry.  It's just that there have been a few since then, captain.  Two, to be exact."

         "There have?"

         "Captain, I'm reasonably sure that even you realize you're a bit out of sorts.  You're dead, you know.  You're a ghost!"

         Captain Demming shook his head and sighed.  "Aye, I thought as much. Still, it won't serve those who put me asea in that filthy piece of driftwood tied there.  I'll find them yet."

         "I assure you, sir, that they are quite dead themselves."

         "Are you certain of that, lad?" Demming asked, sounding a quite dismayed.  "It would take a lot of the flavor out of things if they were." He paused to think this over.  After a moment he straightened and glared at Andre.  "I mean, if they are all dead, every man jack of them, then just what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

         "Oh they are.  You'll have to trust me on that one," Andre assured him.  "As to what you should do next, perhaps you should rest a while or maybe have at another adventure.  How about Port Royale?"

         "It sank," Demming said dourly.

         "Yes, I'd heard that too, but you never know."

         "Alas, I do.  Been there twice.  Damn place is ten fathoms under water.  Hell of a mess."

         "Yes, that would slow things down."

         "Never got there m'self, while it was still walkable that is."

         "Sorry to hear that.  Must have been quite a place."

         "Mmmm..  So they say, so they say.  Tell me, lad, what is it you do that carries you here at these late hours?"

         "I'm a pilot," Andre replied.

         "A pilot! Well now, there's a good trade.  Where's your home port?"

         "Oh, not that kind of pilot, I'm afraid.  I fly planes."

         "You do what to what?"

         "Fly planes." Andre looked into the sky.  "There," he pointed.  "See those lights moving through the sky.  That's a plane."

         "Oh.  So that's what they are.  Seen one or two before, I recall.  Damn noisy if you ask me.  What keeps them up there?"

         "Good luck, mostly."

         Captain Demming accepted this with a nod, and both men lay there watching the sea.  The skiff was afloat now, and the tide was threatening the mooring post.

         After half an hour of silence the captain rose and stretched once more.  "Well," he said, "it's been an honor meeting you, pilot.  You’re a man of fair sense and good talk, but I must be leaving now."  He brushed off the sand and strode a few feet before looking back.  "You're certain they're all dead are ye?"

         "Quite."

         Demming shook his head.  "Well that does it then.  Damn shame it is.  There were one or two who might well have made the keel, if you know what I mean.  And many a delight I've missed by not seeing the others hang.  Ah well."  He looked Andre over carefully and then asked, "Be there a chance you'd pilot for me for a while? We'd make a good turn at it, lad."

         "Thank you, captain, but no.  My place is here I'm afraid."

         "Mmmm.  As you wish.  But do take that..  that watch thing off.  Makes you look guilty of something.  What time does it tell you it is now, lad."

         "Doesn't any more.  The battery died a year or so...."

         "Battery? Ye gads, what a place this must be.  Men pilot planes in the sky; carry batteries on their wrists.  Not a place for me, that's for sure.  Does 'rest' still mean what it used to?"

         "Yes, captain,” Andre smiled gently.  “Rest is still rest."

         "Well good.  I've been considering that for a time now.  Might listen to you on that one." He walked into the knee-deep water and pulled the skiff to him. "By the way lad, it's seven bells right and true."

         "Thank you, captain." Andre stood and watched the oars carry the boat out through the surf and saw the sail raised. 

         Quite an eventful night, he thought.  He turned his back on the beach and walked quietly up the sand to the opening between the darkened houses that marked the street. The lights here were very bright, and he moved easily past them.  It was a shame, he felt, that he didn't get to the beach more often.  He could, but he often encountered so many people at times that the place was bothersome.  Being alone was vastly preferable, unless one happened to encounter a eighteenth century ghost, and now that was less likely than ever. Captain Demming had no more reason to sail on his search.  He would tire and eventually go wherever it was spent ghosts wound up.  Andre turned left at the edge of town and crossed the empty street.  Demming lacked the anger to keep him going, Andre knew as he passed through the iron gate. 

         On the other hand, he himself still had plenty of hate.  Eventually, he told himself, as he began sliding into the ground, his wife would return to the beach with her lover, and he would kill them, just as they had killed him.  As his eyes passed the tombstone he read the inscription as he did every night.  Andre James Miller: born 1944; died 1989.  Was it 1997 or 1998 now? He couldn't remember anymore.