Navigating Early (9 page)

It took time to learn what the commands meant, and even longer to respond to them. But eventually I followed his direction and began to stay on course.

Out on the bay, when the sun would inch lower upon the western woods, Early, in a quieter voice, would give the command “Let it run,” meaning,
Stop rowing, oars out of the water, and glide to a stop
. Here we would rest, taking in the last warmth of the day. And Early would tell me his number story. The story of Pi and his adventures.

Sometimes I worried a little about that strangest of boys. If he could let go of even a little of his strangeness, he might not be such an outsider. But then, who was I to talk? I
remembered the headmaster’s advice to me when I’d first arrived at Morton Hill Academy.
If you want to sit with a group in the lunchroom, they’ll probably let you. If you want to go off and sit by yourself, they’ll probably let you do that, too
.

I had positioned myself apart from the table, apart from the group, and I let myself drift away as Early told his story.

Citizen of the World
 

A
S
P
I CONTINUED HIS JOURNEY
, he respected the power of the sea and always kept the Great Bear in his sight to guide him. His journey took him to many distant shores, where he encountered the people of the world.

The members of the light-skinned tribe on the cold, rocky shore were small and meek. They set out baskets of food in front of their huts of animal hide but would not look at him.

On the shores of the bluest waters, he found houses built of clay and brick instead of branches and leaves. The villagers wore tunics and sandals and engaged him in great dialogues and debates. They asked him questions he had never thought of: What is more important, the soul or the mind? Are we responsible for each other or only ourselves? Is there such a thing as mystery, or only that which is not yet understood? Pi enjoyed his time with these great philosophers—the Thinkers, he called them—but the food was not good,
and after a time, his head began to ache. He was relieved to say his farewells and enjoy the solitude of his boat.

His shortest stay was on an island in the choppy waters to the west, where the sun beat down on hot sand and left so little moisture that nothing could grow. Pi realized that water must be essential not only for life but for happiness as well, because while he was met with open arms, those arms were throwing spears and rocks. He made a hasty retreat and took away only bruises and cuts as mementos of his visit.

His favorite people were those of the lush region off the calm coastal waters. They were big, loud, and boisterous, and after welcoming him into their village with a banquet of savory meats, sweet fruits, and spiced ales, they celebrated his friendship for weeks and nearly refused to let him leave.

But he did leave. After all, he was not looking for a new home. He already had a home. He was a voyager. A navigator. One who keeps plotting a course and finding his way. He was still finding his way.

11
 

O
ne night in the workshop, as we were making some final adjustments to the seat track and rigger bolts, Early said, “I’m going on a trip for fall break. Do you want to come with me, Jackie?”

I was surprised. He
never
went anywhere and seemed to enjoy being alone. On days when all the boys were given day passes to go into town, Early never went along. For the most part, he did what he wanted at school, and I figured that, since he showed up for meals and Sunday chapel, no one really felt the need to keep tabs on him. I couldn’t figure out who he would be taking a trip with, but I didn’t have any interest in going along.

“Um, sorry, my dad’s taking shore leave, and he’s coming to visit.” I hadn’t realized until I said it how much I’d been looking forward to seeing my dad. Maybe he was missing me too. “He’s coming to watch the fall regatta, and then we’re going to Portland.”

“Okay,” said Early.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going on a quest.”

“Oh, you are?” I said, humoring him like he was a little kid instead of a boy the same age as me. “A quest for what?”

“For Pi. That Professor Stanton thinks he’s dead, but he’s just missing. I’m going to find him, and then Professor Stanton will quit saying he’s dead. He’s
not
dead.”

I didn’t know what to say. I knew that Early had his story of Pi and that it upset him to hear the mathematician’s claims. But how could a story change the outcome of the mathematician’s theory?

“Early, I think Professor Stanton is just talking about the
number
pi. He’s not saying that the character Pi is dead. He’s just saying the numbers end.”

“THE NUMBERS DON’T END. PI IS NOT DEAD!” Early spoke with the same authority he used in calling out his coxswain directions. He grabbed his jar of jelly beans, spilled them out on the workbench, and started sorting. Green, blue, yellow, red, orange. His breathing was short and fast.

I just needed to calm him down. “Early, let’s not worry about it right now. I’m sure Pi is fine. He’s probably had another mishap on his boat. But if
we
can fix the
Sweetie Pie
, surely
he
can get his boat up and running again. What was happening the last time we saw him?”

“He was in danger.” Early’s breathing slowed a bit as we heard a pitter-pattering on the window. It was raining. I reached for a particular record and placed it on the turntable. A swell of music broke the tension, and Early began
his story, this time with no numbers on a chalkboard. He knew the story by heart.

And in the background of Early’s story was
her
voice. Her soul. Her sadness and longing. Because when it’s raining, it’s always Billie Holiday.

Plights and Perils
 

P
I FACED MANY DANGERS
. Sharks stalking him for days, their fins gliding alongside his boat. Perhaps waiting for him to fall overboard. Perhaps hoping to drive him mad enough to jump in.

But the bugs were more likely to drive him crazy. On a windless stretch of water, he encountered a swarm of stinging, buzzing insects so thick, the sky was darkened all around him. They hovered and burrowed while he slapped and scratched. By the time a breeze picked up, allowing him to sail away, he was so swollen that he could barely see or breathe, and the welts on his skin oozed and itched for days.

One of his moments of greatest peril occurred in the balmy season, when the winds could whip up into gale force in minutes. His boat was sturdy and strong, and small enough that he could maneuver it quickly, tacking this way and that to steer himself clear of rough waters. But this time it was different. There seemed to be no end to the howling
wind and roiling water. Hours turned into days, until suddenly he found himself in an eerie calm. The waters were still. Too still. The wind had died down so quickly, it seemed to have sucked the very breath out of him. He had never experienced such a deathly quiet. Then, as quickly as it had come, the eye of calm was gone. Again he was blown and battered by the storm.

Finally, his strength gave out and he was swept into the sea.

His body floated amid the churning waves, and his mind floated between dream and reality. Was it really a whale that looked him in the eye? He had heard stories of people being swallowed by whales. One voyager even stayed alive for days before being spit out. Did this whale really swim beneath him, keeping him afloat? Would a whale nudge a body safely to shore? Had he really looked into the deep, somber eye of a big white whale? This was the memory Pi was left with when he found himself sprawled on yet another beach, surrounded by mangled driftwood, weeds, and the carcasses of fish that had not fared as well as he during the storm.

The image of a benevolent whale was a pleasant one, but it was quickly shoved aside when he stood and raised his eyes to a great mountain with plumes of smoke and bursts of molten rock spewing from its gaping mouth.

He recalled an expression from his village:
Out of the kettle and into the fire
.

He wasn’t in the fire yet, but a glowing stream of it was on its way.

12
 

T
he morning of the regatta, I got two messages under my door. One was a notice that, due to an anticipated storm midday on Saturday, the opening race would start at eight a.m. instead of nine. No problem. I’d just have to find Early and tell him about the eight o’clock start time. I knew he wouldn’t have received a notice, as I was the registered rower. All the other boys were racing as singles. I’d been allowed to have a coxswain because I was a beginner, but with the extra weight of another person in my boat, no one expected me to win.

Early was probably in the workshop. The night before, he’d said he was going to get up early and polish the brass nameplate. The one engraved with the words
Sweetie Pie;
the one that we’d taken off the boat before we rebuilt her. He wanted to screw it back on the boat before the race. Anyway, we would have plenty of time to get the
Sweetie Pie
from the Nook, nameplate and all, and get her into
starting position by race time. Dad would be there for the sunrise breakfast and could get settled to watch with the other parents.

I put down the first message and picked up the other. It was from the telegraph office in town. I tore open the envelope.

The note was typewritten and read:

Jack,

Inclement weather STOP Shore leave postponed STOP Unable to join you for scheduled meeting STOP Will contact you when next possible STOP

Capt. Baker

I couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t be here for the regatta. He wouldn’t be here at all.
Unable to join you for scheduled meeting
. Was that the way he thought of it? A meeting? An obligation? For some reason the image of me punching Melvin Trumboldt in the face came to mind. Only this time there was no one to hit.

I looked down at the note once more, then tore it into little pieces and threw it in the trash can. So what if he wasn’t coming? I didn’t need him to be there.