my face to the wind, I gulped in the clean air, so pleasant on my hot skin after rowing. I let go of the oars and half stood to look out toward the islands. I couldn’t help but scan the horizon beyond for that telltale spout:
sharp, leftward, identifiable at a great distance
. I could in fact see the horizon in sharp focus, see the white crest of every distant wave as though it were close, but nowhere did I see any spout or any spray but that of the ocean itself.
As I began to row again, I noticed a sprinkling of islands far to the west of Naiwayonk, just visible, and wondered if they were among the local islands whose names I had heard Mordecai mention: Whaleback Rock, Birch Island, North Dumpling, Scraggy Island. My eye fell on another island, much closer, a few miles southwest of us. I had often watched this island from my window, a low mounded shape with a wavering, pale line of surf. The island had always been a shifting presence, seemingly changing shape and position. I longed to get closer.
“Mordecai, what about that island?” I said, pointing.
Mordecai tilted his head back to sight along his nose. Light glared off a wave and he winced. He dug again in the bag.
“Ah.” From a leather case he drew a pair of dark-tinted purser’s spectacles and balanced them on his nose.
“Can’t we row past? It’s not that far out of our way.”
He saw what I pointed at and shook his head. “Not there. Too dangerous.” He gazed at the island for a moment, then glanced back toward shore.
I eased up on the oars and drifted for the space of a few strokes to look to the west, toward the low gray island still deep in the fog that had already begun to burn off closer to shore. Among Mordecai’s earliest lessons was one in botany in which he diagrammed the poisonous oak with its three-leaf stem of deep waxy green and told me how Mouse Island was completely covered with such plants. A brood of young ancestors had rowed out to the island one night long ago. Oneof the boys, on a dare, had swallowed a leaf and choked, his throat swollen closed with the poison, the scrimshaw maiden that was his prize still clutched in his hand.
“Dangerous? I wouldn’t be so stupid as to swallow it.”
“Not that. The rocks. The breakers.”
From so close, the thin line of surf I had seen from my window was a churn of white below the island, sending high flares of spray against the green sea.
Mordecai clutched the rim of the skiff, looked over one side, blanching, I would have said, if he weren’t already so white, then fixed his eyes on me, watching me pull. My arms had begun to slow, my strokes shorten.
“Let me take the oars for a while.”
I thought it was impolite to ask if he had ever rowed before. I was equally doubtful of his navigational abilities, but I was tired enough to accept the offer. I rose carefully, as did Mordecai. There was no room to pass side by side. I ducked instead between his legs and settled on the seat in the stern.
The bandanna now tied pirate-fashion over his long pale hair, Mordecai began to row, at first most unsteadily, then settling into a kind of rhythm, though one which needed frequent course corrections, veering now to starboard, now to port. With this inefficient tacking we headed south at a lubberly pace, toward the distant archipelago. Mouse Island was about a mile to the west when we passed. I could see that its low mound appeared to be gray stone. I had sometimes wondered why, if covered in poisonous oak, it didn’t look green in spring or summer, instead of just a cool gray.
I closed my eyes and let my mind drift for a while. It was difficult not to, with the lapping water, the warming light.
A loud splintering sound made me sit up straight. I turned to see a jagged tear in the side of the boat. Water poured into the bottom of the skiff. With a too-vigorous downstroke of his oar, Mordecai had driven it through the brittle wood.
My first thought was to bail. I felt around under the bench
sharp, leftward, identifiable at a great distance
. I could in fact see the horizon in sharp focus, see the white crest of every distant wave as though it were close, but nowhere did I see any spout or any spray but that of the ocean itself.
As I began to row again, I noticed a sprinkling of islands far to the west of Naiwayonk, just visible, and wondered if they were among the local islands whose names I had heard Mordecai mention: Whaleback Rock, Birch Island, North Dumpling, Scraggy Island. My eye fell on another island, much closer, a few miles southwest of us. I had often watched this island from my window, a low mounded shape with a wavering, pale line of surf. The island had always been a shifting presence, seemingly changing shape and position. I longed to get closer.
“Mordecai, what about that island?” I said, pointing.
Mordecai tilted his head back to sight along his nose. Light glared off a wave and he winced. He dug again in the bag.
“Ah.” From a leather case he drew a pair of dark-tinted purser’s spectacles and balanced them on his nose.
“Can’t we row past? It’s not that far out of our way.”
He saw what I pointed at and shook his head. “Not there. Too dangerous.” He gazed at the island for a moment, then glanced back toward shore.
I eased up on the oars and drifted for the space of a few strokes to look to the west, toward the low gray island still deep in the fog that had already begun to burn off closer to shore. Among Mordecai’s earliest lessons was one in botany in which he diagrammed the poisonous oak with its three-leaf stem of deep waxy green and told me how Mouse Island was completely covered with such plants. A brood of young ancestors had rowed out to the island one night long ago. Oneof the boys, on a dare, had swallowed a leaf and choked, his throat swollen closed with the poison, the scrimshaw maiden that was his prize still clutched in his hand.
“Dangerous? I wouldn’t be so stupid as to swallow it.”
“Not that. The rocks. The breakers.”
From so close, the thin line of surf I had seen from my window was a churn of white below the island, sending high flares of spray against the green sea.
Mordecai clutched the rim of the skiff, looked over one side, blanching, I would have said, if he weren’t already so white, then fixed his eyes on me, watching me pull. My arms had begun to slow, my strokes shorten.
“Let me take the oars for a while.”
I thought it was impolite to ask if he had ever rowed before. I was equally doubtful of his navigational abilities, but I was tired enough to accept the offer. I rose carefully, as did Mordecai. There was no room to pass side by side. I ducked instead between his legs and settled on the seat in the stern.
The bandanna now tied pirate-fashion over his long pale hair, Mordecai began to row, at first most unsteadily, then settling into a kind of rhythm, though one which needed frequent course corrections, veering now to starboard, now to port. With this inefficient tacking we headed south at a lubberly pace, toward the distant archipelago. Mouse Island was about a mile to the west when we passed. I could see that its low mound appeared to be gray stone. I had sometimes wondered why, if covered in poisonous oak, it didn’t look green in spring or summer, instead of just a cool gray.
I closed my eyes and let my mind drift for a while. It was difficult not to, with the lapping water, the warming light.
A loud splintering sound made me sit up straight. I turned to see a jagged tear in the side of the boat. Water poured into the bottom of the skiff. With a too-vigorous downstroke of his oar, Mordecai had driven it through the brittle wood.
My first thought was to bail. I felt around under the bench
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