Cap'n Eri

A salt-crusted fable unfurls along a fictional Cape Cod inlet where weather-beaten wharves creak like arthritic psalms. Eri, a retired clipper-ship skipper turned reluctant innkeeper, presides over a sagging clapboard house whose veranda boards remember every Atlantic storm since 1871. Into this briny sanctuary limps a trio of stranded summer folk: a penniless artist chasing the ghostly light that silver-plates the dunes at dusk, a runaway heiress disguised in sailor’s togs, and a bumbling banker whose pockets bulge with forged deeds. Their convergence ignites a slow-burn farce of mistaken identities, midnight skiff chases through moon-licked tidal creeks, and a climactic nor’easter that rearranges both fortunes and shoals. Joseph C. Lincoln’s scenario—adapted from his own yankee yarn—lets barnacled humor rub against quiet elegy, so that every gag about a wayward lobster trap snaps shut on something tender: the fear of becoming obsolete while the world’s sails turn to steam.