As cannon boy, he got his food only after all the higher-ranking crew members had eaten their fill. The Fearsome Flea hadn’t had decent quarry in well over a month, and rations were running low. It was finally his turn at the soup pot. No sooner had he spooned out the last drop from the empty container, but Marge barreled toward him and jostled his elbow causing him to drop his bowl and spill on to the galley floor the one meal he would have that day. She continued past him, laughing spitefully. His scarcely-contained hate for her mixed with his bedeviling hunger and exploded into white hot rage.
The howls that burst from Marge’s mouth moments later were to become the source of ship shanties and crass jokes. And the small, sharp dirk that protruded from Marge’s buttocks would forever label him the “Booty Poker”. BP snickered to himself remembering it.
His head had cleared and he straightened from his crouching position. His body still felt like it was moving though he stood still, the way he felt when the Fearsome Flea’s crew got a few days shore leave. He realized suddenly that his feet were cold and looked down at them again. He was standing on a hard stone surface. Where was the wooden ship’s deck? He looked around him and saw a table piled with strange shiny objects, shelves of cans labeled with words like “paint” and “ant spray”, sandpaper, hammers and saws, and other tools. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t believe it. He was at his parents’ house.
He stepped back and considered his situation, stroking his chin with his thumb and index finger like he’d seen some of the bearded pirates do. The gesture didn’t help him come up with a solution to his problem, but it comforted him. His crewmates must have dumped him on shore. He was sure One-Eyed Billy was behind this trick. It was just like Billy to play jokes on the first crewman who fell asleep at night.
Once, when Shep had made that mistake, and lay face down and snoring on the galley’s table, Billy had reddened his nose with a tube of cherry red lipstick. None of the pirates had told Shep and, without a mirror or washbasin on board, short, burly Shep patrolled the deck for days looking like a clown wondering why the other pirates sniggered when he told them to “keep their noses out of other people’s business” and that he had a “good nose for plunder.” The joke came to an end when Marge ordered him to “wash that girly paint off yer nose or I’ll cut it off with me dagger.”
BP would have to plan a really great trick to get his revenge on Billy for this joke.
Just then, the garage door gave a lurch, and began rising upward. A horn blared, and BP jumped out of the way, barely avoiding being run down by a metallic gray car.
“Angus! What are you doing? I almost hit you! Are you alright?”
BP was startled by the name. No one had called him that since he’d become a pirate.
“That’s not me name anymore. They call me BP, the Booty Poker,” he announced, folding his arms defensively across his chest.
“What’s this?” asked a man, his father, chuckling. “New game, eh?” He slapped BP on the back in greeting. “Whew! Did you have gym class today? You might want to hit the shower, buddy! Now, let’s see what your mom’s got cooking. I’m starved!” announced his cheerful father opening the door.
“Hi, honey. How was work?” said a voice BP had not heard for years. His mother’s voice came closer, “I was going to serve leftovers tonight, but the fish was fresh-caught, and … Angus! What did you do to your clothes?” There she stood, wavy brown hair just touching her shoulders. A splash of color brightened her cheeks and lips. She pursed her lips as she peered at him, aghast. “What is that in your ears? Are you wearing EARRINGS? When did you pierce your ears?”
His eyes drank in the sight of this woman, his mother, and then he looked down at himself. What was she mad about? His jeans were ripped at the knees, ragged at the hems. His shirt had a tear through the left side where he’d accidentally ripped it with his dagger. Except for a bit of dirt and creosote, his clothes weren’t even that dirty. He raised his hand to an earlobe.
“Go wash your hands right now, young man. We’ll talk about your clothes and those ears after dinner,” said Mrs. Clark, shaking her head.
His parents didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him. He’d run away, lived with pirates, and they were acting like they’d just seen him this morning. Had One-Eyed Billy told them ahead of time that he was coming? But when would he have done that? He didn’t think Billy even knew his parents. But Billy was a sneaky, resourceful scoundrel. BP shouldn’t underestimate his abilities.
BP thought about disobeying his mother. No one told a pirate what to do. Well, except for Maniacal Marge. You did what she said pretty quickly if you didn’t want to swim with the fishes. He didn’t have to listen to his mom anymore though, did he? But dinner did smell good, and he didn’t remember when last he’d eaten.
“Angus! Didn’t you hear your mother?” asked Mr. Clark.
“I was jist goin’ to wash me mitts,” answered Angus.
“Come on, let’s wash our hands together,” said Mr. Clark.
BP turned and followed him to the bathroom. Mr. Clark turned on the water and handed him a bar of flowery smelling soap.
“What were you into this afternoon, son? You really are filthy,” asked Mr. Clark.
“Oh, the usual. A little pillagin’ here, some plunderin’ there,” answered BP.
He took the sticky bar and absentmindedly rubbed it over each hand. He didn’t bother to rinse, merely wiping his soapy hands on his pant leg. Mr. Clark watched him narrowly, and then followed him from the washroom.
BP marveled at the size and cleanliness of the kitchen and dining room. Living aboard the Flea and eating in its cramped, sticky galley had made him forget the spaciousness of traditional homes. He pulled out a chair and propped his elbows on the table, eager for his grub. Mrs. Clark stood at a large stove, finishing up the cooking. BP looked around the table and noticed the golden salt and pepper shakers. This booty would bring a handsome price or be a good trade for One-Eyed Billy.
He glanced furtively at Mr. Clark who was engrossed by a small black phone in his hand. Mrs. Clark’s head was bent over the stove. BP’s hand shot out and grabbed the salt shaker. He stuffed it into his pants, and then reached for the pepper shaker. Some floral soap still clung to his hand, and the shaker slipped from his grasp. BP fumbled with it, releasing a cloud of black powder. Oh no!
The pressure in BP’s sinuses was unbearable. “AAASHEWW!” he exploded and green slime hung from his nose. He reached for the nearest thing resembling a handkerchief and wiped his face.
“Angus! You did NOT just blow your nose on my TABLECLOTH!” shrieked Mrs. Clark.
“What? Huh?” Mr. Clark’s head perked up from the phone and he glared at BP from across the table.
“Go to your room! Now!” yelled the furious Mrs. Clark.
BP glared at her, and then stomped to his bedroom. This was why he’d run away in the first place.
BP hadn’t always been the powder monkey on a pirate ship prowling the northern waters. His earliest memories were of walking hand-in-hand with his mother through their garden. As a young child, he had sat upon her knee learning to read as she trailed her finger along the words in a tattered book of fairy tales. His father would spend the evenings wrestling with him on the floor playing horse or building train sets.
Then he grew older, and they were always telling him what to do. He was not a little boy anymore. He had to take responsibility for himself. Good grades didn’t just happen. If he lived under their roof, he’d live by their rules. His parents were always scolding him and correcting him. There were rules for everything: When he had to go to bed, how to act in school, and what type of language was appropriate. He was always in trouble with them, and they just didn’t understand him.
One day, he decided he’d had enough.
Into his school bag he packed a clean pair of underwear, a jacket, a compass, a book of matches, and what was left of the money he’d received from his grandparents for
his last birthday. He grabbed his sleeping bag and set off. He marched right down to the docks and joined the crew of the first ship he’d seen.
The crew became a sort of family. Billy was like a brother, alternately tormenting and defending him. Shep was the bachelor uncle trying to guide BP when he wasn’t flat on his back and snoring. Marge was clearly the evil stepmother.
In the beginning, BP had missed his old way of life. Unbidden thoughts of his parents crept into his head while he was cleaning the cannons or swabbing the deck. He would force them angrily from his mind when he was awake. When he slept, dreams assailed him. Sometimes his mother was reading to him. Other times, he woke laughing from a dream of wrestling together in the grass with his father. Eventually, he had been able to corral thoughts of his parents and train himself to dream of other things, like being the pirate captain giving the order to attack.
His new life was exciting and liberating. There was always a battle to look forward to: Chasing down merchant ships, whooping at the top of his lungs while waves crashed over the ship’s hull, watching and encouraging fistfights in the galley, lobbing stinkpots and cannons over the side. No one telling him to eat his vegetables, brush his teeth, or comb his hair.
And yet, as he looked around his old bedroom, strangely lived in though he hadn’t been there for a while, he couldn’t escape the sense of being safely at home. Now, if only he could get some grub.
Chapter Five: The Swim
Any doubt left in Angus’ mind about whether or not he was dreaming vanished as his body hit the frigid water. The water was so cold it felt like a vise squeezing the air from his lungs. Pain stabbed his fingers and toes. His body throbbed with each beat of his heart. He needed to breathe.
Constricted as he was by the rope kicking to the surface was impossible. He was going to sink directly to the bottom like a stone! He would die in a watery grave, and no one would know. There was no one here to help him, not a living soul. He would never see his parents again, or Sir Schnortle, or Ivy. What would they do without him? He had just disappeared and would never return. His parents would never know what had happened to him. He imagined his mother and father overcome with grief, shriveled and gray.
He was too young to die! There were still so many problems to solve and inventions to build. His life was going to be over practically before it had even begun. He could feel panic beginning to overwhelm him.
Control yourself! You can survive this, he thought. He was a member of the school swim team for goodness sake! There was no way he was going to let his math teacher’s evil twin drown him!
If he was going to survive, he would need to be rational. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the rope. He imagined tiny little bubbles of warm air pulsing through his body, and puffed up his chest as he’d been taught to do in beginner swimming lessons so many years ago. The words “belly up!” popped into his head, and his body broke the surface of the water.
He opened his eyes and drew several short breaths, careful not to inhale the salt water lapping around him. His safety goggles, not meant for swimming, were fogged and dripping. He could not see the Fearsome Flea but imagined it was long gone.
The first thing he’d have to do was to get out of this blasted rope. He’d need to cut through the frayed plies. Angus felt the rope pressing the screwdriver uncomfortably into his abdomen. His hands protruded from the rope on either side of his body making it impossible for him to reach the tool. He made small, incremental movements with his arms trying to loosen the restraints. His right arm gave way suddenly causing him to propel himself facedown into the water. He spluttered and quickly rotated himself over again. He floated quietly for a moment until he regained control of his nerves and his breathing.
The rope covered the waistband of his jeans. Angus knew he’d be unable to get the screwdriver out that way. He wriggled his fingers and felt for his front zipper. The icy water was rapidly numbing his extremities, and he had to try several times before he was able to get hold of the pull tab and slide it open. He reached in, gripped the screwdriver’s handle, and slid it carefully out of his pants. If he dropped it, it would sink to the bottom of the Sound, and he’d never get out of this rope.
Forcing his anxiety back down, Angus cautiously inserted the screwdriver into a damaged ply and jabbed at it repeatedly until he felt it give way. A tiny spark of hope blazed through him. He jabbed eagerly into the next ply and the next gaining courage with each successful break. Finally, there was only one ply left. Angus could no longer feel his fingers, but he focused all his attention on keeping them gripped to the screwdriver. He pushed with his whole arm, and at last the end of the long rope was floating beside him.
He sighed with relief. Now he had to unravel himself from the cut rope. He rotated his body to the side and grabbed the rope end in his mouth. He rolled his body over in the opposite direction working one wrap off his body. He bit down lower on the rope and rolled a second time. Eventually, the remaining rope was loose enough that he could wriggle out of it.
Angus tread water and looped the rope diagonally across his chest. It was heavy and might prove a liability but he wanted to hold on to it as long as he could. An inventor in training worth the title never threw away anything useful. Then he remembered his trusty screwdriver. It was no longer in his hand. He pushed the goggles off his eyes, resting them on his forehead, and peered into the water. Nothing. His screwdriver rested on the bottom with the rocks now.
He kicked his legs powerfully, raising himself slightly in the water, and looked at the horizon. He didn’t see land in any direction, and the sun was beginning to lower in the sky. He remembered what Shep had said: Float with the current. How long would it take before he reached land though? His body was beginning to shake, and he knew that he would grow colder and colder with each passing moment. He was already in the beginning stages of hypothermia. He felt the panic building again.
“Wheet wheet whoo-oo.”
And now he was hearing things. He tried to remember the stages of hypothermia. Cold body, check. Shivering, check. Mental confusion, check.
“Wheet wheet whoo-oo.”
He didn’t think he could wait for the current to float his body to shore. At this rate, he’d be completely incoherent in another ten minutes. He needed to swim in the direction of the current; that should take him to shore, right?
“Wheet whoo-oo whizz.”
A jet of water squirted him in the face. He coughed and choked trying to clear the water from his nose and throat.
“Wheet wheet, sorry, whizz.”
Angus spat the water out of his mouth, blinked his eyes to clear them, and saw a huge black and white orca circling him.
“Sorry, whizz whizz. First time I’ve whizz been a whale whizz. Getting the hang of it whizz.”
“Wha …,” sputtered Angus. “A talking orca?” He tried to grab hold of his whirling thoughts. “Ivy?”
“Wheet wheet. Yup.” The killer whale seemed very proud of itself. “Watch this!”
The orca dove under the water on one side of Angus and burst to the surface on his other side. It breached, lifting its entire body into the air, and crashed sideways back into the waves. Angus was swamped by a downpour of salt water. He gulped a mouthful and struggled for breath, inhaling more. He thrashed helplessly forcing his body deeper into the water. The weight of the rope around his torso pushed him down and down. The panic he had kept at bay now crashed over him, and he sank defenselessly.
Every cell in his being screamed for survival, and then he was floating, soaring, rocketing to the surface. He gasped for air and retched uncontrollably. Salt water exploded from his mouth. He coughed, panted, and spit up more water. It occurred to him that he was no longer submerged in the water. His body was resting on a smooth, moist, firm surface. His eyelashes fluttered open. He lay straddled across a black surface. Water spritzed his forehead and cheek, and he raised his head. He was riding a black torpedo across the top of the water.
“Wheet wheet wh
oo-oo are you okay, Angus?” rumbled beneath him.
Angus slipped and rolled off the torpedo splashing down once more in the bone chilling water. Ivy, for it was the orca he’d been riding, swung around and gathered him up once more on her back.
“Hold on tight whizz I’ll get you to land whizz,” she whistled at him.
He wrapped his arms and legs around her, but it was difficult to get a secure handhold. Her large body was slick with water, and her orca muscles expanded and contracted as she swam through the water. The wind buffeting his prone body did nothing to stop the shivering that racked his bones. Angus alternated between anxiety that he would slip off Ivy again and utter exhilaration that he was riding an orca.
“Whoo-oo, Angus?” Ivy called as she came to a rest.
“Ye – es …” His teeth were chattering so violently that it was difficult to speak.
“I can’t swim any nearer whizz. Don’t want to beach myself. Not been a whale before. Whizz think you can make it the rest of the way?”
Angus drowsily raised his head from where he’d rested it on top of Ivy’s back. He could see the shoreline about fifty yards away, only two laps of the pool he trained in three times a week. It was the length of a practice warm up. His arms and legs shook in the cooling evening air, and he steeled himself to climb back into the water. He would just have to swim like he’d never swum before. There was much more at stake here than a mere medal.
“Maybe whizz I can get a little closer,” began Ivy.
“No,” breathed Angus. He rolled ungracefully off Ivy’s back and plopped into the water. He was so numb he didn’t even feel the water. The orca’s large nose shoved him powerfully toward the beach. Off he went, kicking and stroking as hard as he could. The heavy rope weighed him down, but he knew he’d regret leaving it behind. He was nearly there. His muscles began to seize up, but he focused on the approaching beach. He must have finished one lap by now. One more to go, he thought. Kick, stroke, kick, stroke, almost there. And then his feet touched bottom and he stood.
The Pirate's Booty (Inventor-in-Training) Page 4