The Great Wide Sea (6 page)

Once Dad was satisfied that everything was shipshape, we did whatever schoolwork he had set out for us and then started on his list of special chores. We spent hours rearranging the gear in the boat because every other day Dad came up with another brilliant idea about how to make it better. He made us check all the safety gear—the life jackets, the harnesses, even the man-overboard pole. He had us take everything out of the emergency pack and lay it out for inspection. We held our breath while he tested the EPIRB. You flip a switch, it beeps loudly for a minute, and then if it's working correctly it turns itself off. Otherwise, it starts broadcasting its exact GPS location, signaling the Coast Guard and the Bahamian Defense Force that the idiots on sailing vessel
Chrysalis
are in trouble and need rescue. I thought for sure the helicopters would appear any minute, but it turned itself off just like it was supposed to, and we weren't saved after all.

Every day it was exactly the same. Dad never let up.

After lunch and when the sun had eased off a bit, he let us do what we wanted. While he talked at the marina or studied charts or read books, we explored the harbor or the island and swam in the ocean.

When we explored the harbor, we took our snorkels and fishing gear. We thought we needed the masks to see what was on the bottom, but we were wrong. In the Bahamas the water was clear. From a distance it looked turquoise or royal blue, but when we were in it or looking straight down, it was as clear as a swimming pool. Everything was there for us to see. We might be skimming along in the dinghy when suddenly we would look down on a patch of turtle grass and several conch nestled against the sand. Or maybe we'd see an old engine sparkled with tiny fish. Or maybe the worst—a black plastic trash bag, flapping open and slowly losing its guts into the sea.

When we saw big fish, we tried to catch them. We used a pole or trolled a line the way we did on the lake. I told Gerry about when Dylan and I were very small and Dad let us put his trolling motor on my baby sailboat and go puttering around the cove. I got so excited about a fish that I forgot to steer, and we ran the boat right into the shore. Dad didn't even get mad. He just laughed at us and told Mom we should stick to sailing. When I told that story, Dylan laughed, but Gerry said he didn't believe me. “It's true,” I said. “He really didn't get mad.” Then I pretended I was going to ram the dinghy into a pier and Gerry pretended he wasn't scared.

A few times we explored the island. The houses were so small. Cinder blocks—always with peeling paint. Trash and weeds in the yard. Through the windows, nothing but darkness and quiet. An occasional brilliant burst of flowers. Boo-gin—something. Mom would know the word.

Every day when we finished exploring, we walked across the narrow island to the ocean beaches. Dylan and I swam, but Gerry wouldn't even come in the water. Dylan and I put on our snorkels and masks and called to him, “Are you sure?” and he nodded. He sat on the beach, gathering shells and casuarina acorns and lining them up to make forts or armies or boats. Dylan and I waded into the water, watching our feet and the little puffs of sand we kicked up with each step. The schools of fish parted in front of us and the blue crabs scurried along the bottom. We laid ourselves out to float on the salty water and the warm swells lifted us toward the sun then eased us down again. When we came back to the beach, we helped Gerry build a sand castle. In the evening, when it was time to leave, Gerry stashed his acorns and shells near the roots of a tree.

We went back to the same spot every day. We liked it there. It was ours.

Then one day after we had finished up chores and schoolwork and lunch, Dad announced that this would be a short afternoon. “We'll all go in together. I have to shop,” he said. “But we won't stay long. We need to get ready for tomorrow.”

“What's tomorrow?” I asked.

“We're moving on,” he said.

“Leaving Bimini?”

He nodded.

“But we like it here.”

“It's time to go.”

“Just like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just decide and we all have to go?”

“Well, you can't stay here alone,” he said. “Come on. Everybody in the dinghy.”

When the dinghy touched the dock, Dylan, Gerry, and I got out and left Dad to tie up by himself. We crossed the island without speaking. For a moment we all stood on the beach looking at the water.

“Gerry,” I said, “the water is warm here. Not cold like the lake. And it's salty. You float better. You ought to try.”

“No,” he said, and scooped up his stash of acorns and shells.

“We can teach you,” I said.

“I can't learn,” he answered, and sat down beside the remains of yesterday's castle. The wind had softened all the edges. The water had collapsed one side. He started making repairs, and Dylan and I waded into the water.

Dylan put on his snorkel and mask and started puttering around looking at the bottom. I floated on my back and closed my eyes against the sun. I swam back and forth a few times and dove through some waves. Then I stood up, slung the water out of my hair, and waded back out. Gerry was not at his castle. I looked at the trees edging the beach and saw him sitting beside the tree where he stashed his acorns. He had pulled Blankie completely over his head.

I walked up to him and sat down. “I must have been swimming a long time,” I said. “It's Halloween already and Gerry's a ghost.”

He didn't move.

I started tickling up his spine. “Spider crawling up your back—”

He shook my fingers off. “Stop,” he said, and hiccupped.

I pulled Blankie off his head. He was crying. “What's the matter?” I asked.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me then carefully arranged Blankie over his head once more.

I started to pull at the edge to slide it off again, but he grabbed it. “Stop,” he said, so I stopped.

“Come on, buddy. Tell me what's wrong.”

He drew in a deep breath and sat up straighter so Blankie seemed taller. “I don't want to go away again,” he said.

I turned and saw Dylan just coming out of the water. He walked up to where Gerry and I were sitting. “Gerry doesn't want to leave,” I said. Dylan nodded and sat down with us, the water dripping off the ends of his hair.

Then Dad came tromping through the trees to where we were sitting. “There you are,” he said. “I wondered where you'd gone. Ready to head back?”

We didn't say anything.

“Gerry,” Dad said. “What are you doing under Blankie?”

Gerry shrugged.

Dad patted him on the head. “Well, it works to keep off the sun. Come on, boys. Let's go.” He pulled Blankie off Gerry's head and dropped it in his lap. As he was turning to walk back, he stopped and looked at Gerry again. “You're not wet,” he said.

Gerry didn't answer.

“Don't you ever play in the water?”

Gerry shrugged again.

Dad looked at Gerry a moment, then sighed. “We'll have to change that,” he said. “Soon.” Then he turned and walked back through the trees.

Gerry took a long breath and looked at Dylan and me. “Did you know I can see you right through Blankie?” he asked. He rolled Blankie into a ball to hold at his stomach. “Don't tell Dad.”

We walked back to the dinghy and climbed aboard. When I was shoving off the pier, my arm touched Dad's shoulder. I shuddered.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AFTER WE LEFT Bimini, we went from place to place for several weeks, slowly sailing south. I wanted to tie up at a marina, but Dad said no, we were cruisers now and we didn't need a marina. I said I'd been on a boat for over a month and wanted a hot shower. He said I'd have to get used to it. I said I couldn't. He said shut up. And so on.

The truth was I couldn't get used to any of it—not being in the Bahamas, not living on a boat, not being so close together all the time. The Bahamas were nothing but a world of water with occasional dots of land so flat they were invisible from only a few miles away. The trees were twisted and small, and everything else that grew there stuck you. The sun glared, or it rained. There was no shade and no shadows, and living on a boat, we had no place to go. We were always together. We were never alone. It was just too different from home, where there were hills and trees and freshwater, where there were always other people and other rooms.

At home, I knew what the world would look like when I walked out. I knew what the weather would do, what people would say, what was going to happen in my own head. I would feel tired when I woke up. I would yell at Gerry for picking apart my models. I would get mad at Dylan for moving my car magazines to set up his telescope. When I rode my bike to the lake just before dark and listened to the crickets and watched the fireflies, I would be happy. I just knew that, and it felt good to know those things. But here I never knew from one day—or hour—to the next how things would look or what people would do or how I would feel. It was like constantly falling down. It was always a surprise. It wore me out.

I didn't tell Dad, of course. What was the use? He hadn't listened to me before. He wouldn't listen to me now. We just kept sailing from place to place to place until one day he said we'd stay longer at the next stop, Gun Cay. He said there were other things we needed to learn besides sailing.

We anchored just before lunch and then sat in the cockpit eating in silence until Gerry finally asked why this island was named Gun Cay. Dad had no idea. Dylan thought it was because of its shape. I said that made no sense because it was named before people flew over and saw its shape. Dad said they didn't have to fly over. Cartographers figured out the shapes of islands when they drew the maps. Dad and I got mad at each other and yelled. I started for the dinghy.

“Wait,” Dad said. “We'll all go.”

“Then I'll stay,” I said.

“No,” Dad said. “We'll all go. I need to learn to use the speargun. And there's a wreck here. You boys will like that.”

So we loaded the dinghy and cast off. The waves were barely ripples on the shore. Dad tilted up the motor with perfect timing as we slid onto the beach. We heaved the dinghy high onto the sand, then walked closer to the wrecked boat.

It was a sad sight. The port side of the hull had been crushed against a coral head. The boat had slowly filled with water and now only the forward half still showed, a moldy gray lump rising above the waves. The mast was broken off with only a stub still intact. The rest must have sunk or washed away.

The sun was shining, but looking at the wreck made me feel cold.

“Okay,” Dad said suddenly. “I'm going hunting.” He took the dinghy out to stalk some fish and told the three of us to stay put on the beach.

Which we did, of course, since there was nowhere to go and no way to get there. At first we sat and watched Dad's head pop up occasionally while he practiced free diving just holding his gun. Before long, Gerry started dragging his fingers in the sand and digging a little hole. Dylan wandered off to the edge of the brush and started picking up dead leaves and sticks.

After a while, Dad started really trying to shoot a fish. I could see him reeling in the line after a miss. A lot of misses, actually. I wondered what fish were still hanging around waiting to get shot.

Dylan made a boat from a coconut shell and sea-grape leaf and set it to float in Gerry's hole. The clouds passed over us, darkening the beach in spots and casting shadows on the distant sea. It was cooler, but only for a second.

Then Dad climbed in the dinghy and came back to us. “No luck,” he muttered. “Couldn't really expect it on my first try.”

“May I try?” I asked.

“Later,” he said, and set the gun on a nearby log.

“I could do it,” I said.

“Not today, Ben. Later.”

He turned and walked away down the beach. I lifted the gun and aimed at a shell. “Pow,” I said, then put it back on the log and sat down with Gerry and Dylan.

They had made a mess in the sand and had put together a pretty good little flotilla, but not a single ship would stay upright in the water. They were struggling to figure out how to fix them, and I had just picked up a boat to help when Dad walked up.

“Time for a family swim,” he said. “Everybody in!” Then he looked at Gerry. “Everybody,” he said.

“I don't want to, Daddy,” Gerry said. He dug his hole deeper and refused to look at Dad.

“Gerry,” Dad urged. “It's time you learned to swim. You can't sit out by yourself for a whole year.”

“He said he doesn't want to,” I said. “Come on. Let's make these boats float.”

Dylan handed me a boat and Gerry jammed a stick sideways into the shore of his hole. “This is the dock,” he said.

Dad stepped up and grabbed Gerry's arm, pulling him to stand. Gerry refused to walk. Dad bent, scooped Gerry up, and carried him into the water. Dylan and I were stuck there holding the coconut boats.

Then Dad dropped Gerry in, feetfirst, straight down.

Gerry's feet hit the bottom, his knees collapsed, and he went under for half a second before he popped back up screaming and grabbing on to Dad as if he wanted to climb him. “I stepped on something!”

Dad grabbed Gerry's chin and snapped his face up to look him in the eye, but Gerry's eyes were tight shut and he was hopping from one foot to the other, squealing and sobbing, water still running down his face.

“Don't be silly,” Dad said. “Swim.”

“But it wiggled, Daddy. It was alive.”

“It was a fish. Do the dog paddle first.”