The Plover

by Brian Doyle

  You call him Piko.

  Piko’s here? No way. Not possible.

  Possible. He’s on the island with his daughter.

  He … what? Why are they here?

  Here’s his letter.

  Cautiously suspiciously reluctantly Declan reached for the letter, a papery gleam against the dark sea. The young man stood, hand on his hawk, and handed it up.

  Thank you, ‘Ili’ili.

  You’re welcome, Plover.

  Do you know Piko?

  We have other names for him.

  We?

  He has many friends here.

  Where is here?

  Makana.

  Makana is this island?

  Makana is a mountain on the island where some of us live.

  Who are you?

  A friend.

  Are they okay?

  Better read the letter.

  Come aboard if you like—I have lots of almonds.

  Thank you, no. I have children to watch. I appreciate the offer.

  Thanks for your help. Piko is a good friend of mine and I love his kid.

  Piko is a greater man than he knows, and the girl is a … gift, said the young man, again with what looked to be a smile, although it was hard to tell in the dark. He spun the canoe effortlessly, with just a shrug of his shoulder, and it slid away silently through the dark like a long blue knife.

  Dear Dec: This letter will come as a surprise. But when I heard you were gone from Neawanaka I figured you would eventually drift this way. Remember how you used to ask me to take a long trip to go fishing or surfing or whatever? The time has come, man. The tide came for us. Ma’i ‘a’ai, the cancer came for Elly and just ate her up day by day. Every day she lost a pound. She got smaller and smaller as we watched. Eventually she weighed about fifty pounds and all that was left of her was translucent skin stretched on sharp bones. You could basically see through her. Her skin was like the most incredible paper. She never complained. Her hair turned brown and then silver, and then it left. She just lay in bed with Pipa all day. Pipa got smaller too. She stopped eating too. The two of them got to be as small as sparrows. I could pick them up with one hand. On the last day Elly just sang quietly in bed all day with Pipa. I was in the bed too. It was lovely outside, all wild light coming down through the knuckles of the trees. There was wild light all over the bed. Elly just stopped breathing and all the Ellyness went out of her just like that. It was the weirdest thing. We buried her ourselves out by the big cedar on the hill. So she could have a decent view. That’s the one place where you can see the ocean. I made the coffin. Pipa helped by watching. She did a very good job of watching. But she kept on getting smaller after Elly died and it was time for us to leave. There was too much not-Elly for us to be there. Everywhere you looked there was a hole exactly the size of Elly. So I sold everything and quit the job and we came here to wait for you. We knew you would come this way. Dec, it’s a big thing to ask, but I have to ask it—can we go with you? I have money, I can help with the boat, I have all my charts and equipment, we can take whatever you think you can use, I’ll take care of Pipa. I don’t know where you are headed but that’s where we are going. It’s a lot to ask, man, but I have to ask it. We’re ready whenever you are. Pipa’s a lot easier to carry now that she’s the size of a sparrow. We will be on the beach whenever. Come on up to the mountain if you want or we can come down. If you don’t want to come ashore just wait for my friend Kono and he can carry messages. You can trust him. Up here I am throwing fire. I kid you not. It’s a long story. I’ll explain when we see you. Dec, I really appreciate this, man. I can’t explain why I know this is the right thing but I know it’s the right thing. Trust me. Yrs Piko

  But getting the girl down from the mountain was no small feat, because she did not actually weigh as much as a sparrow, she mewled in terror when anyone other than her dad carried her, and the tiny community where Piko and Pipa had taken refuge was a lot farther up a twisting tangled trail than you would think, gazing at the unprepossessing mountain from the shore. Declan and Piko, smoking cigars, contemplated the problem from the wooden tower on the edge of the village. This tower was an odd structure altogether, some forty feet high with a carved wooden platform on top, something like a small theater stage, and a waist-high railing around it carved with all sorts of flowers but only one kind of bird—the fairy tern, Piko explained, manuoku, a shy gentle creature that lived everywhere on the mountain and laid its eggs aloft, unlike its tern cousins, who camped down in the duff with their buddies the albatrosses.

  How’d you get her up here? said Declan, still trying to get his land legs, spooked by his sudden waterlessness.

  Carried her, said Piko, puffing happily. Man, this is a good cigar.

  Took a while?

  Days. You wouldn’t believe how steep and twisted that trail is.

  Sure I would. I just walked it.

  Imagine walking it with a nine-year-old kid on your back. Walked an hour, rested an hour. Turned out to be kind of a pilgrimage. We camped out along the way. My back still hurts.

  I druther not wait days. I druther get going. I am getting wiggy on land these days. Druther be on the water.

  Ah.

  It’s actually not that big a mountain. From here to the beach is a pretty straight shot. Whyn’t we rig a slide?

  Like a zip line?

  Alls we need is good rope. I got plenty of rope.

  We could do that.

  We could most certainly do that.

  Let’s do that.

  Could we just sling Pip? Do we have to sling you, too? She’s tiny and you’re huge.

  I think we can just do her. It’ll go so fast she won’t have time to be scared.

  We could do that.

  We could most certainly do that.

  They did that, and in remarkable shipshape fashion, too; Declan was, if nothing else, as he said, handyish, and Piko was one of those long thin guys made out of steel wire, ten times stronger than you would ever imagine looking at the skinny sinewy of him. Other people chipped in and Declan plotted the rigging but mostly the labor was Piko, wearing his usual baggy silver pajama pants, shirtless as usual, barefoot as usual, silver earrings swaying and clinking, his silvering ponytail plastered against his sweat-soaked back, his braided salt-and-pepper goatee sopped against his chest. He had started growing that goatee—his third armpit, Declan called it—when he was sixteen, and somehow never did get around to shaving it off, and now it hung down nearly to his waist, thin and cheerful, braided anew every morning, and sometimes featuring feathers and coins and religious medals; Pipa used to braid notes and drawings into it when she was little. Man, Declan would say, it looks like you got a kelp whip growing out of your face, which is disturbing, but it’s your own ugly, and besides maybe that’s an oceanographer thing, having seaweed on your chin, or whatever. Your call, brother.

  By late afternoon the sling line was set and tested twice, Piko tucked his daughter into an air chair made of pillowcases and fishnets, Kono waited patiently with her, and Piko and Declan ran down the trail as fast as they could go to receive the holy package. Pipa flew like a tiny pale bird, squeaking and fluttering, into her father’s arms, and rather than tears or terror on her face, Declan noticed, there was the hint of a hint of a smile. He didn’t say anything to Piko about that, though, and soon they were all three aboard the Plover, headed north by west; Declan thoroughly relieved to be at sea again, at some deep level that surprised him; he had been uncomfortable on the island, wary, itching to be back on the boat. Man, he thought, you never loved the sea, and now you get wiggy on land, where the hell else is there? Do I have to live on the wing like a blessed albatross?

  * * *

  Where to actually bunk the kid was a problem, though, a conundrum made harder to solve by a blizzard of fairy terns around the boat. Jesus Christmas, said Declan, it’s not like we are fishing and there are scraps of fish to be had, what’s the deal? There were really an amazing number of terns, more
than they could count, and they whirled and spun and fluttered and thrilled and chattered and made their creaking gentle music like a hundred wagon wheels. Sweet mother of the mother of the lord, said Declan, do we have to go below to get a word in here? Which we have to do anyways to figure where to stash your progeny, brother. Better get to that now. To bed at dark and up at dawn on this boat, captain’s law. Whyn’t we put your little fairy tern in my bunk, and you and I can camp out alongside? You can open these sliding panels, see, so she’s right there, she can see you and you can see her and no one has to look at old Declan, but she’s tight as a tick in there, she can’t bounce out no matter what the weather. Fair enough? Jesus Christmas, Piko, when are you going to cut that goat testicle off? Pretty soon it’ll be getting tangled up in your private parts, that’ll be hard to explain to a doctor. She’s all square in there? All tucked in? Good night, little pumpkin seed. So you to port and me to starboard, brother. You are left wing and me right wing. We’ll figure it out. Just move that stuff up front a little. We’ll balance it out tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep. No weather tonight. You want an orange? Jesus blessed Christmas. I don’t believe you’re finally on the boat. Jesus, what a crew. I can’t believe I have a crew. I am awful sorry about Elly, man. Real sorry. She was a peach. I sure liked her. Why she married you is a mystery to me, but strange things happen, is what I think, and hey, you got the pip out of the deal, so you totally win. You don’t see some beauty marrying me and then presenting me with the world’s coolest kid. Nope. Old Declan O Donnell, a solo mio, solo sailing the silent She. Say that three times fast, brother. Good night, crew! Long day. We’ll figure it out. Good night, Pipsqueak. Sleep tight. Shipshape sailing the silent sea. You guys want an orange?

  * * *

  Nihoa and Nalukakala, Kauo and Kanemiloha’i, Punahou and Kapoho and Pihemanu, Mokumanamana and Mokupapapa, ah, the Leeward Islands, the dots and rocks and sand spits and atolls and coral outcrops west and north of the populated tail of the Emperor Seamounts, that vast chain of mountains beneath the sea, that tremendous fence amidst the Endless; a scatter of souls lived there now, intent scientists and stoner caretakers and such, though in the old days there were tiny villages and tiny terrace gardens and beaches and cliffs used only for prayers and sacraments; but the little islands were covered by incalculable numbers of birds of every shape and size, tiny finches to epic frigate birds, little golden ducks with piercing eyes, albatrosses by the thousands of thousands, and most of all, it seemed, the same brilliant bright white terns that had followed them since they left Makana. The terns were so used to the Plover now that dozens of them perched cheerfully on the rigging, and one particularly brassy specimen sat comfortably on the cabin roof exactly where the gull used to reside. Every time the wind surged or changed direction the feathers of the terns ruffled and riffled with an audible fliffle and Pipa rustled in response, sitting in the throne they’d rigged for her in the stern; Declan had tinkered his fishing chair to fit her like a huge cotton glove, and they could spin her in any direction for stimulus and sightseeing. Declan spent most of one afternoon ostensibly puttering around the boat fixing things but actually gauging the pip, while Piko snorkeled and fished the brilliant shallow waters of what appeared to be Disappearing Island, if my charts are right, said Declan, be careful, man, if the island vanishes come on back to the boat, we’re not going anywhere today, it’s housecleaning day. And indeed he draped everything adamantly moist on the cabin and rigging to dry, shooing away the terns for a moment, and oiling the engine, and triple-checking sails and backup sails, and wading around the Plover in his battered high-top sneakers scraping off the biggest of the freeloading barnacles, and airing out bedding, and opening all hatches and doors, and counting and recounting fists of garlic, and again discovering that he was shipping a huge cedar bow and some fifty arrows, I do not remember stashing arrows, that is totally weird, although now I can actually shoot fish, if ever there was a place to shoot huge strapping fish this would be the place, man, as even when wading around the boat with scrapers in hand he had seen snapper, jacks, grouper, tangs, surgeonfish, squirrelfish, parrotfish, goatfish, butterflyfish, eels, and lean gray reef sharks fast as whippets, not to mention gleaming friendly dolphins and seals as fat and sleepy as uncles on Sundays. Place is a fecking paradise, he thought. You could live here for a year eating fish and never seeing a blessed soul. Doesn’t sound half-bad. Onions and limes and grouper. Dry out in the sun. A thousand miles from anywhere anyone anyhow. Peace is always in our power, says old Ed Burke, although what did he know, all tumult and struggle and hated because he was right, the poor old Irish goat. Boy, it’s bright. I better cover up the pipsqueak before she turns red. Poor little parrotfish. What does she think in there?

  * * *

  Birds! she is thinking. Birds come back! And as if called or lured and drawn to something riveting or masterful or beloved the terns did come back, by the dozens and then the hundreds, this time lining not just the cabin and the rigging but the railings and indeed every open space on the boat big enough for their strong gray feet and dainty black claws; they mewed and mewled and stared at Pipa as if waiting for something to be said, a lesson to be delivered, a message conveyed; but she only sat there under her fluttering white hat, her hands fluttering like wings, wearing a hint of a hint of a smile. And not only the terns were drawn to the Plover as if to a home they did not know they had—boobies, sanderlings, shearwaters, petrels, ducks, curlews, plovers, gulls, hawks, and a dozen tiny bright birds of every color and many names swirled over and around the boat as if they were trying to write a complex story in the brilliant air, all of them talking at once in their myriad languages, their sounds their names, io and ulili and hoio and ao and uau and koloa and ewaewa and ukeke; but above them all, like a dark god, soared iwa, the frigate bird, king of thieves; and when his shadow passed over the birds below they scattered, his shade slicing through them like a knife. Even Pipa was frightened and she mewled so loudly that Declan ran up on deck from below to see if she was okay. She stared at him, fluttering her hands like wings, and she did not calm down until Piko heaved himself over the side, dripping, and put the braid of his beard in her hand so she could feel the rope that bound her to him. Mess of fish in a mesh bag there, Dec, he said quietly, and Declan spent the next hour cleaning the fish, salting some for the road and soaking some filets in lime juice to cure; just as he finished, tossing the detritus overboard for the cleaning crews, he noticed the horizon darkening to the north. Nuts, he said to Piko. I thought we could dry out here awhile but we better get some water under us before the hammer drops. Don’t want to be around these shoals in serious weather. You might want to buckle down the pipsqueak. That’s a storm with hair on it, I think. Nuts. I was looking forward to doing a lot of nothing in the sun for a while. I haven’t seen the sun since I was a little kid the size of your baby girl. I heard rumors of it, sure, big hot thing people worshipped and all, but it’s new to me. Don’t know what to do in a world without mud and moss, brother. I was really looking forward to some dry time. Nuts. Always the way it is, whatever it is. Inordinate expectations, says old Ed Burke. Lovely phrase. I agree with old Ed. All expectations are doomed to die. So I expect nothing and then whatever good happens is good, you know? And whatever bad happens is normal. That’s the way it is. Tie everything down, yes. You want to double-lash those boxes, yes. That’s fuel, we need the fuel, can’t lose the fuel. Ready? Haul up anchor. Let’s run west by south and beat this thing if we can. You got the pip tucked in tight? Let’s gun it a little and beat this thing. Where did all the birds go? Man, a minute ago we had a crew of a thousand and now it’s just us again. Here we go. Hang on, brother.

  * * *

  The Tanets was registered in Liberia as the Tanets, or the dance. It was also registered in Oman as the Volchitsa (the she-wolf), in the Maldives as the Cherypaha (the turtle), and in Indonesia as the Sokol (the hawk). In all cases the boat was listed as having a Russian owner, a crew of four, and papers to ship lu
mber from one side of the ocean to the other; in actuality the Tanets had not carried timber for years, since Enrique had taken possession of the boat from its late owner, and it carried a crew of three: Enrique, the pilot, and a massive impassive crewman with no name at all. In actuality the Tanets was a fishing vessel, in a manner of speaking; a nomadic enterprise, a commercial entity with the widest possible definition of commerce, or, as Enrique had once phrased it, hunting and gathering in the most ancient and traditional manner. In actuality the Tanets had no fixed abode or port of call, and rove at will. It was not a pirate ship, having never sunk another ship; it was not a merchant, as it did not sell nor buy in any orthodox manner; it carried cargo only briefly, as the general rule imposed by its master was immediate consumption or exchange; it was not a gunship, although there were guns aboard; and it belonged to no navy or nation, despite its plethora of identification papers of various nationalities, produced as situations demanded. In actuality the Tanets was nothing that it seemed to be, and something of a shadow in legal and maritime terms; as soon as it was reported to be seen in the east it was gone into the west, and many people who were sure they had spotted it from ship or shore almost immediately doubted themselves when no record of a rusted dark gray mystery ship could be easily found. Also Enrique preferred to move at dusk, when the boat blended into the sift and shawl of darkness, and on moonless nights, when the Tanets would emerge silently from the lees of islands, or the shoulders of lonely jetties, or the tangled mouths of isolated rivers, and slide quietly into the long dark sea like a shark. From long practice each of the three members of the crew held the same position when they set out to hunt and gather—the pilot in the cabin, Enrique behind him with charts and binoculars, and the impassive crewman in the stern, making sure no one saw them leave.

  * * *

  The Plover ran. The storm was boiling from the north and northeast at a terrifying rate, and Declan knew from painful experience that the savage wind and mammoth swells would hit at the same time, so they ran, all sails set, engine at full roar. Make sure the leeboard in her bunk is up! he shouted at Piko. What? The leeboard! keeps her from bouncing around! The ship tore through the water faster than he could ever remember the old bird whipping before. The water grew gray and then black. Clip yourself on the jackline! he shouted at Piko. What? The jackline! this rope! it’ll save your ass! The storm loomed and brooded and filled the world. For an instant Declan thrilled in the speed and flow of the boat and then he knew they could never outrun the storm and they were utterly and thoroughly screwed. Sea anchor! he shouted at Piko. What? The drogue, the chute! This they had actually practiced setting once, and now Piko flung it off the bow perfectly just as Declan slewed the boat around to face the hungry storm. They whipped down everything but a storm sail so Declan would have steerage if necessary, paid out line to the drogue chute, and stared at each other. The wind hit first and then a series of swells so big even Declan felt bile in his throat. Let’s go below! he yelled, but no voice could outshout this storm, and he grabbed Piko’s elbow and gestured.