A young mother was standing at the shoreline crying and frantically pointing out to the ocean. “SAVE HER! SOMEBODY SAVE MY DAUGHTER!”
That was when we heard what sounded like a “Tarzan” howl coming from the dock, then a big splash. We turned to see none other than Stevie Flippin’ Bird, his ever-broken eye glasses clutched precariously in one hand, in the water and swimming out, hard! Who knew the kid could even swim? But there he was, hands a-flying and feet a-kicking, heading out into the depths, while the screams and hysteria from the beach rapidly intensified.
Where in God’s name was he even going?
Others instinctively jumped in the water too, but Stevie was much farther out, and honestly, swimming like a junior Olympian! I’d have never believed it, but someone’s life was now dependent upon rescue from the four-eyed freak, OUR four-eyed freak! And on he swam, uncoordinated and blind as a bat, but nevertheless cutting through the waves like a speed boat, in the race of his life.
He obviously saw something. He must have. But where was the kid? The mother now rolled up in a ball at the water’s edge, beyond distraught, unable to watch.
Then we saw her. The kid I mean. A little girl. Far adrift. Her head was barely visible, just a patch of yellow-blonde hair, bobbing up and down, with what looked like a small, colorful inner tube of some type wrapped around her chest—her temporary lifeline.
Then, her head sank again, the tube’s floatation seemingly worthless against the water’s chop, barely coming back up for breath, as more whitecaps slapped at the child’s frightened face, the forces of nature doing their damnedest to take her under.
The sound carried. The child was crying frantically, desperately calling out for her daddy, in what had deteriorated into a hoarse, raspy voice. As if she was all too aware how tenuous she was balanced on the precipice of oblivion.
Now that she was spotted, an array of potential saviors entered the water, some of them with hastily grabbed floatation devices, but far out in front of them, having sprung from the dock, and really her only chance, was Stevie. Yup, Stevie Bird. Stevie the nerd. Stevie the geek. Stevie the spaz. That Stevie!
And for a few strokes, Stevie, being blind as a bat, started swimming in the wrong direction, prompting panicked screams of the many onlookers, before somehow correcting himself...
I will pause here. Once again I am seeing the island take charge, the currents miraculously pushing him directly toward her? It’s the island’s power. It’s magic, I thought, as I witnessed it. Am I the only one noticing? Does no one else see the currents change direction, allowing him to aim directly toward the tiny child, who was drifting toward the channel‘s jagged rock pile. Just like when that sudden cold wind blasted into my face, waking me from my stupor and certain death at Mr. Pinky’s cottage. Or when the speed bump took out the RV. Again, the island would have the last say.
And just as several fire trucks and ambulances arrived in the parking lot, their deafening sirens only adding to the confusion, and their timing of little use, Stevie grabbed the girl! He grabbed her!
Steven Carl Bird, you hot ticket you!
But now both of them were struggling. Stevie was holding the child’s head above water as he himself kept being pulled under, by fatigue or undertow, or perhaps by both.
My stomach was in a knot. Terrified for my friend as well as the little girl he was risking his own life to save. Boats were now charging toward them, including the harbor master, but it was clear they wouldn’t be in time. There was only one person who could save her and he was the last person on Earth you’d ever guess could do it. But know something?
He did it.
Yup.
Our blind-as-a-bat cohort saved her life!
Of course, Stevie managed to cut himself pretty badly pulling her to safety up onto the rock pile that served as a channel marker. The water around him had suddenly turned crimson. His assuredly fractured glasses were nowhere to be found. And without them he literally couldn’t see. So how had this rescue even been possible?
Plus, Stevie was as uncoordinated as hell. The kid seriously couldn’t run without tripping over his shoe laces, and more to the point, Stevie happened to be a really lousy swimmer. He’d get ear infections from the shallow end of the pool! He swam in the pool with enormously oversized goggles, and he’d never taken a swimming lesson in his life.
Stevie Bird swam like concrete. Get it? We dumped him in the pool daily just to watch him sink to the bottom.
But…
He saved that little girl’s life. He did. Bam, right smack in front of everyone!
The harbor master collected them from the rock pile and delivered them back to the dock where, in a flurry of activity, the waiting paramedics rushed the both of them up the ramp, down the runway, and into the waiting ambulances that went, sirens screaming, to Cape Cod General Hospital.
The child and her hysterical mother looked as if they were both in a state of shock, but otherwise they seemed as if they were going to be okay. But our boy, Stevie, took four stitches to his elbow and another eleven in his knee. He also somehow, (leave it to Stevie) managed to chip his (other) front tooth.
Oh, and also a partially collapsed lung. He’d be recovering in the hospital for the next three days. The guys and I stopped by to visit him every day. Even Tommy called him a hero! Can you believe that?
After he returned to Mashnee, his parents, both clinically trained psychiatrists (who were no doubt distraught over the mental trauma this may have caused him!) decided to cut their summer vacation two weeks short and head back to Long Island. They had more than enough of this summer and Mashnee Island, who could blame them?
I don’t recall a goodbye.
That was the last time we saw Stevie. He never came back. No one ever heard from his folks either. Apparently the stress of Stevie getting beat to hell twice in the same summer was just too much.
We missed him. I missed him. Sorely. Every group needs someone to make fun of, it’s practically a right of passage! Summer after summer all of us hoped he’d reappear, and every Saturday we checked at the office for his name on a small index card, but were met with disappointment each and every time, until finally we stopped looking and accepted the fact that we’d never see our friend again.
Stevie Bird.
Mashnee Island’s Hero!
Chapter 62
Justice
The last week of that summer was spent being far too full of ourselves and celebrating our achievement. (Ding dong the witch is dead!) Mashnee was alive with scuttle-butt, everybody and their Aunt Sadie talking about the murders, the arrest, and the teens’ involvement. “Thank goodness none of the kids were hurt,” was the general consensus, and “I can’t believe this happened on Mashnee?!” the primary sentiment.
Oh, and from my girlfriend Christine, “Know something, Jimmyrocket? You’re cuter than ever!” Home run!
Naturally some of the parents were pissed off that we didn’t report everything to them or the police from the get-go. Resulting in many stern lectures, but no one was ever punished or grounded. Not even me.
After all, who’s gonna ground a legendary sleuth?
What an amazing summer this had been. It was like ten summers rolled into one. Make that twenty! Thirty! The summer of all summers!
Of course for a long time security was increased on the island. The Lumps on the Bump were supplemented with real cops. The Bourne Police sent squad cars over several times a day to flex their muscles and patrol the area, sometimes sitting in The Club’s back parking lot for hours. And most residents and renters alike were now habitually locking their doors and keeping on high alert. But nothing like this ever happened again. No crimes. No murders. No arrests. No decapitated extremities. No nuthin! Just peace.
