Then it hits me: What’s the name of the boat? I don’t know, and every sailboat has a name with, hopefully, a personality that fits.
I take the opportunity to walk around to the transom and see the name painted in black, with gold trim around each letter, The Sticky Wicket. I’m not too sure I know what that means, but, somehow, it seems fitting.
***
Finally, The Sticky Wicket begins to float on its own, free from the sandy bottom that only hours ago almost killed me. I take my jeans off again and wade to the waiting sailboat, heave them aboard, and pull myself up through the lifelines. My feet are back on the deck and, for the first time, I’m starting to feel good about things. Time to get out of here!
Before pulling up the anchor, I’m finally able to get the chart out on deck for a look. I unroll it and have a good study to try and figure out where I am. After all, that was what I was trying to do before I got stuck under the boat.
With the chart unrolled, it’s about three feet long, and the edges are a little chewed up from years of storage under the chart table. It’s hard to keep flat.
I trace as best I can where I think I’ve sailed in the dark and fog. It shows a clump of islands that I’m pretty sure I’m on now, but I need to be certain. It’s really important so I can have a confident starting point on the chart rather than just a good guess. The chart is a little confusing at first, but after I study it a little harder I think I know where I am. But it’s still a while until I’m absolutely positive.
Studying the island I’m on now, it’s clear it isn’t much bigger than what I can see from here, so it’s a good thing I didn’t waste my time trying to explore it. However . . . if I was off exploring, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten my hand stuck under the boat in the first place.
The chart shows great details from the depth of water to how many times a particular fog horn will sound to buildings on a particular island. I need to find an island where I can hide out, but even this detailed chart isn’t going to tell me which one is best.
I notice one particular island just a little further to the east, much larger than where I am, with a small cove. It might have some potential. It’s also only about six miles straight south of a mainland town, should I need to go in for any reason. I make my decision: that’s where I’m going. It’ll be my next destination, and according to the name printed on the chart, I’m sailing to Hunter’s Island.
Now that I have a compass heading it shouldn’t be too hard to find Hunter’s Island even on a completely foggy day. But today is crystal clear, and once out on the open water, with a little luck, I should be able to see my destination. It’s the perfect sailing day.
* * *
I’m up on the bow, ready to pull up the anchor, and the sails are already set, flapping in the light breeze and waiting to be trimmed in hard. But when I give a tug on the anchor rope, the boat hardly budges forward. I pull harder again, giving it everything I have, yet the boat only moves inches at a time toward the anchor. This is no good. I need to get that anchor off the bottom, but my thirteen-year-old body just doesn’t have the strength.
I have to get out of here, but this island seems to be trying to keep me. First, by pinning my hand under the boat. Now I can’t get the anchor off the bottom. What was that saying my dad always told me? “Brains, not brawn?” How in the world would brains get the anchor off the bottom? I sit on the bow, drumming my fingers on the deck.
It’s funny how ideas sometimes come to me. Rather than a thought slowly forming like the simmering of a delicious stew, the good ones always seem to hit me over the head like a baseball bat. It’s a good thing they don’t hurt when they hit.
There’re two winches in the cockpit used for trimming the jib and, sitting there, they might as well have said, “hey, dummy, raise the anchor with us.” Without a second thought, that’s exactly what I do: I run the anchor rope to the cockpit and around the winch, then start cranking on the handle as hard as I can. The boat begins to move forward until it’s just floating above the anchor. I use the back of my hand to wipe the sweat off my forehead. The anchor gets heavier as I begin to pull its full weight up off the bottom. It may be slow going, but at least it’s working. In another few minutes the sails are trimmed in and I’m sailing away from the little island that lured me in with the sandy beach for a landing.
***
It doesn’t seem to take long to reach Hunter’s Island. Now that I’m only a half mile or so away, I’m starting to make out more details. On the north side of the island, protected from the sea’s raging storms, there’s a long dock with a second floating dock that rises and falls with the tide. Damn. I was hoping the island was abandoned, but a dock means someone may live here.
I fish out the binoculars from below to have a better look. It’s hard to tell, things look pretty quiet and, as I get a little closer, there’s no boat tied off to the dock. That doesn’t mean anything, though; the boat that might dock there could just be out checking traps in the morning. To have a closer look, I sail straight for the dock. This could be the place where I’m going to stay for a while, a place where I’ll be safe.
I just need a closer look.
I’m only a few feet from the dock and I can tell it hasn’t been used in a long time. There’s seagull poop everywhere, and old dock lines that the sun has all but destroyed. Looks like I’m the only visitor, except for the seagulls, that this old, wooden dock has seen in a while.
I give The Sticky Wicket a hard spin, as I’ve done many times aboard smaller boats back at the sailing club, pointing the bow straight into the wind and making a perfect landing. Yeah!
Once the boat’s tied off, it’s time to have a look around, so I head down the dock to check things out.. The island appears to be like the others I’ve passed; a rocky shoreline with a thick, pine forest. There’s a path which leads up from the dock into the trees, and I notice a clearing further back in with a small building. All I can see is the roof and a single window but, whatever it is, it doesn’t look too big. Halfway up the path are loosely stacked wooden lobster traps about the size of a large coffee table. They’re very old. Each one’s crusted with barnacles and covered with years of rotting leaves. I doubt they’ve been in the water in a long time.
Near the stack of traps is the small shack I saw from the water’s edge. The door stands half open. The shack looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time because pine needles have fallen through and weeds are consuming most of it. From what I can tell, it’s likely abandoned.
Even though no one has used this place in a while, it seems to be in good shape. Maybe all it needs is a good cleaning.
A little uncertain of the situation, I step through the door to have a better look around. It’s no bigger than my bedroom at home, but about the right size for a lobsterman to spend a few days off the mainland.
In the far corner, against bare, plywood walls, sits an old army-style steel bed frame, rusting, and a mattress neatly rolled up in the center, as though someone plans to return soon. Opposite the bed is a small counter and a white porcelain sink stained brown with rust. But there’s no faucet for running water; just the sink. Above the sink are two cupboard doors with God-knows-what decaying in there. I’m afraid to open them; maybe later. In the center of the little room, built from sturdy pine, and with years of stains, is a solid wooden table. Cleaned up, it should be perfect for me . . . maybe even better than my hideout back in Trent Harbor. This could work. I’m feeling better about the situation I’m in.
For now, I think I’ll call this place home.
Chapter 11
Wuss
Although I’ve decided to make Hunter’s Island my home, I still have a big problem—no food. My stomach growls loudly and that, along with a dull pain, reminds me how little I’ve eaten in the last two days. And there isn’t much food left from Sara’s stash. The last can of Ravioli-O’s didn’t stop my hunger in the least. Now there’s just enough food left to barely get me through a day, ma
ybe two, if I’m careful. What started as mere hunger is now becoming irritating.
I need to learn to catch lobsters. They should be a good food source. Heck, I’ve got all the traps I need, so all I have to do is set a few. My food troubles will be over. There’s only one problem: I hate lobsters.
Everyone I know always goes on and on about how delicious they are dipped in a little butter and salt. Not me―I can hardly stand to look at them, much less eat one. To me, they seem like large, oversized red bugs with pincers, furry legs and antenna. And they eat anything that drops in front of them, including . . . ugh, I have to stop thinking about it or I’m going to hurl.
Off to the side of the dock, where I came ashore, I notice there’s an old dory, flipped upside down, hidden in the tall grass. I didn’t see it at first because the bottom paint had flaked off with the seasons, leaving it a brownish color, like sand. I try to lift it but it doesn’t budge an inch. With a lot of effort I’m able to rock it back and forth until I can flip it right-side-up. The little boat’s a lot heavier than I thought. To my surprise, there’re still two perfectly good oars tucked under the seats. This dory will work perfectly for setting lobster traps. I have everything I’m going to need except bait.
I have no idea what to use for bait. Even though I’ve spent my whole life in Trent Harbor, where most everyone in some way works with lobsters, I don’t know what they use to catch the darn things. Thinking about it for a while, I realize it really doesn’t matter; either way, I’ve got absolutely nothing to use.
I’m still thinking hard, the tide has long gone out and, still, no bait has magically appeared before me. The hunger in my stomach is beyond painful, and now I’m a little dizzy. Two seagulls are fighting over a small crab, each one trying to peck the crab before the other gull attacks. It’s kind of entertaining to see which gull is going to win. Without a conscious thought, I pick up a good-sized rock and fling it at the two birds, sending them reluctantly away to safety. I walk over to the live crab. Its legs are still wiggling straight up in the air, and I’m thinking―people pay good money in restaurants to eat that? They sure don’t look like this in restaurants. Cooked crabs right out of the steamer are pink and orange, but this one is sort of a brownish green from crawling through the muck.
With my jackknife in hand, the longest blade out, I give the small crab a good stab until it stops moving. His pincers look like they’ll hurt if they get hold of my hand, so I wait an extra minute or two to make sure it’s dead before picking it up.
Food, perhaps? Don’t think about it too long, I tell myself, and crack off a leg. Putting the open end to my lips, I suck at the meat inside. Ughh! It’s stringy, and salty, like a fresh-picked booger. My stomach twitches. Then it twitches again, only a little harder. Whooom! Out comes everything inside my stomach, which really isn’t much.
Now what am I going to do? Eating raw crab is definitely out of the question. I’m missing home again, and begin to wonder what my mom might be cooking for dinner tonight. Sadness creeps over me in a way that feels suffocating. This whole situation just sucks. Why me? Why did I go home that way that night?
Back to the lobster idea. I look at the crab missing its one leg and wonder if a lobster would eat it. Probably not, but what else am I going to do? It might work as bait. With the knife still open, I crack and cut up the crab to get at the rest of the meat, and what little I’m able to remove, I pile on a flat rock. Because it’s low tide, and the beach is exposed, I’m able to find two more crabs and do the same thing until I have enough to bait hopefully three traps.
All I have to do next is drag three traps down to the dory, load them up, row out a ways, and drop them in. Simple.
Back at the stack of traps, I grab hold of one at the top, tug at it, but it barely moves. Okay, I knew I wasn’t the strongest kid around but I have no strength for this. It’s frustrating; everything I need to do is hard―really hard. These stupid traps are going to kill me by the time I get them down to the dory; yet I don’t give up, even though my dad thinks I’m just a lazy kid. I pull hard at the trap until it slides off the stack and hits the ground with a dull thud. That was one. I do that again with another two traps.
Dragging them down to the dory is no easy feat, either. It takes me awhile, and a real lobsterman would laugh at me. I just need to get three traps to the dory so I can bait them and load them up.
The next job’s to get the dory into the water. Hopefully, it still floats. Grabbing hold of the transom, which has very little paint, and is showing bare wood, I try to pull it toward the water. Nothing. It doesn’t move. I beat my fist hard on the hull several times, and then I kick it for good measure. The little boat refuses to move. “Why does this have to be so hard?” I yell in frustration. “I just need to eat.”
I plop down in the grass next to the boat, with my face in my hands. I sit there for awhile, looking out at the sea, and think about the situation I’ve gotten myself into. It just doesn’t seem fair. Why me? Here I am, all alone on this dumb island with nothing to eat, and I can’t even get the stupid dory in the water! I’m just not strong enough to move it. But I refuse to give up. I can’t give up or I’ll starve to death. I have to keep trying.
It takes me about two hours to drag the dory across the beach and into the water. Afterwards, I’m so exhausted, I only load one trap. It sits on the seat in the transom. Soon, the sun is going to set. There’s no time to feel sorry for myself, so I climb in, sit on the seat, and pull hard at the oars. The boat moves slowly through the water.
Away from the dock, finally, I wonder where a good place to set the trap might be. Again, I’ve no idea how this works. It seems to me, back home, whenever I look out on the water, the little colored buoys are everywhere, and most times right in the way of where I’m sailing. It’s so annoying. Anywhere should do . . . I guess. So I row out only a little further, reasoning that, when the time comes to tend to them, I won’t have to row too far. I might as well keep something about this operation easy.
I pick my spot. I make sure the coiled length of rope and buoy are secured to the trap. Grabbing the colored buoy and pulling up the rope’s the only way to get the trap off the bottom. If the rope comes undone, I’ll lose the trap and it’ll sit on the bottom forever. I give it a shove into the water, the trap splashes, and I toss the coil of rope along with the buoy in after it.
The trap bobs in the water for a bit with the buoy to the side. The trap slowly starts to sink on its journey to the bottom but, without warning, the buoy also disappears under the water. What? It’s not supposed to do that! It’s supposed to float on the surface. I wait for it to pop back up, but it never reappears.
As I stare into the water in disbelief, I suddenly realize that this spot is way too deep, and the coil of rope isn’t long enough. The trap has pulled the buoy down to the bottom with it. I am never going to see that trap again.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” I shout at the top of my lungs, while I keep slapping the water with an oar. Too deep! It never even occurred to me. I just wasted all that time dragging the traps and dory down to the beach and caught a few stupid, slimy crabs for bait―all for nothing. And I don’t even like lobster!
Frustration overwhelms me, and I just sit there on the wooden seat for a long time staring blankly at the sea. The water has a dark, cold personality, and it just devoured my trap. I want to cry, but I don’t. Maybe I’m getting older? Crying isn’t going to help me, anyway. I drift a little longer, maybe even for a half hour, until it’s almost completely dark, then pull on the oars to get myself back to the island.
With the dory secured to the dock, I climb aboard The Sticky Wicket, go below deck, and crawl into the bunk. The last thing I remember is kicking off my shoes and listening to them hit the floorboards. Tomorrow is another day.
***
When I wake in the morning, sunlight streaming through the bronze porthole, I notice that I’ve woken in the exact same position I fell asleep in. I can’t remember the last time I
was so tired. But today’s a new day. I rub my eyes back to life as my dad’s old saying keeps rolling over and over inside my head: “Brains not brawn, brains not brawn.” Over the last few days his saying is starting to have more and more meaning. On this island, however, I need both brains and brawn.
I decide right here and now to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with things. Yes, yesterday did suck, and things didn’t go well for me. I was acting like a wuss. But, no more. Surviving on my own isn’t going to be easy and, if I act like a little kid, I’m not going to make it. Bad things are going to happen. I just need to make the best of it. Today is a new start.
I still need something to eat, though. I take a moment to clear my head and think hard about what I’m going to do about it. Use your brains, I keep telling myself. And then, just like that, an idea strikes me. I take out my jackknife. Next, I carefully extract the heavy stitching from the cushion I slept on last night. I do it in such a way that it does no damage to the cushion; I’ll just have to be more careful when I lay down on it. After that, I go up top to the rigging that holds the mast in place and remove a cotter pin from one of the turnbuckles. It’s not easy, but I’m able to bend the cotter pin into a hook, which I then very carefully tie to the cushion thread. Even if it takes me a little longer, I want to be certain I’m not going to lose anything else to the bottom of the sea. Next, I comb the beach for crabs. Soon there’s fresh crab meat on my cotter-pin hook. Thanks, Dad. Brains, not brawn. I am ready to fish.