Sam’s father was writing a book. James Sampson sometimes wrote in his bedroom, or in an empty downstairs room, usually the sitting room, sometimes outside on the back porch. Sam was fascinated by this work of his father’s. He lived with his mother most of the year, and apart from his father’s office at the university (and most especially at the university’s cafeteria), had no visual knowledge of what his father did. On their vacations, on the other hand, what his father did was clear. His father plotted, organized and expedited adventures.
These days though, he was writing a book. Certainly no one else in the family had done such a thing. Sam questioned him about this constantly. “What’s it about?” he would ask, hoping against hope that the answer would be that it was something in the Sea-Captain-having-a-nautical-adventure line.
“Nothing very interesting, sport,” his father would say. “It’s a book for college students.”
“So nothing like, say, Kim set on the Maine coast?”
His father laughed. “I’m afraid not,” he replied.
“I would like to write a book someday,” said Sam.
“Would you? Well then you should. What would you like to write a book about?”
“Pirates fighting against a sea captain and Indians over buried treasure on an uninhabited island in Casco Bay in Revolutionary War times. There would probably be witches too.”
“It sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Oh, I told the whole story to Nana. She thought it was very interesting. But when I tried to write it down, it came out differently. It was really hard.”
“Yes, that is the chief problem most writers have.”
“I tried to write what I was thinking, but I couldn’t write fast enough! And also you have to explain everything, and say what time of day it is, and, and all this other boring stuff you already know, like what people look like.”
“Scenery.”
“Exactly!”
“Well, I have never intentionally set out to write a book.”
“You haven’t?”
“No. Papers are pleasant enough to write, God knows, but I find writing books unpleasant. The kind of book I am writing, I mean. You see I have the same problems you have. I used to want to write books about a cabin boy working on a tramp freighter before the war. Or about the Merchant Marines.”
This sounded like an excellent idea to Sam, and he said so.
“Yes, I agree,” said his father. “Except Howard Pease already did it. His books were my favorites when I was your age. The Tattooed Man. The Jinx
Ship. Shanghai Passage. I loved them. I think there are several copies of his books in the den.”
There was a sort of bookshelf in the closet of this room, along with playing cards, board games, checkerboards, dice, and vases.
“Were they yours? Sam asked.
“Yes,” said his father. “But don’t you remember, I gave you some of these for your birthday?”
Sam was ashamed that he hadn’t read these gifts. They oppressed his conscience. He knew exactly where they were, in the glass-paned wooden book cabinet at home, in the upstairs hall, home to a complete set of the Oz books, and a set of Kipling. Sam’s favorite was the extraordinary Journeys Through Bookland, ten volumes that had, as Sam thought of it, everything a fellow could want: stories, novels, poems, essays, illustrations, and memoirs. Then there were several of the never read, never even cracked, novels of Howard Pease.
There was something about the threatening cover art on the dust jackets of these novels, with their tattooed men, and their dark, gloomy freighters, that highlighted the terrors of the sea at night to Sam. He was intimidated by the unremitting strangeness of the world they depicted. That these books lived in and amongst all his old friend books was an issue as well. There had been no pressure to read the others, perhaps because they had had just existed in his house. No one had presented them. Sam had felt they were his discoveries, and none carried the obligation of his Father’s Favorite Boyhood Books.
“I never read them, Dad. But I will now. I mean here.”
“OK, sport. I forget which ones are in there.”
Sam found them immediately, five of them, some with his father’s name written on the first page. The dark dust jackets he remembered, though in this house, suffused with the sea, they seemed less forbidding. He opened Shanghai Passage, and sat down to read. An hour later, breathless, Sam returned, book in hand, to the back porch. A mid-August afternoon, one of those rare times when the house was empty, when almost everyone was off somewhere else. His grandmother was dozing on the chaise lounge, her book on her chest. His father was staring in the direction of the ocean, which lay down the hill from their house.
Sam said, “I’m reading Shanghai Passage.”
“That’s great, sport. Do you like it so far?”
“Yes, I do. I mean, it is hard to tell who the good guys are and who the bad guys are, though.”
“Yes,” said his father. He was still staring into the distance. “That is true when you are at sea with a group of virtual strangers. Sometimes you make mistakes about people.” He fell silent.
“I am going to read some more.”
“OK, sport. Have a good time.”
Sam went upstairs to his room, which enjoyed a more expansive view of the ocean than the porch. His bedroom was wallpapered with nautical charts from around the world, his grandfather’s doing. There was something about seeing a chart of, say, Istanbul, a chart that looked pretty much like charts of the Maine coast, which shrank the world for Sam, which made it possible for him to lie in bed and imagine everywhere.
The main character in Shanghai Passage, Stuart, had quit college, and run away to Canada, then had shipped out on a tramp steamer, where he had met an array of ruffians and reprobates of various nationalities. Thus far Stuart had only one friend on board, and seemed constantly in fear for his life. Sam was appalled by the constant danger on and about the freighter, the dark, narrow stairways, the tiny cabins, the drenching fogs, the shadows, and the sudden appearances of people. Everything stank of oil, in a cramped, suffocating way; everything was filthy and slippery; the work was brutal; and the men who worked below decks seemed like minions of hell. There was nothing, to Sam, at all appealing about the experience this young man was having running away to sea. Perhaps this would change.
There were certainly quite a few appealing things, though, about being at sea for Sam, when that sea was Casco Bay, and he was aboard his family’s converted lobster boat, The Paula, or their sailboat, the Moujik. These outings could be extravagantly fun. The post-breakfast kitchen in Sam’s grandparent’s home would be joyous with activity, as Mrs. Roth, their German cook, assembled hampers of sandwiches made of thickly sliced, well-buttered bread, with various cold-cuts, or salads, (tuna, chicken, ham and egg), all prepared by her. Coolers were filled with beer for the grown-ups. Huge bunches of grapes, and plums were stowed with care.
Then it was all hands on deck for an outing out to an uninhabited island. Sam’s father James, his sister Susan, his cousin Debbie, two of his younger cousins and his Aunt Dolly and Uncle Otto would comprise the crew. Sam was eager to show off his rowing and piloting skills to everyone. He rowed his father out to the Paula. “Good job, sport,” his father said, and they boarded. Sam attached the dinghy’s painter to a stern cleat on the Paula. He started the engine. His father removed the line from the mooring buoy, and hurled the buoy back into the water. Sam circled the Paula towards the dock, where all the children, kitted out in blue jeans, long sleeved shirts, and puffy orange life vests, watched with close attention.
“OK, Sam, head her right to the dock. When you are close, throw her into neutral, and then reverse, and her stern will swing right in. I’ll throw the bumpers over once we’re close” Sam’s little cousins squealed with excitement. Sam affected resolute calm and an offhand manner. The docking went smoothly, much to his pleasure. He even left the wheel to assist lashing the Paula to the dock, and then helped carry the provisions onboard. His father and uncle each took one handle of the beer cooler and heaved it aboard. Hampers and baskets were put below. The children scampered up to the roof, their discussions concerning what sort of sodas (called “tonics” by the Massachusetts children, much to the amusement of their New Jersey relations) and what brands of chips would be purchased at the store up above the Marina dock on their way out to sea. Choosing sodas by bottle-cap color was in vogue that summer, the local caps including a wide range of pastel hues unknown to the out-of-staters.
These sodas were kept in the Marina’s massive pre-war Coca-Cola cooler that was filled with iced water, necessitating a thrilling hand-plunge to pluck out a bottle. Sam’s choice was the powder blue capped cream soda. The Marina store was at the top of a wooden ramp, steep at high tide, and staffed by kindly older folks who knew all the children’s’ names, and treated them with bemused tolerance.
The children selected bags of barbecue chips, which stained their fingers the color of coppery rust, or salt and vinegar, or for the fussy, plain old chips, all local exotica. The vast selection of penny candy in large glass jars was, for Sam, irrelevant, because he always got fireballs and mint juleps regardless. Some of the younger cousins took forever deciding. The children all had been given quarters, and each ultimately left clutching small paper bags they took particular pride in. Sam’s uncle Otto paid for everything else, and the gas, bantered with the clerk, and herded the children back to the Paula.
These island-exploring excursions followed a certain pattern. The island had been chosen in advance, from the chart of the bay. Once underway, the children usually gathered on the roof, or the bow deck, although one of them was required at some point to be on painter duty. The Paula towed their small, flat-bottomed, square front dingy, and the towline was called the painter. Painter duty involved making certain that if the Paula slowed for any reason, that the painter was hauled in a commensurate manner, thus avoiding it becoming entangled in the Paula’s propeller, which was under the boat, connected to the inboard engine. This would be a very bad thing to allow to happen, and therefore it rarely did, though it had happened to everyone at one time or another. How could it not? Children, already predisposed to be mesmerized by the marvel of the wake, of the glittering foam underneath the August sun, the bouncing dinghy, bow hopping out of the water as in earnest pursuit, the hum of the engine, made for contemplation unknown in their lives until the advent of psychedelics.
When the propeller became fouled, the culprit was always embarrassed. There was never an issue with their kindly grandparents, though Aunt Dolly and her brother Jimmy were prone to sarcasm of the sort that children had no answer to. (They could deal with the taunts of their peers, but had more difficulty riposting with the adults). As often as not this painter tangle was pretty easily addressed, though occasionally an adult had to dive under the boat to cut the painter free. At such times tempers could be lost, and shame would make an appearance.
Sam’s younger sister, Susan, was on painter duty this day. She was a shy, good-natured child, who sometimes enjoyed this responsibility. Her aunts or grandmother would sit with her. Her slightly younger cousins would lean, in support, on the stern, gazing in rapture at the wake. Everything went fine when they reached the island. The painter was hauled in, the anchor was dropped, and everyone and all the provisions were ferried ashore. They set up a sort of base camp in the cove, and the exploration began. This exploration always involved a circumnavigation of the island. The children loved clambering over rocks, exploring coves and tidal pools, searching for shells and driftwood. Sam liked to be in the lead. A scout. He was happiest in his summer life running over these rocks, a stick in hand, alternatively a staff, a spear, or a rifle, depending upon the epoch. To bound from rock to rock, that was the thing, that and finding something, anything exciting or unusual. More often than not a desirable stone, or piece of rare beach glass (perhaps something in the vibrant red or muted orange line), or a piece of driftwood gnarled and washed by the ocean into the shape of a bird. Sometimes though, a coin (once he found an Indian Head penny) or a shotgun shell or an old bottle. He was sometimes alone on these expeditions, more often with his sisters and cousins, all of them showing off and chattering happily and if Sam could help it, following him.
Once back at their landing spot, they ate lunch. Sam’ father and his Uncle Otto opened cans of beer with metal openers tied to the cooler. Mrs. Roth’s sandwiches shamed the store-bought, with their peasant heft and girth. “These are much better than the ones at the club,” said Debbie. She was Sam’s age, a dark beauty with a huge laugh. She said the word “club” as if she was saying the word “school.” A place one was required to go.
“I like these chips,” Sam replied. His fingers were orange.
“Oh right, the barbecue. Yeech,” Debbie said.
“My father lets me drink beer,” bragged Sam.
“Oh, right,” said Debbie.
“Well, just on Sundays, at Sunday dinner. I am allowed one, like in Europe. Dad says its normal there for children to drink beer and wine with meals.”
“If it’s normal why are you doing it?” she asked, laughing. She turned to Susan and rolled her eyes. Then Debbie challenged Sam to a rock-throwing contest.
“OK,” said Sam.
“Alright, see that rock, the one with the seaweed, right over there?” She pointed to a rock about fifty feet away, half out of the water.
“OK, you first,” said Sam. They both stood and started gathering rocks.
“Best of ten,” Diane said. She had a good arm, and took the first throw, missing. The adults were some ways away, smoking and laughing. Susan and her little cousins were arranging beach glass, periwinkle shells, and smooth pebbles into intricate, snaking patterns along and over the flat rocks and the coarse sand.
On the trip home the painter became tangled in the propeller. Sam’s father had slowed the Paula to observe a school of porpoises, and Susan, watching with delight along with everyone else, allowed the painter to become hopelessly entangled in the boat’s propeller. This, as it turned out, was not an easily addressed accident. The painter was so tightly wrapped around the propeller shaft that the blades would not turn. This was a stalled boat in a still ocean, in a protected place, but not very close to any inhabited land, and a huge annoyance to Sam and Susan’s father.
“You had one job, one easy job, and you couldn’t even perform that without screwing up!” said Jimmy.
“Oh leave her alone, Jimmy, “ said Aunt Dolly. “You distracted her.”
“I did not,” said Jimmy. Uncle Otto came over and patted Susan’s head.
“It’s alright, Susie,” he said. “We’ll take care of it.”
“Are you going down there, Otto?” asked Jimmy, annoyed.
“I’ll go,” said Sam. Everyone stared at him.
“You?” said his father.
“I don’t mind, said Sam. He would demonstrate his bravery to all of them. His father handed him the boat knife, a large rusty blade usually used when they were fishing off Halfway Rock. Sam climbed up on the gunwale, and holding the knife above his head, he jumped in. After almost dropping the knife, then resurfacing for breath, he looked up at everyone on the boat.
“C’mon in, the water’s great!” he said.
“Is it cold?” asked Debbie. She had won the rock-throwing contest.
“Surprisingly warm today,” Sam lied. He dived under the boat. Everything changed, and not in a pleasant way. The water seemed darker under the Paula, closer, more confined. Above him was the propeller shaft, the painter wound around it so tightly that his fingers were useless against it. He sawed at the rope with the old knife. Not much really happened. He was running out of breath, and resurfaced with as much flair as he could manage.
“This will take some time,” he said. He dove down again. Sam sawed and sawed at the rope, and again he didn’t make much headway. He started to feel angry. He resurfaced, and made a show of gasping for air.
“You alright, sport?” his father asked.
“Of course,” said Sam, and dove down again
After about ten such dives, Sam had almost cut through one strand of the sodden green rope. Every trip under the boat was in some sense easier, as far as holding his breath went, and in some ways each descent was worse than the previous one, because a grievance was beginning to build within him. A slow, simmering sort of grudge, really. Why wasn’t his father down here helping him? Because of his cowardly fear of cold Maine water? Sam thought with contempt of his father’s histrionics every time they swam off the boats or from a rock or ledge on an island. Even his getting in the water to steady a rowboat, only up to his knees, would bring forth a great string of complaint from his father’s melodramatically contorted face. He should have had to dive under the Paula too. In a fair world he would be here beside Sam, cutting through the difficult rope (which had taken on the appearance of a thick ancient coil by this point), trapped in the dark like one of the loathsome crew on a Howard Pease tramp steamer.
During one dive Sam began to think about all the injustices he felt had been perpetrated upon him by virtue of living with his mother. It wasn’t so much that he was asked to do all the chores around the house (such as taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, raking the leaves, shoveling the snow, during which he sometimes raged against his father) because all his friends were required to do the same chores, but they were helping their fathers, sometimes the only times they saw them, really, and Sam was not. He was helping his Mother, because his Father was not there. Because his Father was not present, his Mother was always recruiting the men in her life to teach Sam, say, the proper way to rake and burn leaves. Or otherwise stand around lecturing while Sam worked, as he thought of the whole business. His mother would be sitting on their front steps with a drink, smoking, laughing as Bernie or Eddie or George whoever the instructor was held forth, usually in a needling, annoying way meant to make a man out of Sam, winking and making comments directly to his mother. Sam hated them.
He also hated when they would take him to garages to watch other men work on cars, or to their crummy little stores, sitting on a stool behind the counter having to make small talk with the local half-wits and watching old ladies count out the pennies, or to loading docks hanging around with foul-mouthed truck drivers, because he knew that they thought he wasn’t manly enough because his father taught at a college. All of this, in turn, always made him wish he were doing something with his real father.
He resurfaced, shot those leaning over the boat what he hoped was a world-weary glance, and dove again under the boat. He knew he was close to cutting through the rope in several places. What sort of Howard Pease fan wouldn’t be underwater with him, shoulder to shoulder, grinning through the murk, whilst surly crew hands skulked up above on deck, never wanting to confess their fear of the briny deep? What sort of un-matey, not-a-comrade-at-arms chap wouldn’t be down here with him, helping to conquer Sam’s fears by his very presence?
Sam could see he only had a narrow strand to go before his labor was complete. He had become tired. He was sick of diving underneath the black-bottomed boat alone, of his underwater life. He glared at the propeller shaft, glared inwards at himself for not being any longer up to the romance of this adventure. The glory. For the scheme he was hatching.
He resurfaced once more, gave the V for Victory salute with both hands, one holding the knife, as he had seen Winston Churchill do on TV. “We will never surrender,” he said, and dove back down. This dive was Sam’s calmest, because he was smiling with pleasure at his plan, one that would bring a smile to the face of the most hard-bitten Captain on the leakiest and least reliable tramp steamer on the high seas. He surfaced again, and feigned exhaustion. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. He tried to look crestfallen, as if this decision were against his will. “Extreme fatigue, don’t you know,” he wanted to say, but knew he couldn’t pull it off. That was the sort of thing he would say to Debbie and Susan when they were playing “Ocean Liner” in the upper shed of their grandparents’ house, something to make them laugh.
“That’s OK,” said his Aunt. “Your father can finish your hard work and take all the credit.” Everyone laughed, including his father.
“That’s right. Here.” His father helped him onboard, and Debbie handed Sam a towel.
“Was it scary?” she asked.
“Not for me,” said Sam.
His father had no bathing suit, so stripped down to his boxer’s. Rail thin, he stood, rusty knife in hand, on the gunwale, and faced everyone, making faces so comical about having to enter the frigid water that even Sam laughed. Then he put the knife between his teeth. Sam was wide-eyed with jealously. If only he had thought of doing that! His father looked like a dashing pirate, perhaps one of those French ones, darkly handsome, regarding the water with vaudevillian fear. Then he jumped in. He wasn’t under long, resurfacing with the knife in one hand and remnants of the painter in the other.
“You almost had it, Sam. Brrrhhhh!”
“I know I did,” Sam said to himself. He went into the cabin to change, and thought about how much he would like to stay in the dark, gasoline-fumed space, now loud with engine noise, and read about men on a tramp steamer lurking and scheming in just such places, the thick fetid air a constant reminder of their failures and shame.
His father called him to come on deck. Sam stepped out, warmed by the low afternoon sun behind them as they headed back home, the water shimmering so brightly the children were all squinting to see, the adults glamorous in sunglasses. His father was talking to his sister Dolly.
“He knew he almost had it,” he heard his father say. “He just wanted me to have to go in.”
Dolly laughed. “Serves you right, Jimmy,” she said.
*****
Elliot Slater grew up in Massachusetts and Maine. He is working on a number of thematically connected stories and poems based on his childhood and adolescence (of which “The Painter” is one), and other short fiction, poetry, and a novel. His work has appeared in The Northern New England Review, Halfway Down The Stairs, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Ibbetson Street Magazine, among others.
