A Boy and a Bear in a Boat

by Dave Shelton

  “Actually,” he said, “that’s pretty amazing.”

  The bear didn’t say anything. He was about to smile but a sudden gust of wind stopped him.

  “Oh!” he said. “We’d better …”

  But it was too late. The raft’s sail billowed up and the raft sailed off the island and dropped out of sight. The boy and the bear ran the short distance to the edge of the rock and gazed down to watch in horror as the raft, after an elegant mid-air somersault, hit the water, rocked briefly from side to side, and then sailed off at considerable speed. It shrank away into the distance. The boy and the bear watched it go.

  “Well,” said the boy, “you were right about that sail.”

  A Temporary Promotion

  The bear sat on the suitcase and watched the raft until it was a speck on the horizon. Then he watched the speck until it disappeared. Then he watched the horizon. He sat there, silent, staring at the line where the cloudless blue sky met the featureless blue sea. The boy looked at him. The bear was absolutely still, as if frozen or turned to stone. And though he still made no sound and nothing altered in his expression, the boy thought he saw something change in his eyes. It must have been a trick of the light, except the sun was steady and the sky was cloudless, so actually the light had not changed at all. But it seemed as if, somehow, the bear’s eyes darkened as the boy watched them. Like the bulb of a torch whose batteries were running down, they dimmed until there was nothing there but depthless shadow. As if inside the bear there was nothing left.

  “It could be worse,” said the boy.

  The bear, his dead eyes still facing out to sea, barely moved his mouth as he replied.

  “How?” he said, in a flat, quiet voice.

  The boy thought about this for a moment and found that he couldn’t come up with a good answer, so he decided to change the subject.

  “What do we do now?” said the boy.

  This, at least, caused the bear to move, if only a little. He inclined his head towards the boy, eyeing him sadly.

  “I don’t know.”

  Then he turned his unseeing stare back out to sea.

  “Nothing, I suppose,” he said. “Nothing we do does any good anyway so we may as well do nothing.”

  “That’s no way for a captain to talk,” said the boy.

  “No, you’re right,” said the bear.

  The boy brightened a little.

  “But what sort of captain loses his boat?” said the bear. “In fact, three boats. I’ve lost three boats in one day. That must be some kind of record.”

  The boy wished he could come up with something reassuring to say but he couldn’t help thinking that actually, yes, it probably was a record.

  “I must be the worst ship’s captain ever,” said the bear in a flat voice.

  “No,” said the boy. “No, you’re not. You’re a good captain. You’ve just been a bit … unlucky, that’s all.”

  “No. I’m no kind of a captain at all,” said the bear, still quietly and with no emotion in his voice, as if he was simply stating a fact about which he had no real feelings.

  “Of course you are. You’re a brilliant captain.”

  “You don’t really think that,” said the bear.

  “Of course I do,” said the boy.

  “No, you don’t.” The bear had picked up a piece of paper from the ground at his feet. He showed it to the boy. It had writing and a drawing on it.

  “Your bottle washed ashore while you were asleep,” said the bear. “Who’s Richard Skerritt?”

  “Oh,” said the boy.

  It was the message that the boy had put in the bottle days ago. It said:

  “To Richard Skerritt,” (Richard Skerritt was in the boy’s class at school. The boy didn’t like him.)

  “I am stuck in a stupid boat with a stupid bear having the worst time ever and probably going to die because the stupid bear has got us lost at sea.”

  Then there was a drawing of the Harriet with a not very flattering picture of the bear in the front and an arrow pointing to the back. At the other end of the arrow it said: “Wish you were here.”

  Then he had signed his name. Then, after that, he had added: “P.S. Wish that I wasn’t.”

  The boy looked up from the scrap of paper to the bear’s face. He wasn’t angry, but the boy almost wished he was.

  “I didn’t mean it,” said the boy.

  The bear said nothing.

  “Well,” said the boy, “I did mean it then. But I don’t mean it now. I know better now. You’re a fantastic captain. Best ever. Now come on, Captain Bear, what are we going to do?”

  “Stop asking me that. I’m not the captain any more.”

  “Yes, you are!”

  “What of?” said the bear, in the same emotionless monotone. “I’ve got no boat. What am I the captain of? This rock?” He gave a small, humourless snort. “Well, at least I suppose even I couldn’t sink that.”

  “It doesn’t matter about the boats, you’re still the captain,” said the boy. He was frustrated and angry and scared, and he was beginning to shout. “Of course you’re the captain, you’re wearing the captain’s hat.”

  The bear was hunched over now, as if all the tension in him was trying to fold him in two. He leaned towards the boy, the tip of his nose just inches from the boy’s face, cold, dark, sad eyes staring into him.

  “No,” he said, simply and quietly, lifting a forlorn paw to his head. “No, I’m not.” He took the hat off and dropped it at his feet. They both looked at it lying there for a second. The boy looked up at the bear. He thought about pleading with him some more, but he could see it would do no good. The bear had had enough. A whirlpool of panic and hurt and sadness started up in the boy’s stomach, but he swallowed hard and tried to ignore it. He wanted very much to cry. But he didn’t.

  Well, then, he thought. Here is where we are.

  And then the boy picked up the hat and put it on.

  He had to push it quite far back on his head to keep it from slipping down over his eyes, so it hardly gave him an air of authority, but he stood up straight and tried to keep his voice from quavering.

  “Right, then,” he said, “I suppose I’d better take charge for a while …”

  The bear was sure to react to this. He was bound to snatch back the captain’s hat and take charge again, the boy just knew it. He was as sure as could be. Any moment now …

  The bear looked at him and said nothing. And then he didn’t even look at him, turning his dead eyes away and staring into space.

  Oh! thought the boy. Now what do I do?

  He had no idea, but he thought it best if he at least looked like he did. He walked decisively over to the bear’s suitcase and looked inside it. The telescope was in there so he picked it up and stretched it out. He raised it to his eye and looked out at the horizon. It felt like quite a captainy thing to do so he thought he’d stick with it until he had a better idea.

  “Now then, first things first,” he said. “Let’s assess our situation.”

  He spun slowly around, scanning the sea in all directions and seeing, as he had at once feared and entirely expected, only sky and sea (except for the brief moment when he found himself accidentally looking at the bear, out of focus and greatly magnified, at which point he almost jumped out of his skin in surprise).

  With no better ideas springing to his mind, he decided to look all the way round again. “Best to double check,” he said, trying his best to sound confident and in charge. The bear looked as if he hadn’t even heard him.

  “Here,” said the boy, “make yourself useful, will you? If I go up on your shoulders I’ll see a little bit further. Come on, lift me up.”

  Reluctantly, the bear took hold of the boy and hoisted him on to his shoulders.

  “That’s it,” said the boy, in as cheery a voice as he could muster. “Up periscope!”

  The bear held on to the boy’s legs and straightened up.

  “Now,” said the boy, “slowly tur
n me around so I can have a proper look at things.”

  The bear did as he was asked, and shuffled and slowly revolved, turning the boy like some strange living lighthouse. The boy kept the telescope focused on the furthest areas of sea for one turn around, then looked a little closer in for another, then back out, then closer in … There was nothing. Even the last of the bits of wreckage from The Mermaid were long gone, having drifted away over the horizon in one direction or another. Probably following the raft, like ducklings behind their mother.

  “Satisfied?” said the bear. “Will you be getting down now?”

  “One more turn around, please,” said the boy. “For luck.”

  “Ha! Luck!” said the bear, but he kept turning.

  The boy stared through the telescope so hard that he thought his eyeball must be bulging out. Still he saw nothing, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so to the bear. He asked for “one more turn” three more times and the bear, without a word, kept turning. After the third time, he came to a halt.

  “There’s no point,” he said. “There’s nothing there, is there?” And his cracking voice broke the boy’s heart.

  So the boy decided to lie.

  “Wait!” he said, though he still saw nothing. “There’s something …”

  His mind was a tangle and he had to try really hard to think at all clearly. What am I going to do now? he thought. I can’t make something appear just by wishing it. But he didn’t have any better ideas. I wish something would appear, he thought.

  “What is it?” said the bear.

  Good question, thought the boy. And then he did see. At least, he thought he did. There was the tiniest speck of a bump on the horizon. He had clearly gone mad. He was wanting to see something so badly that he was imagining it. He wiggled the telescope a little to make sure it wasn’t just some dust on the lens. He blinked his untrustable eyes hard and looked afresh. It was still there.

  “Don’t move!” he said to the bear, and his voice was strong and clear, like a captain’s. The bear stood very still and the boy felt his arms growing heavy and tired as he held the telescope as still as possible, determined not to lose sight of the tiny fleck of hope.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he told the bear. “There’s something, but it’s really close to the horizon and if it’s moving at all it’s only going slowly. I can’t tell yet if it’s getting any bigger.”

  His heavy arms ached and he was cold and tired, but the telescope was absolutely steady in his hands. He watched and he waited and he wished.

  “It’s coming closer,” he said. “I think … yes, I’m sure! It’s getting bigger. It’s coming closer.”

  And now he could see what it was. He couldn’t believe it. He kept the telescope to his eye and blinked and blinked again. It didn’t disappear. He wasn’t just imagining it.

  “It’s the Harriet!” he said.

  A tremble rose up through the bear’s shoulders and into the boy and made his view through the telescope wobble.

  “She’s a long way off, but we might just be able to swim to her,” said the boy. He was speaking quickly now, jabbering excitedly. “Or you could go and I could wait here, maybe.”

  “We’ll both go,” said the bear.

  “OK,” said the boy. “Oh, but we’ll have to wait for the tide to come in first …”

  “It’s already in,” said the bear, tapping him on the leg.

  The boy looked down and saw that the water had risen again, higher this time, entirely submerging the rock. The bear was waist-deep in water, his suitcase floating beside him.

  “These tides are really weird,” said the boy. “It’s not like this at Cromer.”

  “These are strange waters hereabouts, it’s true,” said the bear and gently leaned forward, floating up and kicking his legs. “Stay on my shoulders. Now, which way?”

  The boy put the telescope back up to his eye and scanned around. Leaning forward over the bear’s head, he pointed a definite finger and the bear set off in that direction, pushing the suitcase ahead of him, towards the Harriet.

  Back on Board

  Eager, strong and steady, the bear swam. Fast. He ploughed through the water, his nose just above the surface, his legs churning a white plume. The boy sat up on his shoulders, ecstatic and alive.

  They were soon there. The boy stepped up onto the bear’s head and climbed into the Harriet. The bear dropped in the suitcase and then pulled himself up after it, tipping the boat towards him as he did so. He flopped into the little boat and they sat dripping either side of the centre seat as the boat rocked back to stillness. The bear, though he was soggy and tired, seemed to glow with regained energy. He sat up straight and alert, he smiled and his eyes were full of life again.

  The boy grinned, stood up and leaned over to him. He took off the hat and perched it on the bear’s head.

  “Welcome home, Captain,” he said.

  The bear said nothing, he just adjusted the hat slightly on his head and sat back on his seat, wiggling his bottom a little as he did so, as if working it into place. Then he took up the oars and began to row.

  Splish, splish, splish …

  The boy climbed onto his seat and sat there thinking. He was back in the stupid little boat with the smelly old bear rowing them who knew where and with no idea when or if they might eat again. And he was utterly content.

  “Fancy a game of I Spy?” he said.

  “Hmm,” said the bear. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Stormy

  Splish, splish, splish …

  They had played I Spy for a long while. And then, when the boy could stand it no longer, he had gracefully declined another round and reread the comic a couple of times.

  He didn’t even want to think about when they had last eaten. But his hunger had been there for so long that he’d become used to it. It was normal now and he didn’t really notice it.

  The bear was humming quietly to himself. He stopped rowing and looked round at where they were heading, off to the horizon, then turned back, looked up at the boy, took off the hat, scratched his head a moment, put the hat back on. Tea breaks and sleeping aside, this was about as long a break from rowing as the boy had ever seen him take. Then the bear squinted, tilted his head to one side, stared off past the boy. Something dark and fearful flickered across his face, a brief glimpse of some worry that he quickly hid away again. The boy had only half noticed it but it was enough to make him ask.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, turning to look behind him and feeling a sharp blast of wind on his face as he did so.

  “I spy with my little eye something beginning with C,” said the bear nodding his head to indicate something behind the boat. Surprised, the boy turned his head and stared in the direction the bear had indicated.

  The boy could just make out a single small light-grey cloud a long way behind them. He turned back to the bear.

  “More inclement weather on the way?” asked the boy cheerily. “Can we row towards it? I could use some rain.”

  “No,” said the bear. “Besides, it’ll be on us soon enough.”

  “Why are you worried about that little thing?” said the boy. “And, in any case, it’s miles away.” He turned round again to look. The cloud was indeed still a long way away. But it was closer now. And bigger. And darker.

  The boy watched it, scared and fascinated. He could see it growing, gaining on them and darkening before his eyes. He could hear the tempo of the bear’s rowing increase, and the noise of the oars striking the water grow louder and deeper as the bear pulled on them harder, pushing the boat along faster than ever. But the cloud was moving faster still, barging towards them full of menace and violence. Looking back to the bear, he caught another glimpse of worry. His fur bristled in the rising wind.

  “Will it be bad?” said the boy.

  The bear looked him straight in the eye.

  “Yes,” he said. “It will be bad.”

  As he said it, he was thrown into darkness. The boy turned
again and saw that the cloud, a brooding black mass, was almost on top of them now.

  “OK,” said the boy. “What do we do?”

  “Hang on, mostly,” said the bear. “This will be an interesting one.”

  The sea was waking now, stretching and flexing its muscles, then bending, dancing, thumping and bumping and rocking and rolling the boat. The wind came at them hard too, whipping the boy’s hair into his eyes, and picking up spray from the sea and throwing it at them. The boy looked up through stinging eyes. The cloud was all he could see of the sky now, looming like a bully, dark and cruel and threatening. And then the rain started. There was no gentle introduction, no gradual progression from dryness to drizzle and then on to rain; instantly, there were hard shafts of water pounding down upon them, pummelling them.

  He looked at the bear, already hard to see through the raging downpour. His face was set and his head was in constant motion, looking all around, watching the waves and doing the best he could to keep the Harriet level, jabbing at the water with one or other of the oars, steering them through the chaos. He was utterly consumed with the task in hand, and concerned, but not truly afraid. It was clear, even though the boy could only catch glimpses of him through rain and spray and crashing waves, that he was relishing the challenge. He was fighting the sea and he didn’t know who would win. The boy wondered if that had ever happened before.

  They were ankle-deep in water now, and the boy risked bailing with cupped hands whenever the boat seemed steady enough that he didn’t need to hold on tight. The rain bore down onto them one way and the wind tore at them another while the sea, bucking beneath them, tossed them playfully about.

  “This is what you call interesting then, is it?” shouted the boy with as much bravado as he could muster. But he could barely hear himself above the rain and the raging sea and the bear was too consumed by his task to pay him any attention beyond the occasional glance.