Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits by Michael D. Beil Page A

notice.
    “What—in—the—name—of—Sam—Hill—is—going—on?” he demanded. “Who brought that … cat … on my boat? And you’re feeding it my food?”
    He didn’t wait for an explanation. Roughly grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, he marched back up the stairs and, without another word, heaved me over the stern of the
Susie G
and into storm-tossed Lake Erie. As I landed with a splash and found myself underwater for the first time in my life, Butch’s words echoed in my head:
Cats and boats don’t mix
.
    Another myth about cats is that we’re not good swimmers. Not true. We can swim like crazy when we have to, and being thrown off a boat seven or eight miles from shore is a perfect example of one of those “have to” situations. From the top of a giant wave, I spotted the shore in the distance and started to paddle in that direction. I knew that my making it back to shore was a long shot at best, but I had to give it a try.I was tired, cold, and hungry—I’d barely gotten one bite of sardines down when my breakfast was so rudely interrupted. I needed another miracle, and I got one.
    Okay, maybe
miracle
is too strong a word, but that wooden packing crate that floated past a few minutes later certainly was welcome. I climbed aboard, sunk my claws into the soft wood, and held on for dear life as the wind howled and waves crashed all around me, pushing me toward the shore.
    I drifted like that for several hours. The entrance to the harbor was still a long, long way off, and I grew more desperate for a nap by the minute. Midafternoon, the sun finally broke through the clouds, and I spied a sailboat a mile or so out. I watched as the distance between us closed; it was headed right for me. A lone man was on deck, but as he got closer and closer, I realized that he didn’t see me or my crate—in fact, I was pretty sure he was asleep at the tiller!
    “Mrrraaa!” I shouted, but the sound was swallowed up by the wind and waves.
    As I prepared myself for the collision, the bow of the sailboat dipped way down into the wave I was riding, spearing the crate and lifting it clear of the water with me still somehow (miraculously?) attached. The sound woke the sailor, who left the tiller and rushed forward, snagging me with one hand and pushing the crate away from his boat with the other.
    “Hey there, little lady,” he said. “What’s a nice kitty like you doing out on a day like this?”
    “Mrrraaa,” I said. “Please, mister, for the love of Pete, just dry me off and give me something to eat.”
    He gave me a strange look, and later on I realized that he was probably the first human to hear me. Down in the cabin, he rubbed me dry with a towel and then … well, then he did something really special: he opened a can of sardines for me. They weren’t the Sail On brand, but they weren’t half bad.
    His name was Walt, and I probably would have stuck with him if it weren’t for one important fact: he
lived
on that little sailboat, and I had decided that on the topic of cats and boats, Butch was definitely right. And so, when we got to shore, we went our separate ways, with Walt continuing on to Cleveland and points beyond, and me staying on in Ashtabula. I had some unfinished business to take care of.
    From the warmth of the drawbridge control tower, I watched as the
Susie G
returned to port three days later. Captain Elbert growled at his crew as they unloaded the paltry catch, and then he snarled some more when they took too long to scrub the decks. Finally, he pulled the main hatch closed and drove away in his beat-up Chevrolet.
    Under cover of darkness, I went to work. I had spent the previous day learning a little about boats, you see. I learnedthat every boat has valves that are used to let water
into
the boat—for cleaning up, and filling tanks, and so on—and I learned how to open those valves.
    You can probably guess how the rest of this story goes.
    The next morning, Captain Elbert found