Becca at Sea

by Deirdre Baker

  “And he promised to do the dishes,” Becca said sadly, looking at the heaps of dirty plates.

  7. Sailing

  In the morning the sea was calm. Merlin was gone, and so was his brother-in-law’s boat.

  “I don’t know what Fifi took out in that thermos,” Gran whispered to Becca, “but it did them no good.”

  “Did they argue?”

  “What do you think?” Gran cried, throwing her hands in the air. “And he’s the only plumber on the island!”

  “Mother!” shouted Aunt Fifi. “Will you stop repeating yourself? You don’t even have water to worry about!”

  It was true. Gran’s plumbing used rainwater that ran off the roof, through the downpipes and into her cisterns. In summers when there was no rain to replenish the cisterns, water had to be rationed. Everyone took turns carrying drinking water down from the community well and the plumbing was used only for non-drinking necessities — the toilet, washing dishes, and sometimes a very, very short shower. No baths! That was one of Becca’s favorite things — the sea kept her clean when she visited Gran in the summer.

  But not having a lot of water didn’t mean, Gran said, that she wouldn’t have plumbing needs. Or that she wanted to have to worry about finding a plumber who didn’t have opinions about Shakespeare.

  Aunt Fifi crashed about with crates of blackberry jelly. She said nothing, loudly.

  Becca hugged her goodbye, even though she was so grouchy. Aunt Fifi relented and gave her a kiss.

  “Aunt and niece by birth; sisters by blood,” she said, pointing to her blackberry-picking wounds. “And soon you’ll have another sister — or maybe a brother!”

  She lugged her boxes of jelly on to the ferry. The scribble of scratches on her arms made her look like she had a rare skin ailment.

  * * *

  “What do we do now?” Becca asked Gran. The day suddenly felt empty.

  “I always feel I need a rest after a visit from Fifi,” Gran said. “Let’s sit on the beach and have tea.”

  It was hard to believe that the wind had been fierce only yesterday. Becca leaned against the driftwood and stretched her legs out on the warm stone. The problem with sitting still was that she could now think about Mum, who was about to give birth, and Dad, who was going to help.

  “I could be there,” she told Gran.

  “You could be,” Gran agreed. She seemed to know at once what Becca was thinking. “But I’m glad you decided to come be with me instead. And the baby might not be born for a week, or even two. And I would be lonely without you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Is that so amazing?”

  “Even when I use poutine in Scrabble?”

  “Let’s not go too far,” said Gran.

  “She’ll be little,” Becca said, thinking of babies again. “Tiny.”

  “That she will,” answered Gran. “Or he. You’ll have to look out for her. Or him.”

  “And she’ll come here when she’s only a day old, or maybe two,” said Becca.

  “We’ll have a birthday party,” said Gran. “The whole family will arrive and we’ll welcome him or her with splendid splendor — a party! You won’t be an only child anymore.”

  “Let’s go tide-pooling,” Becca said. Suddenly she wanted to be up and doing, not sitting on the beach thinking about parents and babies and only children.

  So they went around to Midshipman Bay and looked under a few stones, and in among the sea lettuce and in the drippy regions underneath rocky overhangs.

  Becca found sea cucumbers and sea anemones. She found starfish prickly and purple, skinny and red, and slimy and brown. She saw one that squirmed and one that had seventeen legs. She found a moon snail and a sea-collar made of moon-snail eggs. She saw a cluster of fish eggs clinging under a rock.

  But no matter what Becca found, Gran talked about families. She talked about scientific classification, and families and sub-families. She talked about the different ways sea animals have babies. When they looked at the moon snail she told Becca that every moon snail is male and female, both at once, and when they looked at the fish eggs she told her about how midshipman dads hang around and protect the eggs after the mum fish has swum off and forgotten all about them.

  “Families can be strange,” Becca said, carefully not thinking of Lucy and Alicia and their mum Aunt Catriona, or of her older cousins Mollie and Ardeth and their parents Auntie Clare and Uncle Clarence; studiously not thinking of Aunt Fifi, or even of Auntie Meg and Uncle Martin, who would arrive tonight. Especially not thinking of Dad and Mum and her soon-to-be sister or maybe brother. Because the whole point of going tide-pooling was not to think about these things.

  “Can I phone Mum and Dad when we get back?” she asked, giving up at last. “Just to see what’s happening?”

  Then, hoping that Gran would stop talking about babies and families, Becca took her to look at sea urchins.

  “But the seaweed there is so slippery,” Gran said. “And the tide’s up far enough now that we won’t be able to see them very well.”

  “We’ll be able to see them,” Becca said, pulling her along by the arm. “Look! The color is just the same as Aunt Fifi’s jelly.”

  “I’m surprised you’re willing to think about that,” said Gran. “But it is, rather.”

  In the sunshine and through the sloshing waves of incoming tide, the sea urchins waved crimson spines and glittered.

  “Look!” Gran exclaimed. “Look at all the little ones!”

  She leaned out over the edge of the sandstone and peered down into the drop-off, all along the side of the rock where tiny urchins clung.

  “Isn’t that lovely!” said Gran. “It’s — whoops!”

  And with a huge splash she fell into the sea, dragging Becca with her.

  She didn’t mention babies once as they swam home in their clothes.

  * * *

  “Well, now I’ve almost recovered from Fifi,” Gran said as they dripped up the beach. “Who’s coming tonight? I can’t keep track.”

  “Auntie Meg and Uncle Martin,” Becca said. “And I want to go sailing. I’m going to get Uncle Martin to help me take out Glaucous Gull.”

  “Good luck,” said Gran. “We’ve had a lot of adventures in that boat and I’m not sure you want to repeat most of them.”

  * * *

  “We could rig Glaucous Gull,” Uncle Martin agreed the next morning, inspecting Gran’s boat.

  “The rigging has fallen apart, but we have all the bits,” Gran said. “I’m just not sure the boat’s entirely sound.”

  “It’s a unique design for a sailing vessel,” Uncle Martin said, and Becca didn’t think it was a compliment.

  “Well, a friend of Grandpa’s invented it,” said Gran. “It’s one of a kind.”

  “You can say that again,” said Uncle Martin.

  “It will be okay,” Becca said. “Help!” She tugged at the upside-down boat.

  They pulled it out of the bushes and turned it right side up.

  “Glaucous Gull, eh?” Uncle Martin said. “Sounds like something you’d do into a handkerchief. Let’s see, first we’ll mend this hole, dear me, and then, hmm...”

  He inspected gunwales and oarlocks, transom and tiller.

  “It’s all green,” Becca said. “Seaweed’s growing on it.”

  “It’s algae from sitting under pines and weather,” said Uncle Martin. “We’ll scrub it away.”

  The sun shone, the breeze blew, and all morning Becca and Uncle Martin mended and cleaned, scraped, scrubbed and untangled wires.

  “We’re just about done!” cried Becca, hoisting the sail in jerks.

  “Beeswax,” advised Uncle Martin. The next time Becca hauled on the line the sail flew up the mast, flapping and snapping.

  “There you go!” cried Uncle Martin. “She’s set!�
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  * * *

  Auntie Meg didn’t want to go sailing.

  “Oh, please,” Becca begged.

  “I’ll be seasick,” Auntie Meg said. “I’m feeling queasy already. And I don’t know anything about sailing.”

  “I’ll sail,” Becca offered.

  “You’re a bit small,” Uncle Martin said. “You can be my ship’s boy — girl, I mean.”

  “You be careful,” Gran advised them. “Dugald says it’s going to blow later and you don’t want to be caught in it.”

  “We’ll just take her out for a spin,” said Uncle Martin. “Will you come, Meg? First mate?”

  “I guess so,” Auntie Meg agreed, “if it’s only for a little spin.”

  “Cross my heart,” said Uncle Martin, and he gave her a big fat kiss.

  Becca had to look away.

  Auntie Meg had married Uncle Martin last summer, and now they lived together on a little island like Gran’s. But Uncle Martin was often away at sea, tugging and barging south, north, back and forth. Perhaps that was why they were always so mushy. In any case, Becca wasn’t sure she wanted to be cramped into Glaucous Gull with them if they were going to carry on like that.

  “All set then?” asked Uncle Martin.

  They carried Gull into the sea.

  Gran stepped back. They were off.

  * * *

  Becca sat forward of the mast. She fit there, wedged by her life jacket. She could twist and look forward and say when there were rocks sticking up, or she could look back and see Auntie Meg amidships and Uncle Martin in the stern.

  Auntie Meg rowed them out of the shallows.

  “We’ll tack across the bay and see how she goes,” said Uncle Martin. “Ship the oars!”

  Auntie Meg drew in the oars. The sail shook itself loudly and swelled tight.

  “Here we go!” Auntie Meg smiled and Uncle Martin leaned over to kiss her, so that the sail spoke sternly and Gull tried to dip into the sea.

  “Oops!”

  Uncle Martin grinned and they were underway. Gull plowed the water. Becca’s hair blew and she looked ahead — first into burbling foam at the bow and then at the blue field of sea before them.

  And that was all right. Auntie Meg thought so, too, and when Uncle Martin said, “How about taking her out into the strait?” Auntie Meg laughed and said, “Oh, Martin, I wouldn’t pin your wings for anything!”

  Uncle Martin brought the Gull about and set them flying into the broad strait, looking for all the world like he was going to kiss Auntie Meg again. But Becca turned to watch the water curl out around them and felt the wind blow into her as if she, too, were a sail or a seabird.

  She felt like she could fly.

  “Look at the white horses!” called Uncle Martin.

  “What do you mean?” Becca shouted.

  “Look at the swell! The waves!”

  Becca saw blue dark seas hurry toward her, gathering until they spilled into crests, foam flying. They swelled and heaved under Gull, let her down with a lurch and carried their bubbling white manes on with them.

  Slap! A white horse climbed into the boat and doused Becca.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry!” said Uncle Martin. “We’ll head south and ride with them!”

  He brought them about and white horses stopped trying to climb in. Becca hung over the bow as Gull galloped, carried by rushing seas. Hair blew into her mouth. Water boiled at the bow.

  “Can I sail?” she asked.

  “No,” Uncle Martin said. “You be the lookout.”

  Becca looked out. What was there to look out for? Mounds of water rising beneath her, then passing on ahead.

  She licked salt from her skin. She wasn’t too young, she thought. She was strong enough to sail.

  “I think we should turn back now,” said Auntie Meg.

  “Just a little longer,” begged Becca. She loved this fast galloping ride.

  “Well, let me have a go,” Auntie Meg said, so Uncle Martin handed over the tiller and they traded seats.

  Why does she get a turn and not me? Becca wondered. Auntie Meg didn’t know anything about sailing. She had said so herself.

  She watched as Uncle Martin gave Auntie Meg directions about how to come about, to jibe, to spill the wind. Auntie Meg sailed them past Anderson Point, past Bouldings’ and on toward Mayfield Point. The sea carried them, and the wind. Gull flew. Becca and Auntie Meg sang.

  “Betsy had a baby and she dressed it all in white,” they sang. “Heave away, Johnny, all bound to go…”

  Uncle Martin didn’t sing. He had become thoughtful, with his forehead wrinkled up and his eyes kind of serious-looking, as though he was concentrating on something very, very important.

  “Ready about!” called Auntie Meg.

  The boom slammed across and Gull leaned the other way. Becca was glad she was stuck where she was, padded with a life jacket.

  Something was wrong with Uncle Martin. He looked as though he was thinking so far inside himself that he couldn’t see Gull, or Becca, or Auntie Meg, or even the sea around them.

  Something was wrong with Uncle Martin, and something was wrong with the way the sailing was going.

  “We’re going backwards,” Becca said.

  “What?” Auntie Meg stopped singing.

  “We used to be across from that tree, and now we’re behind it.”

  “I see.”

  Suddenly Uncle Martin hung over the gunwale and made a dreadful sound.

  “Oh, poor Martin,” said Auntie Meg. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skipper for you.”

  Uncle Martin made another awful noise. It made Becca think of sea cucumbers, because Gran had told her that when they get scared, they spew. But sea cucumbers wouldn’t make a noise like a very bad drain, the way Uncle Martin was.

  Auntie Meg brought Gull about again. “Maybe if we head out, we’ll get a stronger run against the current,” she said. Becca had never seen her look so serious.

  “We’re still going backwards,” Becca reported later. “I can’t see Bouldings’ anymore.”

  “She may be a gull but she sails like a penguin,” said Auntie Meg shortly. “And the current is against us now and so is the wind. I don’t know how we’re going to get home.”

  “Maybe we could use the oars, too,” Becca said loudly over the sound of the wind and Uncle Martin’s noises. “Sail and row!”

  “How can I do that?” asked Auntie Meg, bothered. “I can’t sail and row! It’s not sensible.”

  “I — can — sail!”

  Becca’s words came in jerks. White horses tried to climb into Gull. Gull jumped and banged the bottom of a sea hill.

  “What?”

  “I can do it!” Becca cried.

  “We have no choice,” Auntie Meg agreed at last.

  Becca crawled aft, and Uncle Martin drooped up to the bow. He hardly fit there, but half of him was hanging out of the boat anyway. Becca saw his face as they passed. He looked gray and a bit corpse-like — not at all his usual adventurous seaman self.

  “Take this line,” ordered Auntie Meg. “It’s the main sheet. It lets the boom and sail in and out.”

  “I know! I was listening! And this is the tiller,” Becca said, grasping it. “It goes back and forth like this. Just like the Zodiac.” She waggled it.

  Auntie Meg looked astonished.

  “Okay, so you do know,” she said. “I’ll row now, and you do your best with the sail, and together we’ll get this Gull back to her nest.”

  “Double power,” Becca said.

  “Right.”

  The tiller thrummed under Becca’s hand, and the main sheet cut into her fingers. Glaucous Gull headed up the strait, Becca at the helm. Auntie Meg got to work with the oars.

  “Keep the sail tight!” she directed
Becca. “Look at the sail! Feel the wind!”

  She didn’t have to tell her. Becca put her face to the wind, pulled hard and silenced the raging sail.

  Auntie Meg heaved on the oars.

  Uncle Martin kept to himself, way up in the bow.

  Gull labored up one sea, and then another. The wilful sail pulled at Becca and she had to hang on with both hands. The tiller twitched under her arm. She let the sheet out and felt the tiller’s lively tremble. Sailing made sense to her.

  “We’re not going backwards any more.”

  Bouldings’ cabin was back in sight.

  “We’ve a long way to go,” Auntie Meg said grimly. Sweat glistened on her.

  But Becca could see they were gaining. The current flowed and Auntie Meg pushed back. The wind blew and Becca leashed it. The breeze answered to her. Gull was gaining.

  “How is it you’re such a good sailor?” Auntie Meg wondered. “Afraid to swim with your face in the water, but no problem out here in a small-craft warning?”

  “It isn’t a small-craft warning,” Becca said. “Dugald said gusting fifteen to twenty knots. He never calls that a small-craft warning.”

  The seas crashed and chattered, and sometimes the sail spoke, drowning out the horrible sounds of Uncle Martin. Becca commanded the ship, and Auntie Meg was the extra motor.

  Gull climbed the watery ranges.

  * * *

  A long time later, Becca sang out, “Centerboard up!”

  She had flown Gull into Gran’s bay.

  “Oh, Martin!” Becca heard Auntie Meg say, but she didn’t look. Instead she kept her eyes on her course, her hand on the tiller, and skippered Gull gently up to the sandstone.

  8. Seafire

  Auntie Meg and Uncle Martin stayed for three days, and Becca learned more about sailing. The winds were lighter and Uncle Martin had no more trouble with seasickness.

  “It happens once in a while,” he said. “I had a headache and I was over-tired from coming off a night watch. But there you go. I thought you were too young to sail and you proved me wrong, so it had its good side. We need to get you a decent boat.”