The Doryman by Maura Hanrahan Page A

the men rose from their bunks in the morning dark, Richard found he could hardly stand up.
    The men gathered around him after breakfast, the very smell of which made him retch even more. They said little but looked at him intently, trying to figure out if he was seized by seasickness or something even worse.
    â€œHave some hardtack,” Matty suggested. “It’s good for what ails you.”
    â€œYou’ll be able to hold it down,” Larry Walsh added. “That’s the thing for seasickness.”
    Richard slowly shook his lolling head as he leaned against the bulkhead of the galley.
    â€œDrink something,” said Danny, sounding worried for once. “You got to have water in you or you’ll get the dry heaves.”
    Richard nodded, meaning he already had the dry heaves, but the men misunderstood. One of them shoved a mug of water into his face. Richard licked his dry, cracked lips and stuck his tongue into the mug. He tried to drink a little. But he immediately began vomiting again and he couldn’t stop himself. He sprayed drops of water and the bile that remained in his stomach all over the bulkhead and the floor underneath it.
    Richard was almost too sick to feel embarrassment, but his face grew red and hot anyway in some sort of primitive, almost automatic response. No one said anything. One of the men backed into the galley to get a rag cloth and bucket.
    â€œHe’s awful sick, that boy,” Matty said finally.
    â€œThere’s no time for sickness here,” Steve said gruffly. “And there’s nothing wrong with him that can’t be cured.”
    Without warning, he leaned his right arm back, then pulled it forward and hit the left side of Richard’s head. Then the right. Then the left again. And the right. The thuds echoed in the boy’s head, and he winced from the pain and the dizziness that enveloped him. But Steve went on boxing his son’s ears till the boy almost blacked out.
    â€œGive the lad a break, Steve, b’y,” Danny said sternly.
    â€œHe’s fifteen years of age, for God’s sake,” someone else added.
    â€œAnd he won’t be seasick anymore, I guarantee it,” Steve answered. He looked at his son on the floor now, shivering slightly and trying to hold in his whimpers. “Now get up and get to work,” he barked.
    Somehow Richard rose slowly from the floor, his head feeling as fragile as an eggshell. He said nothing. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. He tried to focus his eyes on the steps in front of him. He ignored the men who still stood standing around him. Then he followed his father up top and to Number 2 Dory, where they would spend most of their day.
    The air was cold and wet with drizzle and fog. It was hard to see beyond the schooner. Richard pulled his oilskins close to his body and got into the dory. His head was filled with pain and his stomach ached. Even worse, he felt an excruciating combination of shame and fear. But gradually he became frozen, all of him, his mind, his body, his heart. And, despite everything, he was able to carry on. Somehow he didn’t feel as seasick as he had since the Laura Claire hauled out of the harbour.
    Though the weather was miserable, the fishing that day was easier. There was a fish on almost every hook. For once, neither of them cut their fingers. Richard’s seasickness levelled off to a manageable state and he tried to forget about the morning’s events.
    As they rowed back to the schooner, Richard watched his father out of the corner of his eye. His mother, he knew, would be disgusted with what her husband had done to his son. But she’d probably be afraid to say too much. Instead, she would treat her son to lassie bread and talk quietly to him as he got into bed. She’d treat him like he was her little boy even though he was almost a man. There was no sense trying to say anything to Old Steve. Here on the St. Pierre Bank,