scoop away at a modestsized mountain with spoons. I scribbled the word “tsunami” in my Memory Book, with my own version of the spelling.
The harbor was fretted with jetties, sticking out into the water. The docks were black breaks, giving dock space to several craft each. Patches of fresh, light-colored wood showed on some of the darker-colored planks. There were several signs of recent building. Along both sides of each of the piers, small boats, fishing and sports craft by the look of them, were moored to stanchions with ropes, some of them colorful nylon in yellow, red, and blue. This was tidewater, so there were various contrivances for keeping the boats secure as the water came and went at the whim of the moon, twice a day. Signs of lazy activity appeared along the length of the jetty in front of me: a few figures moved back and forth, but with no committed determination as far as I could see. One man was feeding nylon rope into a greedy plastic barrel, another hosing down some nets spread out on the tar-surface of the dock. The boats themselves were a jumbled lot, but a few trim yachts were tied up looking yar , their masts jingling as they bobbed in the water that dimpled with reflected sunlight.
The taxi driver pointed out a building that faced this view from behind the spot where we had stopped. It was a weathered wooden structure, two stories running for most of a block, backing into the hill that rose sharply from the water, giving the outfitters an apparently precarious purchase on the edge of the water. The bottom floor disappeared into the hill; the floor above ran another few meters into the slope. Directly across the street, on the water, a sign announced that the building on this side of the road was a continuation of the bigger place across the street.
My driver was watching as I took all this in and grinned like he’d done it all himself. I shuffled the money I took from my wallet and fanned the bills out so he could make a selection. When I added another to the ones he had taken, he gave it back, his conscience already stretched to breaking. He gave me a card and pointed to the number on the back. The original printed number had been crossed out. I didn’t attempt to read it, but pocketed it for further study in private.
A wooden veranda ran along the length of the front of the building, which looked as though it was still at least partly a warehouse. Several doors opened on to it, each with a sign that was no great advertisement for local arts and crafts. When I found the sign I was looking for, I pulled a rope that rang a bell inside. When nothing happened after my second try, I opened the door and walked in. Inside, it was dark, dusty, and cluttered, but maybe a degree cooler than outside. I could make out some shipping posters on the wall, as well as a naughty calendar showing a leggy young woman’s skirt being pulled by her badly cast fishing line. It looked at least fifty years old, and shiny with grease from a camp stove set on a wooden crate. Chinese dishes and a jar of chopsticks stood on a shelf nearby. The showpieces of this anteroom were a pair of mounted diving suits dating from the 1930s. They could have come right out of Trader Tom of the South Seas , an old Saturday matinée serial I saw as a kid. But this was more than a few blocks away from the old Granada Theatre at home. The diving suits were dusty and looked like they hadn’t been moved in decades. Nearby was an air-pumping unit, again right out of the movies and comic books of my youth. I suppose that in a strange place like this, a newcomer makes friends with the things he recognizes from his earlier life. These old diving suits were helping me smooth the way into an unnerving and, I admit it, scary place.
A slim man was standing behind a glass counter littered with papers and what looked like boxes of well-known brands of American soap. He gave me a half-bow, showed an arpeggio of white teeth, and said: “May I help you
The harbor was fretted with jetties, sticking out into the water. The docks were black breaks, giving dock space to several craft each. Patches of fresh, light-colored wood showed on some of the darker-colored planks. There were several signs of recent building. Along both sides of each of the piers, small boats, fishing and sports craft by the look of them, were moored to stanchions with ropes, some of them colorful nylon in yellow, red, and blue. This was tidewater, so there were various contrivances for keeping the boats secure as the water came and went at the whim of the moon, twice a day. Signs of lazy activity appeared along the length of the jetty in front of me: a few figures moved back and forth, but with no committed determination as far as I could see. One man was feeding nylon rope into a greedy plastic barrel, another hosing down some nets spread out on the tar-surface of the dock. The boats themselves were a jumbled lot, but a few trim yachts were tied up looking yar , their masts jingling as they bobbed in the water that dimpled with reflected sunlight.
The taxi driver pointed out a building that faced this view from behind the spot where we had stopped. It was a weathered wooden structure, two stories running for most of a block, backing into the hill that rose sharply from the water, giving the outfitters an apparently precarious purchase on the edge of the water. The bottom floor disappeared into the hill; the floor above ran another few meters into the slope. Directly across the street, on the water, a sign announced that the building on this side of the road was a continuation of the bigger place across the street.
My driver was watching as I took all this in and grinned like he’d done it all himself. I shuffled the money I took from my wallet and fanned the bills out so he could make a selection. When I added another to the ones he had taken, he gave it back, his conscience already stretched to breaking. He gave me a card and pointed to the number on the back. The original printed number had been crossed out. I didn’t attempt to read it, but pocketed it for further study in private.
A wooden veranda ran along the length of the front of the building, which looked as though it was still at least partly a warehouse. Several doors opened on to it, each with a sign that was no great advertisement for local arts and crafts. When I found the sign I was looking for, I pulled a rope that rang a bell inside. When nothing happened after my second try, I opened the door and walked in. Inside, it was dark, dusty, and cluttered, but maybe a degree cooler than outside. I could make out some shipping posters on the wall, as well as a naughty calendar showing a leggy young woman’s skirt being pulled by her badly cast fishing line. It looked at least fifty years old, and shiny with grease from a camp stove set on a wooden crate. Chinese dishes and a jar of chopsticks stood on a shelf nearby. The showpieces of this anteroom were a pair of mounted diving suits dating from the 1930s. They could have come right out of Trader Tom of the South Seas , an old Saturday matinée serial I saw as a kid. But this was more than a few blocks away from the old Granada Theatre at home. The diving suits were dusty and looked like they hadn’t been moved in decades. Nearby was an air-pumping unit, again right out of the movies and comic books of my youth. I suppose that in a strange place like this, a newcomer makes friends with the things he recognizes from his earlier life. These old diving suits were helping me smooth the way into an unnerving and, I admit it, scary place.
A slim man was standing behind a glass counter littered with papers and what looked like boxes of well-known brands of American soap. He gave me a half-bow, showed an arpeggio of white teeth, and said: “May I help you
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