The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island

by Scott Semegran

  6.

  Later that night, after we all fell asleep in our tent, I had a vivid dream about a flea infestation. I was standing in a nondescript yard with a sea of St. Augustine grass around me and various things you’d find around someone’s house (BBQ grill, lawn furniture, yard gnomes). I didn’t know whose yard it was, and I was scratching and scratching my arms and legs, but nothing relieved my suffering. It was one of those kind of dreams—nightmare, actually—that seemed to go on forever in a continual loop of misery, just scratching and scratching with no relief. Then, I awoke in the morning to my hands scratching my face, my skin irritated and swollen under my fingertips as my nails raked across inflamed bumps. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the seams of the tent. Lying next to me was Miguel and as my eyes shifted into focus, I noticed tiny black dots all over his face, black dots within larger red splotches. Surprised, I sat up and peered around. The tent was infested with mosquitos, allowed in through an unzipped tent flap which fluttered in the morning breeze. I panicked and cried out, startling my sleeping friends.

  “Mosquitos!”

  Shooting up from under their blankets, my three friends discovered squadrons of flying bloodsuckers buzzing around our heads, dozens of which stuck landings to our faces, feasting on our blood. Arm-swatting and hand-slapping commenced as we bolted out of the tent in search of a clearing, all of us screaming at the unexpected infestation. The campground was mostly still in the morning light, so our screams ripped through the air like shrieks from banshees.

  “Who didn’t zip the tent flap?” Brian said, looking frantically at each of us, his head swiveling back and forth as his stiff hands repeatedly stabbed the air in front of him for emphasis. “We were supposed to zip it shut!”

  But we were all too busy to answer, instead swatting the remainder of the mosquito squadrons. Our gang wasn’t into the blame game, anyway. What was done was done, and we weren’t about to look for blame when assigning blame wasn’t going to do us any good. Mrs. Johnson heard us squawking, though. She burst out of the camper—her hair and sleep clothes askew—to find out what was going on.

  “Why are you boys yelling out here so early in the morning? Don’t you know that people are still sleeping?” She immediately saw our faces—puffy, inflamed, and splotched with mosquito bites—then burst out laughing. “Why, you boys were somebody’s dinner last night. Let me get the calamine lotion from the first aid kit.”

  She climbed inside the camper and rummaged in a cabinet for the first aid kit. Mr. Johnson woke up and asked what was going on—his head peeking out the side door—but she told him not to worry about it before hopping out of the camper, so she could mend our splotchy faces.

  “I’ll fix you boys up. Hold still,” she said, unscrewing the top off the calamine lotion tube, then she commenced to dab Brian’s face first with a cotton ball soaked with the pink lotion, leaving large pink blobs over each mosquito bite. She jabbed quickly as she covered all the bites, then moved onto Miguel, Randy, then me. When she was done, we all looked like pink polka-dotted, shirtless, sad clowns. “That oughtta do!”

  “Thanks, ma,” Brian said. We all thanked her as well.

  “What are you boys wanting to do today?”

  “We were thinking of going for a hike or something,” Brian said.

  “That sounds fun. Just stay away from the water. You hear me?” She wagged her indignant finger at us again. She really liked doing that.

  “Yes, ma’am,” we all grumbled.

  “Hungry?” she added. We all agreed we were. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  Back in the camper, she shoved some things in a shopping bag (Pop Tarts, granola bars, bags of chips), then tossed it to Brian.

  “You boys be good,” she said, smirking as she examined our polka-dotted faces, then slid the camper door shut.

  Brian looked into the bag, then shrugged. The rest of us shrugged, too.

  “Let’s go down to the picnic tables by the water and eat,” I suggested. We all agreed that was a good idea, so we quickly retrieved our shirts and shoes from the tent—swatting at any remaining kamikaze mosquitoes in that dome of terror—and walked down the path to the picnic tables. As we weaved through the camp sites to get to the lake, the other camping families were milling about as well, some campfires still barely smoldering while BBQ pits wheezed their last bits of smoke from the seams of their lids. Once we reached the picnic area by the shore, we marveled at the size of the lake, its surface still except for one early morning ski boat and trailing slalom skier slicing through the water, their wake extending back to the marina. Brian reached into the shopping bag, then tossed the Pop Tarts and other snacks on the nearest picnic table.

  “Breakfast is served,” he said, then snickered.

  We ripped open the silver packaging and devoured our processed pastries, nut bars, and chips. We didn’t have discerning palates and strawberry Pop Tarts were just as good as any other breakfast, requiring minimal effort except to shove them in our hungry faces. When we were done, we put the wrappers in the shopping bag, then noticed Brian looking at something off in the distance, his attention piqued. We all turned to see who he was looking at: Victoria.

  “She’s already working,” he said, watching her in the triangle shack accepting payments and directing campers to camp sites, a line of cars, vans, and trucks with trailers snaking down the gravel driveway to the farm road. “Let’s go see when she gets off work.”

  We hoofed it over there and when we reached the shack, I eagerly knocked on the back door. Victoria popped her head out, obviously flustered.

  “What do you want? I’m working,” she said, not even happy to see us, then returned a queer look. “What’s up with your faces?”

  “We were attacked by mosquitoes,” I said meekly.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said.

  “When do you get off work?” Brian said.

  “After five. But you can go bug Tony at the marina right now. He can take you out in a boat if you want. I’m really busy.”

  “Sounds cool!” I chirped, but she didn’t acknowledge my exclamation. She just rolled her eyes, then slammed the door.

  “Real smooth,” Randy said, then slugged my arm. “Let’s go to the marina. Come on!”

  He put his arm around Brian and the two skipped down the path toward the marina like elementary school kids. Miguel’s head sagged as he stood next to me, his shoulders radiating dejection.

  “Somos pendejos,” Miguel muttered, his propensity to curse in Spanish whenever girls offered their displeasure in our presence. He would repeat the things his father would angrily say, but in his own adolescent way. When other boys called us things like geeks or nerds or pussies—an occurrence as prevalent as the sun going up then down—the name-calling didn’t seem to faze Miguel. But a pretty girl’s verbal displeasure was different. It was his Kryptonite. It was a pride crusher.

  “Come on, man. Don’t worry about it. Let’s go have fun,” I told him, putting my arm around his shoulders.

  “All right,” he said. “But I’m washing this stuff off first.”

  He tore into a full sprint to the water, kneeling on the pebbly shore and flushing the pink dots from his face the best he could with the cool water. I knelt next to him and did the same, streams of pink splattering the lake’s surface. We both dried our faces on the front of our t-shirts as we made our way to the marina, pleased we were no longer speckled with pink dots.

  The path led us to a wood sign that spelled out Canyon Lake Marina in large, block letters, a colorful hand-painted map of the area also on the sign. A long, wooden pier stretched out onto the lake from behind the sign, leading to a structure floating on the water which housed the office as well as a convenience store and tackle shop. Randy and Brian waved from the entrance of the store, having already trekked across the pier, then went inside. We followed them.

  Inside, the store smelled of mildew, compost, and coffee. There were a couple of rows of shelves in the middle con
taining everything boaters would need like a variety of snacks, boating accessories, and first-aid supplies. Along the walls, an assortment of drink coolers with sodas, beer, and water stood on one side and tackle / worm station stood along the other wall (which is why the smell of compost was in the air). And in one corner manning a counter stood Tony, wearing white shorts and a blue Izod-styled shirt, except with a monogrammed sail boat on the breast instead of a little alligator; the back of his shirt said Canyon Lake Marina in bold, yellow lettering. It was apparent he was in a better mood than Victoria, as he yucked it up with Randy and Brian while sipping coffee, pointing at the spots on their faces and laughing. I was glad Miguel and I washed our faces. A percolator and paper cups sat on the counter and Tony offered some coffee to us for free. We demurred.

  “You got any Big Red or Dr. Pepper?” Randy said, patting his shorts to see if he had any money. He didn’t, and rarely did.

  “I have some cash,” I offered, then plucked a Velcro wallet from my shorts pocket. Inside it, I pulled a wad of twenties out, to the surprise of my friends and Tony. “Lawn mowing money.”

  Not remotely the truth, it was a wad of bills I secretly pulled from Bloody Billy’s backpack before we left home for the lake, but didn’t tell any of my friends about it.

  “Money bags,” Tony quipped. We grabbed some sodas from the coolers and I paid Tony for them. “What are you guys doing today?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Just hangin’. Got any suggestions?”

  “I got nothing to do. I could give you all a boat tour, if you pay for gas.”

  “Deal!” I said, and plopped a twenty on the counter. But when I looked at my friends, I expected them to be pleased, yet they weren’t, particularly Brian.

  “I can’t go because I can’t swim,” he said. “My momma would kill me if she found out I went with y’all.”

  I thought this realization would throw cold water on our prospects for fun, but Tony seemed to have all the answers. He was good like that.

  “No worries, my man!” he said, then pulled a box from under the counter and set it on top. “I have plenty of life vests. Plus, I’m an excellent swimmer. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

  “I don’t know,” Brian mumbled. He looked at the three of us for advice. We all wanted to go and didn’t want to leave him out. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I’ve ever been.”

  Brian didn’t mull it over too long. I certainly would have expected him to decline going out on that boat, but he didn’t. In fact, he seemed happy to appease us. His face lit up, as if this tiny decision was a life-changing affirmation, one that would alter the trajectory of our lives. That wasn’t too far from the truth. “All right!”

  “Good deal!” Tony said, taking my twenty and stuffing it in his shorts pocket. “You wait here while I gas up the boat.”

  We guzzled our sodas inside the store while watching Tony from a window as he filled the outboard motor of a fishing boat with gasoline from a can. The boat was made of aluminum and tied to the marina with a white, nylon rope. It had three rows of wooden benches inside, just enough for the five of us—two of us per row, then Tony in the back to steer. And even though Brian was going to wear a life vest, he still looked nervous as hell. I think his fear of not being able to swim consumed him more than we realized, or maybe it was the fear of his mother’s wrath. Randy, Miguel, and I were all capable swimmers, but I think we took it for granted that our parents forced us to swim in the neighborhood pool at an early age. Brian’s parents must’ve dropped the ball on the swimming lessons. I remember later Brian telling me something like Black people didn’t learn to swim for a reason, but the reason he gave didn’t make too much sense because we were all friends and his parents were so well-off. He tried to explain that it was because of racism and the lack of community pools in Black neighborhoods. But Brian’s family didn’t live in a Black neighborhood, so it seemed like a lame excuse to me. Anyway, I helped Brain secure the vest and told him everything would be all right. Tony called to us, so we went out there and stood next to the boat. He was already down in it. He raised his hand to help us in. Calling the boat a nautical vessel would be a stretch, considering there were just as many bolts and rivets rolling around in the bottom of it down by his feet than there were holding it together; sunken ship to-be was more like it.

  “Come down,” he said, then helped us get into the rickety water craft. Once we were all seated, he pulled the starter cord to the motor—which was secured to the boat on a rotten two-by-four pine plank with an adhesive that looked like dried orange shaving cream—and it roared to life. “Here we go!”

  Tony steered slowly through a row of covered motor boats, all docked and waiting for their owners. Once past the end of the row of boats, he slowly weaved through an array of anchored sailboats which peppered the bay. I looked back at Tony and he winked confidently, then I looked at my friends, all of whom had big smiles on their faces, except for Brian. He gripped the side of the fishing boat like his life depended on it. Once we passed the last anchored sail boat and a row of buoys delineating the edge of the marinas domain (there were even signs on the buoys declaring that boaters keep their speeds low), Tony fully throttled the motor. The front of the boat tilted up as we flew across the bay toward the other side.

  I’ll never forget that feeling of first riding in a boat as it glided across the top of lake water, occasionally catching air from waves or the wakes of other boats, the motor belching smoke and screaming from the back. I could see some fish in the water attempting to swim away from the hull of the boat and birds flew in the sky above, as if following us to wherever we were going. There is a freedom and otherworldliness to cruising across a large body of water in a motor boat, your balls vibrating in your seat while the wind whips through your hair. It’s a magnificent feeling.

  When we reached the other side of the bay, Tony let off the throttle and the boat eased to a gurgling crawl. We floated slowly to a rickety pier that looked like it was 100-years old and had seen better days, maybe before the Second World War. When the boat nudged the pier, Tony tossed a loop of rope over a post to secure the boat, then cut the motor.

  Brian didn’t look amused.

  “We’re not getting out, are we?” he said, still gripping the side of the boat.

  “Nah, just wanted to show you something.” He pointed up an embankment. At the top sat an old lake house, one that was in a similar state to the pier; its construction of withered wood, rusty nails, in pathetic squalor that was just sad to witness. I would later learn that the lake house was a classic bungalow built in an arts and craft style, with two dormer windows perched on the roof, and a large veranda at the front that wrapped around one side. It probably was magnificent at some point in its history, just not at this moment. It was a dilapidated house that would’ve been perfect in a scary movie from the 1950s or modeled for an illustrated haunted house in an episode of Scooby-Doo. “That’s the old Meyer lake house I told you about yesterday. Up there.”

  We peered up at the wilted lake house, and I couldn’t help but see the potential in such an abandoned place like this. All it needed was a little love, just like Linus declared when he first saw Charlie Brown’s sad, sagging Christmas twig of a tree. If Superman had his Fortress of Solitude, then Spider-Man should have his Cabin of Seclusion. And if not Spider-Man, then why not four friends from Converse, Texas? To me, at that moment, it looked like it would make a fantastic hideout, but I didn’t say it out loud while we sat in the motor boat.

  “Have you ever been up there?” I said, examining the lake house, then looking curiously back at Tony.

  A sly smirk slid across his face. “I’ve taken Vicky up there. You know? To make out.”

  “That sounds coooool,” I said. Tony nodded an agreement. “You like to call her Vicky?”

  “Yup,” he said, then clucked his tongue.

  “And how do you get up there? From here?” I continued, looking at the rickety pier, the
n back at Tony, who now appeared taken aback by my inquisition.

  “Actually,” he said, thumbing over his right shoulder. “I drive up the road back there behind those trees. There’s a gate at the driveway to the property. It looks like it’s locked with a chain, but the chain doesn’t actually have a lock. I just put the chain back the way it was when we leave.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “So, do you think it’s safe to go up there?”

  My three friends were growing impatient with my interrogation at this point. Brian looked like he was going to throw up. Miguel was in a trance of boredom; floating on the water wasn’t his thing. And Randy, he was interested in something different than the old lake house, looking some place not so far away, just across the bay from where we floated in the water.

  “What’s that over there?” Randy said. We all turned, and he pointed at an island way out in the mouth of the bay, a slender bit of land that jutted sharply up out of the water with a row of trees on top. “That island. Is that what that is?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said. A deflated sigh slipped from his mouth. “That’s Sometimes Island. Can’t go on it, though. Your boat would get ripped apart from the jagged rocks that surround it under the water if you tried to land near it.”

  “Sometimes Island. That’s a weird name,” Miguel added, perking up. “Why Sometimes?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Tony began, taking the loop of rope off the rotten wood post, then pushing the boat away from the pier. “In the old days, the level of the lake used to go up and down quite a bit, so sometimes the island was there, and sometimes it wasn’t. That’s how it got the name of Sometimes Island. Nowadays, the level of the lake is pretty steady, and the island is visible most of the time, but we still call it Sometimes Island.”