Navigating Early (8 page)

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“No, they don’t look wavy. They’re just numbers. And you’re making up a story to go along with them. I get it. It’s pretty creative.”

Early balled his fists again. “They’re not just numbers. And I’m not making up a story. The story
is
in the numbers. Look at them! The numbers have colors—blues of the ocean and sky, green grass, a bright-yellow sun. The numbers have texture and landscape—mountains and waves and sand and storms. And words—about Pi and about his journey. The
numbers
tell a story. And you don’t deserve to hear it.”

Early moved the record-player needle, cutting off Billie Holiday in the middle of a heartfelt song. He set it back down on the crackling empty space and sat on his cot with his back to me.

I stared at his back for a minute. He was right. I probably didn’t deserve to hear it. But I didn’t want to go back to the dorm, and the lonely sound of the record crackling in the empty space made my heart ache as if it had been rowing hard for a long time.

“So, these numbers … the wavy ones. What do they say?”

Early didn’t turn around. His voice was quiet.

“That’s where the sea gets rough.”

Student of the Ocean
 

T
HE YOUNG NAVIGATOR
had set off by the light of the stars. But they were soon covered by clouds, and the sea grew rough.

Pi had lived his entire life next to the sea, and he knew it well. He knew its moods and whims. Its tides and swells. The sound of its playful splash and spray lapping at the sandy shore, as well as that of its waves crashing against the rocks. The salt and brine had worked their way into every pore of his skin. He knew the sea. Or so he thought. But as his voyage began, Pi realized he knew only what the ocean had let him know. What it had deemed necessary for him to know. But now—now that the ocean had allowed him in, it enveloped him with the fury and passion of a master teacher. And Pi had much to learn.

The sea tossed him to and fro, making him cling to his little boat while he retched and heaved and shivered. Until finally the sea dashed Pi’s boat against jagged rocks and spit
him out on the shore of a distant island. But Pi was angry and turned his back on the ocean. He didn’t need a teacher. He would learn the lessons he wanted to learn. And he did learn—that eating all your provisions in a day will leave you hungry the next, and starving the next after that. That yelling at the stars through the night and sleeping through the day will produce a sore throat and scorched skin. And that kicking a wrecked boat will not fix it.

But eventually his anger and pride subsided as fatigue set in, and he lay on the beach, ready to learn. The ocean washed over his dry, burnt body, rousing him from his delirium, teaching him to look for fresh water in hollow stalks and to use the sap from plants to soothe his skin.

The sea withheld food, teaching Pi to search the beach for crabs, hunt boar, and learn the sweet taste of a good berry over the bitter taste of the bad.

The ocean, in its cycle of wind and rain, pelted Pi, encouraging him to build a lean-to of reeds and leaves to keep himself dry.

Over time, Pi’s muscles grew strong and his mind stronger. He knew to find shelter when the colorful island birds ceased their chatter. A storm was coming. He knew that fish were easiest to catch in the calm of low tide. And he knew that a boat left wrecked on the beach will not fix itself.

Rebuilding his boat brought new discoveries for the young navigator. He had a keen eye for the craft—carving, bending, lashing—and he found pleasure in the work. The way the wood of a fallen tree would take shape in his hands. The feel of running a rough sandstone over the wood to make it smooth. Through his labor, he discovered that a
thumb is best not left under a falling hammer. And that sweat and aching muscles bring satisfaction and restful sleep. Finally, after Pi had learned much in the way of survival, as well as humility, the sea allowed him back.

But Pi was still learning his place in the world. And he had not yet earned his name.

10
 

I
n the last days of August and beginning weeks of September, I went to class and worked on the boat with Early. The other boys continued to have crew practice, and I told Mr. Blane I’d catch up as soon as my boat was ready. He didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t shown up yet. Maybe he felt responsible for my initial humiliation and didn’t want a recurrence of me falling in the bay. I still saw the other boys in class and around the dorm, but ever since that night in Sam and Robbie Dean’s dorm room and the talk of the Fish, the awkwardness lingered like the empty space on one of Early’s records. It whirled in circles, making it hard to jump back in.

Those after-school hours blended together to the sounds of Frank Sinatra, Glenn Miller, Louis Armstrong, Mozart, and Billie Holiday, depending on the day and the weather. Sometimes Early and I listened to shows on the radio.
The Lone Ranger, Buck Rogers, Jungle Jim
, and
Captain Midnight
.
There was also local news of the roamings of the great bear still terrorizing wayfarers on the Appalachian Trail. The bounty was up to $750.

One night, we listened in reverent silence as the voice on the radio crackled over the airwaves, announcing the official surrender of Japan on the USS
Missouri
. The war was over. We could hear whoops and hollers from boys outside, but Early and I continued our work without speaking, filled with our own thoughts about the war.

In fact, I think Early and I both enjoyed those times of quiet, when we worked in silence, listening only to the croaking of Bucky the frog and our own thoughts.

I thought I knew a thing or two about woodworking. I even bragged to Early about having built a soap box car before, but Early was much more skilled. As the afternoon light spilled in through the basement windows, we worked at disassembling the
Sweetie Pie
, stripping layers of varnish and repairing splits. Early showed me how to mix in matching sawdust with resin to give a more uniform color under the varnish.

We spent several days on the oars, repairing cracks in the blades, painting them blue with white stripes, and sanding the wooden shaft and handle for a smooth finish.

The bones of the
Sweetie Pie
were sound, but after we’d knocked off all the rotten parts and rough edges, the bones were about all that was left. The only wood we had available was whatever we could find in the workshop or in the boathouse. There were hodgepodge pieces of maple and oak and a little mahogany for the trim.

The Morton Hill Regatta was four weeks away. I had
pretended that I wasn’t interested. After all, rowing a boat wasn’t a real sport. But as the days went by and my hands sanded, carved, bent, caulked, glued, and fastened every inch of the
Sweetie Pie
, I felt the stirrings of something familiar—the spirit of competition.

Back home we competed over everything. There was always some contest of strength, speed, endurance, or will. There were the usuals—baseball, running, swimming—although the contest didn’t have to be a real sport. We’d spar over who could climb the fastest, hit the hardest, hide the longest, and spit the farthest.

But ever since that day in July by the creek, the last day my mom had frizzy hair, I’d lost interest. I gave up my spot on the baseball team, quit going swimming, and pretty much left it up to somebody else to do the climbing, hiding, and spitting. Unfortunately, I found I was still pretty good at hitting.

Melvin Trumboldt and I were tired and sweaty after a day of baling hay at his grandpa’s farm. All he’d said was that he was hungry and couldn’t wait to get home and have some of his mom’s homemade biscuits and gravy. But how could he talk so casually about his mom when I no longer had one? I’m not proud of it, but I hauled off and hit him right in the face. The worst was when he said he’d deserved it. I’m ashamed to say I almost cried. I wished I’d apologized before I left.

But here it was, September, and something had come over me. I think it started the day I ran that portion of the Steeplechase. Once my legs and arms started pumping, something else in me started pumping too. I wasn’t sure if it
came from sadness or anger or the need to punch someone in the face, but now, with the
Sweetie Pie
looking pretty sweet, I knew I wanted to compete in the regatta. And I wanted to win.

Early talked a lot while we were in the workshop.

Most of what he said began with
Did you know …?

Did you know that the regatta was originally a gondola race on the canals of Venice?

Did you know that Maine is the only state name with one syllable?

Did you know that hippopotamus milk is pink?

Interesting but exhausting.

He’d also explain things about boat building. The proper positioning of the wooden seat in relation to the clogs, to give enough room for someone my height to take a full stroke without straining his back. The importance of keeping the oars level and positioned at the proper angle.

He spent a good deal of time working out equations on the chalkboard to figure the best ratio for this and the appropriate span for that.

It was the end of September, two weeks before the regatta, and Early was perfecting the lubricant for greasing the tracks.

“The regatta is the kickoff for fall-break week, Jackie. October starts to get cold in the mornings. I got castor oil from the infirmary so the seat tracks can slide easily in the cooler air.”

I watched as he used a clean rag, applying the oil to the tracks below the eight-wheeled seat. “Try it,” he said.

I took my place on the seat, put my feet in the laced clogs, and pumped back and forth a few times. “Smooth,” I said. “Let’s take her out for a test run.”

Early and I carried the boat up the stairs and out into the open air. She was surprisingly light. My last venture in the
Sweetie Pie
had been such a failure that I was a little nervous about trying again—until we lowered her onto the water. The shiny wooden hull barely made a ripple as it settled to rest, sleek and fine, by the dock. Yes, the
Sweetie Pie
looked as yar as they came, and she seemed to enjoy her own reflection in the glassy water.

“Get in the boat, Jackie.”

I got in the boat.

“Start rowing.”

I started rowing. And rowing. And rowing. That day. The next day. And the day after that. I was on the water before sunrise, until the bell rang for morning chapel. Then I was on again after school, until sunset. My muscles ached all over again, at first rebelling with every stroke, keeping me awake at night and screaming at my audacity to want to do ordinary things like walk or sit. I wandered around in a perpetual fog of Early’s smelly ointment.

As the days went by and the pain subsided, Early praised my strong, smooth strokes that propelled me through the water. But navigating was a problem. I couldn’t row a straight course.

“You need a coxswain.”

“Coxsen?”
I repeated the word as he’d pronounced it.

“The person who guides and navigates the boat. The
Sweetie Pie
is a double, and since we took out one of the
seats for you to row it as a single, we can fit in a coxswain seat instead. You need someone to give you direction.”

My pride bristled a little, but maybe he was right. I had not proven myself an able oarsman yet, and much as I would have liked to be in control of my own race, I knew I was still a little wobbly on the water.

Early went to the Nook, then returned with a small leather seat that he attached to the back of the boat. We had to do some jury-rigging to get the coxswain seat to sit right in the
Sweetie Pie
, but Early eventually settled his little body on board, and we started out again.

This time, he called out directions like “FIRM UP!”—meaning “Apply more pressure where needed”—and “PICK IT!”—meaning “Use only the arms to make a turn.”

One thing I learned about Early was that he never doubted his authority as he called, “SQUARE ON THE READY! CHECK IT DOWN! POWER TEN! SLOW THE SLIDE! WEIGH ENOUGH!”