Friday near the Ides of June, 2010
It’s been Several days since I have written. The evening after my last letter was the roughest I’ve yet seen. Most of the night it was much too rough to sleep, and I had lots of trouble with Maggie (my little rowboat). I ended up having to pull her up on deck in the middle of the night to prevent her damaging the hull. Mind you- this was no small feat. There I was, standing on deck all back-hair and underpants in the midnight gale; buffeted by the wind and waves, one sock covered in dish soap (long story), trying with all my might to wrestle a dinghy over the gunnel like an overgrown mackerel; swearing all the while like the sailor I wish I was. It’s funny though; no sooner was the deed accomplished than I found myself tranquil again; looking at the stars with the wind in my beard I felt all at once serene. I would weather this storm, and I would thank God for it. And with that, I slept like a baby.
The big excitement today was in cooking dinner. I was having “4-cheeze rice-o-roni” and pumpernickel garlic bread. (The latter is excellent, by the way.) My pot was boiling nicely, and I had just lit the burner for my bread; the sea around me as lazy as the sun on an Island Sunday. And then there came a young man in a small boat, lobster fishing with his mother along for the ride. They were fishing in quite a hurry, it would seem; as they passed me going just as fast as his little outboard could push him. I did not realize my error until his wake hit me. My pot, with its furiously boiling froth, careened wildly about the burner; the scalding broth dancing wildly ’round the rim,and naught but the grace of God saved me from permanent scarring. “No more small pots for me” I thought. But, it being a quiet evening, I thought I’d see the meal through with the current arrangement of crockery. “No one else should be by; quiet afternoon and all…” Several minutes later, a much bigger boat passed by; this time, much closer and with the same astonishing velocity. Not to be twice the fool, I quickly seized the pot, and lifting it from the flame, I moved my arm rhythmically to counteract the violent pitch of the boat. With all the concentration of a zen master, I spilt not a drop… and saw instead the whole grill-full of flames and garlic toast go crashing across the deck, pumpernickel flying to each of the four winds. I gave it a swift kick to right it on the cockpit bench. Reeling from the kick, and now balancing on one leg as the boat lept from crest to crest, I noticed that I held the pot at an unnatural angle; again about to be scalded by the raging rice. I threw myself to the bench behind me, desperate to save my hide from the tasty slurry in my pot. Of course, it is not in the nature of hot fluids to quickly settle down; and as I cowered, sure to be burned, in a befuddled heap upon the bench; the pot precariously held aloft- I felt my dinner again slosh to one side of the pot, readying itself to leap over the rim and onto my waiting skin. It was at precisely that moment, as I lie there waiting to bathe in superheated rice, that another wave (by divine intervention alone) rocked my boat just so…
the rice rebounded into the pot with a mucky “slop” and all was calm again. The grill whirred away as pleasant as always, and the once murderous rice steamed gently in the pot. I turned off the grill to go below and do some praying and change my shorts. God is so good to me…
I don’t know how these things happen. We shall have to call this adventure “Mr. Magoo goes to sea…”
Last night I peed over the gunnel and it lit up all the phosphorescent plankton. Absolutely beautiful. As though there were stars above and below…
Date still unknown. (Doesn’t much matter out here; I absolutely love it.)
I broke one of the trucks today. The old one we call “Jenny.” I drove over a wee stick and (well; ok, fine. I drove over LOTS of sticks, and a whole tree or two. But anyways…) it went up into the motor and tore a belt off, and I had to walk several miles back to the station. My boss doesn’t know about it yet. Hopefully, She’ll let me keep my job after I fix it…
I can’t describe how happy I am living here. Last night the islanders had another jam session that lasted until 11. Tons of fun, and one of the islanders is a professional singer/guitarist, which definitely pepped things up a bit. By the time the music ended, the dark and fog had set in like a damp wool blanket across the island, and the row back to Sophie was far more beautiful than I have words for. The water was as smooth as silk under the mist, and only a few feet from the dock, the island slipped into the fog and disappeared. It was just me and my oars alone with God in a watery dream world, silent as the grave but for the sound of my strokes on the water. Ghostly blurs of ships glided past my little rowboat, and phosphorescent plankton lit the water like so many stars at every dip of the oar. With the horizon long lost to the sea smoke, it was easy to believe I had somehow sculled past the end of the Earth and into the ephemeral nothing. Such peace…
Climbing aboard Sophie, I looked up and found that God had not installed a ceiling on this dungeon of fog,and the stars shone brilliantly overhead between the clouds. Staring up at them through the open hatch from my berth, it was impossible to tell if it was they that moved or I. Lost in the moment, I drifted serenely asleep to a buoy bell tolling a lullaby from somewhere in the bay.
If only I could live the rest of my days aboard a sailboat…
I meet the most interesting people here at work. Today there was a middle aged couple, the husband from South Africa, the wife from Australia. I told them that I was dying to go to both places; that I had been accepted into safari guide school in South Africa, and was once hired to fight wildfires in Australia, but that neither had worked out. They probably thought I was a pathological liar…
Hello again.
I’m sitting in my boat right now, scratching away at my notebook. I’ll have to type this later,and then steal some government paper to print it on for you.
(The computer tells me it’s June 26th.)
What a wonderful day I had today. Day after day, God is so good to me, I can scarce believe my eyes. I took the late boat in to work, and the ride was paradisaical. Seals, Dolphins, and that miraculous salt air… I should very much like to spend the rest of my days at sea.
Speaking of boats remind me- when we arrived at the town harbor this morning, the local lads were putting on quite a show of fishing off the wharf, much to the delight of the whole mail boat full of tourists. The boys smiled and the cameras clicked, and the boat captain and I found ourselves speaking with an aged lobster fisherman; guffawing over tale after tale of cracked 2X4’s and broken jaws. During the course of the conversation, the boys split up, and the eldest headed out into the bay in a dinghy, all alone with his fishing pole. Several minutes later, a crowd of younger boys, mostly around 7 years old, showed upon the dock. They had been tricked into going to get their life jackets; and in their absence the older boy had slipped away with room to spare in his little boat. The hoard of little fishermen stood on the dock in their PFD’s and called after the one who’d left them behind, waving their fishing rods in comically menacing threats of vengeance. And then I realized that my wee Maggie was tied up unused at the end of the float…
Now, Maggie is a sweet little dinghy, though much past her prime; but a spacious craft she is not.Truth be told, she’s a bit too small for me alone. Nor is she a particularly seaworthy vessel, though I love her anyways- but if I sit just a bit off her center line as I row, she’s likely to slip a gunnel the waves. But it occurred to me as I watched those little boys get screwed out of a perfect day’s fishing, that she does float;and like her namesake, would not easily sit idle while a young man had a bad day- let alone a whole mob of them. So, as I have a habit of doing, I opened my big mouth. “If you boys need a boat,” I said “My Maggie is the little ‘un tied up just there at the end…”Their eyes widened and such joy lit their little faces as I have seldom seen. It was not until they were piling in, like lemmings off the end of the float, that I noticed the prodigious number of children that had decided to go along for the voyage…
I went over and tried to tell them about her tendency to roll, and admonished them to bring her home safe. I couldn’t see a square inch of her deck for all the little knees and sneakers. But their excitement was contagious; and for all the smiling faces, I couldn’t make any of them stay behind. “They’re island boys” I figured…They’d be fine. They could take that little dinghy to England and back if they’d half a mind to. Besides, they’re 7 years old-Practically men! Gotta let ’em spread their wings sometime, right? I wished them well, and boarded the mail boat once again.
Floating a precious few inches above the waterline, I watched them shove off as we motored around the corner. The captain assured me they’d bring her back full of fish guts. I told him I’d be thrilled if they brought her back at all. I have seen neither she nor they since…
In other news- I saw my friend Tim on one of the other boats, Island bound as I was heading off. It’s terrific news, since he left the island a week ago “just for a day or two.” (It’s wonderful to be among people who act so much like me…) The back of my truck is still full of his canned goods from when I helped him move. And since he’s back, we’ll likely be sailing this coming week. Not to worry though- We’ll put the boys back in Maggie and have them sit on standby in case of emergency…
Well,I have to be off to bed for now. I’ve got to get up early in the morning and go gold mining.
I’m writing from the ranger station after hours, barefoot and with my laundry strewn about the place as though all the office were my hamper. The daylight fades in the windows, the rangers chatter lazily on the radio, and tinny Irish folk music blasts out of the computer speakers at peak volume. Life is good.
Now, I do so hate to be barefoot, but you see; coming back again to Sophie this evening after far too long ashore, I found her in a terrible mess. Several cord’s worth of wood chips clogged the scuppers, having stowed away in the cuffs of my pants (I run a chainsaw every day at work). Sand from the dock had been carried by my boots, little by little every trip, into Maggie; and from there onto Sophie’s deck, again by way of my souls. Well now; what kind of sailor would I be to let my boat continue in such a state?Grabbing my dish soap and sponge, I scoured every inch of the cockpit. And using my dinner pot, dowsed her liberally with seawater for a rinse cycle. She was sparkling clean when I finished.Glistening there in the sun, she looked every inch the way a ship ought. But I was still filthy, and the water I wore from Sophie’s bath felt good upon my skin. It was then that I noticed how my “tan”sort of dissolved under the water drops; and I decided I ought to have a shower, too. But having only just recently recovered from my last bout with the ocean (I leapt of the transom last month to try bathing in the bay. It was terrifically cold. So much so that even my soap refused to produce suds, and my nipples nearly punctured the hull as I climbed back aboard.) I decided to try bathing in the pond.
Long pond, as it’s called, is the island’s only source of freshwater; and as such is the town reservoir. Of course, everyone likes clean drinking water, so I didn’t think they’d mind if I put my bath soap in it…
The fresh water was just cool enough to steal my breath as it copped a feel, but once I settled in, I found it heavenly. It’s been 80 and 90 degrees all week; and the pleasant chill of the water was a welcome reprieve from the heat. Bathing there in all the islanders’ faucet was every bit as charming as all other facets of life here. Little fish swam about me as I got to my scrubbing; flitting about in the clouds of suds that I made as I lie there praying that none of the island girls would saunter by and catch me. It turns out, though, that one of them did. Luckily I heard her truck approaching in time to lie down in the water. She gave me quite a smile when she drove by- either I’ve underestimated my sex-appeal, or she took my rinsing myself to be something else entirely.Tomorrow’s rumors ought to be interesting…
Well; I’ve got to be off. The sun is setting fast and there remains much to do before bed this evening. G’night for now.
The Wandering Atavist 