back into the oars and started moving us across the bay. It only took us a few minutes to get to the
Queen Jane’s
mooring buoy. I tied us off while Daddy held the rail of the
Queen Jane
so Second could navigate his way on board.
The diesel fired up without any complaint, and Daddy kept the motor low as he threaded his way out of the harbour. He kept quiet, but he saw me shivering and pulled a spare jacket and a pair of bib-pants from a hook in the cabin and handed them to me. I stripped off Momma’s slicker, pulled on the pants, and then threw the jacket on before putting Momma’s slicker back on. I was still cold, and my hands had begun to ache, but with standing in the cabin and out of the sleet I felt some relief from the weather.
Once we were away from the boats, he reached over to the controls and turned off all of the lights, leaving us running dark except for the thin glow from the dials behind the wheel. With sleet coming down on us, it felt like we were moving through ink. The lights of the village had already dimmed into nothingness, and when Second lumbered into my legs and then settled at myfeet, I could only tell by touching him, his wet, black fur making him invisible. We motored like that for ten or fifteen minutes, Daddy steering by feel and memory and three hundred years of the Kings living and fishing off Loosewood Island, and then Daddy pushed the throttle into neutral and hit the lights again.
The lights came up bright and burning, and as soon as I could open my eyes again I realized that the sleet had turned completely to snow, the running lights bouncing back at us. The snow fell heavy and deep, and there was already a thin coating on the deck of the boat. It was mesmerizing in the way it fell, and I spent a few seconds trying to see if I could figure out a pattern to how it lined down in the lights. I could have kept staring out into the dark morning forever if Daddy hadn’t reached down and grabbed Second’s collar, hauling the dog to his feet.
Second came up eager enough. He followed as Daddy made his way aft, out of the cabin. Daddy motioned to the stern and said, “Up,” twice, but Second didn’t move until Daddy grabbed his collar again and half wrestled the dog up and off the deck. Second stood on the stern, looked out over the water, and then at Daddy. The dog turned to get back in the boat. “Go on, then,” Daddy said, pushing back at Second, manoeuvring him toward the edge. “Go on,” he said again, and then he gave Second enough of a shove that the dog half stumbled and half leapt into the water. The splash was quiet, and Second didn’t even let out a bark. I moved to the port quarter and saw Second treading water, staring up at me with the same eager almost-smile that he always had on his face. Daddy brushed past me and went back to the cabin. He opened a compartment and pulled out a plastic box and rested it on the captain’s chair.
“What are you doing?” I asked, even as I recognized the box. He kept his old service revolver in there, a Smith & Wesson Model 10, smuggled home from Vietnam. He let Rena, Carly, Scotty, and I fire it off sometimes, when we were out on the boat with him and tired of lobstering or bored with waiting to get wherever it was we were going. We’d shoot at lobster buoys and emptyglass bottles that Daddy threw into the water for us. If he wasn’t looking, we’d occasionally take a shot at a seagull, missing every time we tried. The gun probably only weighed two pounds, but it felt heavier. We were all small enough that the square butt felt enormous in our hands, and even if we’d been on land instead of on the decks of the
Queen Jane
, it would have been hard for a girl my size to keep the sight steady. The Model 10 fired .38 Special rounds, so it was easier for us kids to handle than his new pistol, a Model 65 stainless steel chambered to fire .357s. He’d gotten the Model 65 the winter before, and he’d let me fire it once. The kickback
Queen Jane’s
mooring buoy. I tied us off while Daddy held the rail of the
Queen Jane
so Second could navigate his way on board.
The diesel fired up without any complaint, and Daddy kept the motor low as he threaded his way out of the harbour. He kept quiet, but he saw me shivering and pulled a spare jacket and a pair of bib-pants from a hook in the cabin and handed them to me. I stripped off Momma’s slicker, pulled on the pants, and then threw the jacket on before putting Momma’s slicker back on. I was still cold, and my hands had begun to ache, but with standing in the cabin and out of the sleet I felt some relief from the weather.
Once we were away from the boats, he reached over to the controls and turned off all of the lights, leaving us running dark except for the thin glow from the dials behind the wheel. With sleet coming down on us, it felt like we were moving through ink. The lights of the village had already dimmed into nothingness, and when Second lumbered into my legs and then settled at myfeet, I could only tell by touching him, his wet, black fur making him invisible. We motored like that for ten or fifteen minutes, Daddy steering by feel and memory and three hundred years of the Kings living and fishing off Loosewood Island, and then Daddy pushed the throttle into neutral and hit the lights again.
The lights came up bright and burning, and as soon as I could open my eyes again I realized that the sleet had turned completely to snow, the running lights bouncing back at us. The snow fell heavy and deep, and there was already a thin coating on the deck of the boat. It was mesmerizing in the way it fell, and I spent a few seconds trying to see if I could figure out a pattern to how it lined down in the lights. I could have kept staring out into the dark morning forever if Daddy hadn’t reached down and grabbed Second’s collar, hauling the dog to his feet.
Second came up eager enough. He followed as Daddy made his way aft, out of the cabin. Daddy motioned to the stern and said, “Up,” twice, but Second didn’t move until Daddy grabbed his collar again and half wrestled the dog up and off the deck. Second stood on the stern, looked out over the water, and then at Daddy. The dog turned to get back in the boat. “Go on, then,” Daddy said, pushing back at Second, manoeuvring him toward the edge. “Go on,” he said again, and then he gave Second enough of a shove that the dog half stumbled and half leapt into the water. The splash was quiet, and Second didn’t even let out a bark. I moved to the port quarter and saw Second treading water, staring up at me with the same eager almost-smile that he always had on his face. Daddy brushed past me and went back to the cabin. He opened a compartment and pulled out a plastic box and rested it on the captain’s chair.
“What are you doing?” I asked, even as I recognized the box. He kept his old service revolver in there, a Smith & Wesson Model 10, smuggled home from Vietnam. He let Rena, Carly, Scotty, and I fire it off sometimes, when we were out on the boat with him and tired of lobstering or bored with waiting to get wherever it was we were going. We’d shoot at lobster buoys and emptyglass bottles that Daddy threw into the water for us. If he wasn’t looking, we’d occasionally take a shot at a seagull, missing every time we tried. The gun probably only weighed two pounds, but it felt heavier. We were all small enough that the square butt felt enormous in our hands, and even if we’d been on land instead of on the decks of the
Queen Jane
, it would have been hard for a girl my size to keep the sight steady. The Model 10 fired .38 Special rounds, so it was easier for us kids to handle than his new pistol, a Model 65 stainless steel chambered to fire .357s. He’d gotten the Model 65 the winter before, and he’d let me fire it once. The kickback
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