Navigating Early

by Clare Vanderpool

  But eventually his anger and pride subsided as fatigue set in, and he lay on the beach, ready to learn. The ocean washed over his dry, burnt body, rousing him from his delirium, teaching him to look for fresh water in hollow stalks and to use the sap from plants to soothe his skin.

  The sea withheld food, teaching Pi to search the beach for crabs, hunt boar, and learn the sweet taste of a good berry over the bitter taste of the bad.

  The ocean, in its cycle of wind and rain, pelted Pi, encouraging him to build a lean-to of reeds and leaves to keep himself dry.

  Over time, Pi’s muscles grew strong and his mind stronger. He knew to find shelter when the colorful island birds ceased their chatter. A storm was coming. He knew that fish were easiest to catch in the calm of low tide. And he knew that a boat left wrecked on the beach will not fix itself.

  Rebuilding his boat brought new discoveries for the young navigator. He had a keen eye for the craft—carving, bending, lashing—and he found pleasure in the work. The way the wood of a fallen tree would take shape in his hands. The feel of running a rough sandstone over the wood to make it smooth. Through his labor, he discovered that a thumb is best not left under a falling hammer. And that sweat and aching muscles bring satisfaction and restful sleep. Finally, after Pi had learned much in the way of survival, as well as humility, the sea allowed him back.

  But Pi was still learning his place in the world. And he had not yet earned his name.

  10

  In the last days of August and beginning weeks of September, I went to class and worked on the boat with Early. The other boys continued to have crew practice, and I told Mr. Blane I’d catch up as soon as my boat was ready. He didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t shown up yet. Maybe he felt responsible for my initial humiliation and didn’t want a recurrence of me falling in the bay. I still saw the other boys in class and around the dorm, but ever since that night in Sam and Robbie Dean’s dorm room and the talk of the Fish, the awkwardness lingered like the empty space on one of Early’s records. It whirled in circles, making it hard to jump back in.

  Those after-school hours blended together to the sounds of Frank Sinatra, Glenn Miller, Louis Armstrong, Mozart, and Billie Holiday, depending on the day and the weather. Sometimes Early and I listened to shows on the radio. The Lone Ranger, Buck Rogers, Jungle Jim, and Captain Midnight. There was also local news of the roamings of the great bear still terrorizing wayfarers on the Appalachian Trail. The bounty was up to $750.

  One night, we listened in reverent silence as the voice on the radio crackled over the airwaves, announcing the official surrender of Japan on the USS Missouri. The war was over. We could hear whoops and hollers from boys outside, but Early and I continued our work without speaking, filled with our own thoughts about the war.

  In fact, I think Early and I both enjoyed those times of quiet, when we worked in silence, listening only to the croaking of Bucky the frog and our own thoughts.

  I thought I knew a thing or two about woodworking. I even bragged to Early about having built a soap box car before, but Early was much more skilled. As the afternoon light spilled in through the basement windows, we worked at disassembling the Sweetie Pie, stripping layers of varnish and repairing splits. Early showed me how to mix in matching sawdust with resin to give a more uniform color under the varnish.

  We spent several days on the oars, repairing cracks in the blades, painting them blue with white stripes, and sanding the wooden shaft and handle for a smooth finish.

  The bones of the Sweetie Pie were sound, but after we’d knocked off all the rotten parts and rough edges, the bones were about all that was left. The only wood we had available was whatever we could find in the workshop or in the boathouse. There were hodgepodge pieces of maple and oak and a little mahogany for the trim.

  The Morton Hill Regatta was four weeks away. I had pretended that I wasn’t interested. After all, rowing a boat wasn’t a real sport. But as the days went by and my hands sanded, carved, bent, caulked, glued, and fastened every inch of the Sweetie Pie, I felt the stirrings of something familiar—the spirit of competition.

  Back home we competed over everything. There was always some contest of strength, speed, endurance, or will. There were the usuals—baseball, running, swimming—although the contest didn’t have to be a real sport. We’d spar over who could climb the fastest, hit the hardest, hide the longest, and spit the farthest.

  But ever since that day in July by the creek, the last day my mom had frizzy hair, I’d lost interest. I gave up my spot on the baseball team, quit going swimming, and pretty much left it up to somebody else to do the climbing, hiding, and spitting. Unfortunately, I found I was still pretty good at hitting.

  Melvin Trumboldt and I were tired and sweaty after a day of baling hay at his grandpa’s farm. All he’d said was that he was hungry and couldn’t wait to get home and have some of his mom’s homemade biscuits and gravy. But how could he talk so casually about his mom when I no longer had one? I’m not proud of it, but I hauled off and hit him right in the face. The worst was when he said he’d deserved it. I’m ashamed to say I almost cried. I wished I’d apologized before I left.

  But here it was, September, and something had come over me. I think it started the day I ran that portion of the Steeplechase. Once my legs and arms started pumping, something else in me started pumping too. I wasn’t sure if it came from sadness or anger or the need to punch someone in the face, but now, with the Sweetie Pie looking pretty sweet, I knew I wanted to compete in the regatta. And I wanted to win.

  Early talked a lot while we were in the workshop.

  Most of what he said began with Did you know …?

  Did you know that the regatta was originally a gondola race on the canals of Venice?

  Did you know that Maine is the only state name with one syllable?

  Did you know that hippopotamus milk is pink?

  Interesting but exhausting.

  He’d also explain things about boat building. The proper positioning of the wooden seat in relation to the clogs, to give enough room for someone my height to take a full stroke without straining his back. The importance of keeping the oars level and positioned at the proper angle.

  He spent a good deal of time working out equations on the chalkboard to figure the best ratio for this and the appropriate span for that.

  It was the end of September, two weeks before the regatta, and Early was perfecting the lubricant for greasing the tracks.

  “The regatta is the kickoff for fall-break week, Jackie. October starts to get cold in the mornings. I got castor oil from the infirmary so the seat tracks can slide easily in the cooler air.”

  I watched as he used a clean rag, applying the oil to the tracks below the eight-wheeled seat. “Try it,” he said.

  I took my place on the seat, put my feet in the laced clogs, and pumped back and forth a few times. “Smooth,” I said. “Let’s take her out for a test run.”

  Early and I carried the boat up the stairs and out into the open air. She was surprisingly light. My last venture in the Sweetie Pie had been such a failure that I was a little nervous about trying again—until we lowered her onto the water. The shiny wooden hull barely made a ripple as it settled to rest, sleek and fine, by the dock. Yes, the Sweetie Pie looked as yar as they came, and she seemed to enjoy her own reflection in the glassy water.

  “Get in the boat, Jackie.”

  I got in the boat.

  “Start rowing.”

  I started rowing. And rowing. And rowing. That day. The next day. And the day after that. I was on the water before sunrise, until the bell rang for morning chapel. Then I was on again after school, until sunset. My muscles ached all over again, at first rebelling with every stroke, keeping me awake at night and screaming at my audacity to want to do ordinary things like walk or sit. I wandered around in a perpetual fog of Early’s smelly ointment.

  As the days went by and the pain subsided, Early praised my strong, smooth strokes that prope
lled me through the water. But navigating was a problem. I couldn’t row a straight course.

  “You need a coxswain.”

  “Coxsen?” I repeated the word as he’d pronounced it.

  “The person who guides and navigates the boat. The Sweetie Pie is a double, and since we took out one of the seats for you to row it as a single, we can fit in a coxswain seat instead. You need someone to give you direction.”

  My pride bristled a little, but maybe he was right. I had not proven myself an able oarsman yet, and much as I would have liked to be in control of my own race, I knew I was still a little wobbly on the water.

  Early went to the Nook, then returned with a small leather seat that he attached to the back of the boat. We had to do some jury-rigging to get the coxswain seat to sit right in the Sweetie Pie, but Early eventually settled his little body on board, and we started out again.

  This time, he called out directions like “FIRM UP!”—meaning “Apply more pressure where needed”—and “PICK IT!”—meaning “Use only the arms to make a turn.”

  One thing I learned about Early was that he never doubted his authority as he called, “SQUARE ON THE READY! CHECK IT DOWN! POWER TEN! SLOW THE SLIDE! WEIGH ENOUGH!”

  It took time to learn what the commands meant, and even longer to respond to them. But eventually I followed his direction and began to stay on course.

  Out on the bay, when the sun would inch lower upon the western woods, Early, in a quieter voice, would give the command “Let it run,” meaning, Stop rowing, oars out of the water, and glide to a stop. Here we would rest, taking in the last warmth of the day. And Early would tell me his number story. The story of Pi and his adventures.

  Sometimes I worried a little about that strangest of boys. If he could let go of even a little of his strangeness, he might not be such an outsider. But then, who was I to talk? I remembered the headmaster’s advice to me when I’d first arrived at Morton Hill Academy. If you want to sit with a group in the lunchroom, they’ll probably let you. If you want to go off and sit by yourself, they’ll probably let you do that, too.

  I had positioned myself apart from the table, apart from the group, and I let myself drift away as Early told his story.

  Citizen of the World

  AS PI CONTINUED HIS JOURNEY, he respected the power of the sea and always kept the Great Bear in his sight to guide him. His journey took him to many distant shores, where he encountered the people of the world.

  The members of the light-skinned tribe on the cold, rocky shore were small and meek. They set out baskets of food in front of their huts of animal hide but would not look at him.

  On the shores of the bluest waters, he found houses built of clay and brick instead of branches and leaves. The villagers wore tunics and sandals and engaged him in great dialogues and debates. They asked him questions he had never thought of: What is more important, the soul or the mind? Are we responsible for each other or only ourselves? Is there such a thing as mystery, or only that which is not yet understood? Pi enjoyed his time with these great philosophers—the Thinkers, he called them—but the food was not good, and after a time, his head began to ache. He was relieved to say his farewells and enjoy the solitude of his boat.

  His shortest stay was on an island in the choppy waters to the west, where the sun beat down on hot sand and left so little moisture that nothing could grow. Pi realized that water must be essential not only for life but for happiness as well, because while he was met with open arms, those arms were throwing spears and rocks. He made a hasty retreat and took away only bruises and cuts as mementos of his visit.

  His favorite people were those of the lush region off the calm coastal waters. They were big, loud, and boisterous, and after welcoming him into their village with a banquet of savory meats, sweet fruits, and spiced ales, they celebrated his friendship for weeks and nearly refused to let him leave.

  But he did leave. After all, he was not looking for a new home. He already had a home. He was a voyager. A navigator. One who keeps plotting a course and finding his way. He was still finding his way.

  11

  One night in the workshop, as we were making some final adjustments to the seat track and rigger bolts, Early said, “I’m going on a trip for fall break. Do you want to come with me, Jackie?”

  I was surprised. He never went anywhere and seemed to enjoy being alone. On days when all the boys were given day passes to go into town, Early never went along. For the most part, he did what he wanted at school, and I figured that, since he showed up for meals and Sunday chapel, no one really felt the need to keep tabs on him. I couldn’t figure out who he would be taking a trip with, but I didn’t have any interest in going along.

  “Um, sorry, my dad’s taking shore leave, and he’s coming to visit.” I hadn’t realized until I said it how much I’d been looking forward to seeing my dad. Maybe he was missing me too. “He’s coming to watch the fall regatta, and then we’re going to Portland.”

  “Okay,” said Early.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going on a quest.”

  “Oh, you are?” I said, humoring him like he was a little kid instead of a boy the same age as me. “A quest for what?”

  “For Pi. That Professor Stanton thinks he’s dead, but he’s just missing. I’m going to find him, and then Professor Stanton will quit saying he’s dead. He’s not dead.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I knew that Early had his story of Pi and that it upset him to hear the mathematician’s claims. But how could a story change the outcome of the mathematician’s theory?

  “Early, I think Professor Stanton is just talking about the number pi. He’s not saying that the character Pi is dead. He’s just saying the numbers end.”

  “THE NUMBERS DON’T END. PI IS NOT DEAD!” Early spoke with the same authority he used in calling out his coxswain directions. He grabbed his jar of jelly beans, spilled them out on the workbench, and started sorting. Green, blue, yellow, red, orange. His breathing was short and fast.

  I just needed to calm him down. “Early, let’s not worry about it right now. I’m sure Pi is fine. He’s probably had another mishap on his boat. But if we can fix the Sweetie Pie, surely he can get his boat up and running again. What was happening the last time we saw him?”

  “He was in danger.” Early’s breathing slowed a bit as we heard a pitter-pattering on the window. It was raining. I reached for a particular record and placed it on the turntable. A swell of music broke the tension, and Early began his story, this time with no numbers on a chalkboard. He knew the story by heart.

  And in the background of Early’s story was her voice. Her soul. Her sadness and longing. Because when it’s raining, it’s always Billie Holiday.

  Plights and Perils

  PI FACED MANY DANGERS. Sharks stalking him for days, their fins gliding alongside his boat. Perhaps waiting for him to fall overboard. Perhaps hoping to drive him mad enough to jump in.

  But the bugs were more likely to drive him crazy. On a windless stretch of water, he encountered a swarm of stinging, buzzing insects so thick, the sky was darkened all around him. They hovered and burrowed while he slapped and scratched. By the time a breeze picked up, allowing him to sail away, he was so swollen that he could barely see or breathe, and the welts on his skin oozed and itched for days.

  One of his moments of greatest peril occurred in the balmy season, when the winds could whip up into gale force in minutes. His boat was sturdy and strong, and small enough that he could maneuver it quickly, tacking this way and that to steer himself clear of rough waters. But this time it was different. There seemed to be no end to the howling wind and roiling water. Hours turned into days, until suddenly he found himself in an eerie calm. The waters were still. Too still. The wind had died down so quickly, it seemed to have sucked the very breath out of him. He had never experienced such a deathly quiet. Then, as quickly as it had come, the eye of calm was gone. Again he was blown and battered by the storm.


  Finally, his strength gave out and he was swept into the sea.

  His body floated amid the churning waves, and his mind floated between dream and reality. Was it really a whale that looked him in the eye? He had heard stories of people being swallowed by whales. One voyager even stayed alive for days before being spit out. Did this whale really swim beneath him, keeping him afloat? Would a whale nudge a body safely to shore? Had he really looked into the deep, somber eye of a big white whale? This was the memory Pi was left with when he found himself sprawled on yet another beach, surrounded by mangled driftwood, weeds, and the carcasses of fish that had not fared as well as he during the storm.

  The image of a benevolent whale was a pleasant one, but it was quickly shoved aside when he stood and raised his eyes to a great mountain with plumes of smoke and bursts of molten rock spewing from its gaping mouth.

  He recalled an expression from his village: Out of the kettle and into the fire.

  He wasn’t in the fire yet, but a glowing stream of it was on its way.

  12

  The morning of the regatta, I got two messages under my door. One was a notice that, due to an anticipated storm midday on Saturday, the opening race would start at eight a.m. instead of nine. No problem. I’d just have to find Early and tell him about the eight o’clock start time. I knew he wouldn’t have received a notice, as I was the registered rower. All the other boys were racing as singles. I’d been allowed to have a coxswain because I was a beginner, but with the extra weight of another person in my boat, no one expected me to win.

  Early was probably in the workshop. The night before, he’d said he was going to get up early and polish the brass nameplate. The one engraved with the words Sweetie Pie; the one that we’d taken off the boat before we rebuilt her. He wanted to screw it back on the boat before the race. Anyway, we would have plenty of time to get the Sweetie Pie from the Nook, nameplate and all, and get her into starting position by race time. Dad would be there for the sunrise breakfast and could get settled to watch with the other parents.