island and edged the ship into a small cove.
There was a collective sigh of relief as the anchor hit bottom—none issued more vehemently than by Father Monty, who collapsed into a deck chair and dramatically flung his arms up over his head.
“Sweet heavens to Betsy! Thank the Lord that’s over!”
Noting the stares from his fellow shipmates, he switched to a more reverent tone.
“I mean, thank you, our heavenly father. I never doubted your wisdom and providence throughout that entire turbulent episode.”
Isabella’s pert comment reflected the sentiments of the surrounding humans.
“Mrao.”
—
CAPTAIN AYALA FOCUSED his attention on the shadowed island lying just off the ship’s bow.
Touching a hand to the gold cross that hung around his neck, he called out solemnly, “I hereby christen thee Isla Santa Maria de Los Angelos.”
Translated, the title read, roughly, St. Mary Island of the Angels. The title followed the Spanish tradition of naming newly discovered landmarks in honor of the nearest religious holiday, in this case, the Catholic festival in August celebrating the Assumption of Mary.
In any event, Angel Island seemed like a suitable nickname for the safe harbor that had allowed the passengers and crew aboard the
San Carlos
to sit down for their long-delayed dinner.
Even seasick Father Monty felt a rumbling in his stomach as he performed the ritual blessing the new island.
With the formalities completed, Captain Ayala made the much-anticipated announcement:
“Tell Oscar to get a move on. I’m ready to eat!”
Chapter 14
STOWAWAY
AS SOON AS the
San Carlos
dropped anchor off Angel Island and the ship was at last truly stabilized, Oscar swung into high gear finishing up the night’s dinner.
While the christening ceremony commenced on deck, the kitchen below was transformed into a blur of sizzling pans, boiling pots, and flour-coated cutting boards.
The menu included lumpy mashed potatoes loaded with butter and cream, fresh green beans picked up during the stop at Monterey, and thick gravy simmered to golden brown perfection. The headliner, of course, was Oscar’s signature dish: crispy fried chicken, Captain Ayala’s favorite meal and a much-anticipated treat for the crew.
The niece maneuvered deftly around her uncle, stacking plates and silverware and carrying them up to the long table on the top deck, where the dinner would be served.
The pair had worked together through several of Oscar’s naval cooking assignments. Even in the kitchen’s narrow galley, they generally avoided running into each other. Isabella sat on a stool, supervising the action, chirping out a warning if it looked like the two were about to collide.
Rupert sat on the floor beneath the stool, huffing and puffing as his pink nose sucked in the scents of the sizzling fried chicken. He could hardly wait for dinner to begin and—most important—for the cats to be served. Given the nearness of the meal, he didn’t dare risk hopping on the counter (for fear he might get into trouble and be banished from the feast), but he wasn’t letting the chicken serving bowl out of his sight.
As the niece sped out of the galley with yet another load of dishes, Oscar stepped back from the stove. Surveying the spread, he ran through his mental meal checklist.
“I think we’ve got everything covered . . .” he said, glancing down at Isabella. She tilted her head, as if conducting her own review, and then confirmed his assumption.
“Mrao.”
“Well, that settles it, then.”
Oscar picked up the tongs and lifted the last piece of chicken out of the skillet. As he placed the crispy leg into the bowl, he felt the slightest twinge of unease.
He was alone in the kitchen with the two cats—or so he thought.
Turning toward the hallway, he spied a shadow in the space just beyond the door.
There was a strange scent in the air. It took him a moment to separate the foreign smell from that of the cooking food.
It was a
There was a collective sigh of relief as the anchor hit bottom—none issued more vehemently than by Father Monty, who collapsed into a deck chair and dramatically flung his arms up over his head.
“Sweet heavens to Betsy! Thank the Lord that’s over!”
Noting the stares from his fellow shipmates, he switched to a more reverent tone.
“I mean, thank you, our heavenly father. I never doubted your wisdom and providence throughout that entire turbulent episode.”
Isabella’s pert comment reflected the sentiments of the surrounding humans.
“Mrao.”
—
CAPTAIN AYALA FOCUSED his attention on the shadowed island lying just off the ship’s bow.
Touching a hand to the gold cross that hung around his neck, he called out solemnly, “I hereby christen thee Isla Santa Maria de Los Angelos.”
Translated, the title read, roughly, St. Mary Island of the Angels. The title followed the Spanish tradition of naming newly discovered landmarks in honor of the nearest religious holiday, in this case, the Catholic festival in August celebrating the Assumption of Mary.
In any event, Angel Island seemed like a suitable nickname for the safe harbor that had allowed the passengers and crew aboard the
San Carlos
to sit down for their long-delayed dinner.
Even seasick Father Monty felt a rumbling in his stomach as he performed the ritual blessing the new island.
With the formalities completed, Captain Ayala made the much-anticipated announcement:
“Tell Oscar to get a move on. I’m ready to eat!”
Chapter 14
STOWAWAY
AS SOON AS the
San Carlos
dropped anchor off Angel Island and the ship was at last truly stabilized, Oscar swung into high gear finishing up the night’s dinner.
While the christening ceremony commenced on deck, the kitchen below was transformed into a blur of sizzling pans, boiling pots, and flour-coated cutting boards.
The menu included lumpy mashed potatoes loaded with butter and cream, fresh green beans picked up during the stop at Monterey, and thick gravy simmered to golden brown perfection. The headliner, of course, was Oscar’s signature dish: crispy fried chicken, Captain Ayala’s favorite meal and a much-anticipated treat for the crew.
The niece maneuvered deftly around her uncle, stacking plates and silverware and carrying them up to the long table on the top deck, where the dinner would be served.
The pair had worked together through several of Oscar’s naval cooking assignments. Even in the kitchen’s narrow galley, they generally avoided running into each other. Isabella sat on a stool, supervising the action, chirping out a warning if it looked like the two were about to collide.
Rupert sat on the floor beneath the stool, huffing and puffing as his pink nose sucked in the scents of the sizzling fried chicken. He could hardly wait for dinner to begin and—most important—for the cats to be served. Given the nearness of the meal, he didn’t dare risk hopping on the counter (for fear he might get into trouble and be banished from the feast), but he wasn’t letting the chicken serving bowl out of his sight.
As the niece sped out of the galley with yet another load of dishes, Oscar stepped back from the stove. Surveying the spread, he ran through his mental meal checklist.
“I think we’ve got everything covered . . .” he said, glancing down at Isabella. She tilted her head, as if conducting her own review, and then confirmed his assumption.
“Mrao.”
“Well, that settles it, then.”
Oscar picked up the tongs and lifted the last piece of chicken out of the skillet. As he placed the crispy leg into the bowl, he felt the slightest twinge of unease.
He was alone in the kitchen with the two cats—or so he thought.
Turning toward the hallway, he spied a shadow in the space just beyond the door.
There was a strange scent in the air. It took him a moment to separate the foreign smell from that of the cooking food.
It was a
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