Timothy of the Cay

by Theodore Taylor

  Several hundred yards away, on the beach, was streetless Isabel Village, a collection of weather-beaten shacks where the turtle fishers lived. There was little sign of life as we paddled ashore in our rubber dinghy. But life did exist there, thirty or forty grizzled fishermen.

  The brown and black men of Isabel cackled and shook their heads when my father said we wanted to go to the Devil's Mouth. "Why go dere?" they asked.

  "Dass right, why go dere?" they said. "Dom cays not wort de time 'n trubble..."

  "Take some pictures," my father said.

  The men cackled again. "Take pitchers cays 'roun' ere." Palm, Basalt, Low.

  "Take Split Hill, Morgan Head, Alligator Point."

  "Dass right."

  It was not until my father said we'd pay for a guide that several became interested. Then coins were flipped.

  ***

  Two days later, I stood on the bow of the Audaz Adventurero as it sailed northeast from Providencia. The weather hadn't changed, still sunny and warm. A few high white clouds were to the west over Nicaragua, just enough breeze to belly-out the mainsail and jib. The sea was indigo, five or six shades darker than the sky's blue. A beautiful day in the tropics. War was not talked of or thought about.

  White-haired Egaltine Evermond, the turtle fisher we'd hired, stood with the tiller between his knees, silently looking out from beneath his battered straw hat. My father sat beside him. Captain Evermond was taking us to Boca de Diablo, the Devil's Mouth. He didn't know why he was taking us. He didn't care. Fifty dollars and a bottle of rum were what brought him there.

  Caribbean sun had turned his wrinkled blackness into chocolate. He was a small man, missing most of his teeth; we'd guessed he was in his sixties. But his eyes were fish-hawk sharp. He said he'd been netting green turtles since he was big enough to climb into a "cotboat." He was from Grand Cayman Island, to the northeast.

  By midmorning I knew we were getting near the horseshoe of coral that harbored Timothy's cay. I didn't know how I knew it. I just felt it, the way you feel the neighborhood in which you live.

  About forty minutes later, Captain Evermond said, "Boca de Diablo," and nodded ahead. We were coming in from the east, the same way the raft had drifted.

  Taking off my glasses, I put the binoculars to my eyes. Tops of palm trees clustered on the horizon. The island wasn't visible as yet.

  My heart began to thud as I counted the palms. If there were fifteen, it was my cay, our cay. I knew there were fifteen because I'd climbed each one. I could only count seven now but I knew others were tucked in behind them.

  My father was standing. "Is that it?"

  "I think so." My heart drummed.

  The Audaz Adventurero seemed to be creeping along, but slowly the island grew. First the palms, then the whiteness of sand below them, rising to what Timothy had said was the height of the island, about twenty feet.

  I put the binoculars down and wiped my eyes. The lenses were fogging up. My hands shook.

  I shouted back to them, "I'm sure that's it!..."

  When I looked through the binoculars again I saw the hut to the right of the palms.

  "It is!" I shouted. "I see the hut!" Though I'd only touched it before, I was certain it was the one I'd rebuilt.

  My father joined me on the bow and took a look. "This cay's smaller than the one you described."

  Timothy had told me it was about a mile long and a half mile wide. Now that I saw it, it was less than a half mile long and less than a quarter mile wide. I suddenly realized he'd done that on purpose, to make me feel better about being there. I wondered what other little lies he'd told me to push away fear.

  Now, I could see some low brush and sea grape. "'Tis a beautiful cay, dis cay," Timothy had said. He was right.

  Soon, we were within a hundred yards and the water was becoming shallow, coral heads visible beneath us. I only glanced at them, held by the sight ahead.

  Captain Evermond shouted, "Drop de anchor!" and I tossed the Danforth over the side as the mainsail came down. My father quickly lowered the jib and within a few minutes the sloop rode at anchor.

  "Go," my father said, and I passed the binoculars to him, grasped my glasses in my right hand, and dove.

  Even the warm water tasted the same as I kicked toward the beach. Finally, my feet hit bottom. I remembered a little shelf and was glad I had tennis shoes on. Sea urchins lived on that shelf and their sharp spines were painful.

  I waded in and took off my sneakers, digging my toes into the familiar warm, soft sand. I saw the remains of my fire pile. Nine months of wind had not entirely erased the charred wood.

  I walked along east beach, remembering, remembering.

  Then I went uphill, to the palm trees and our crude but strong hut, and Timothy's grave.

  I looked down. The coral stones and shells were still where I'd left them.

  I stood there for a little while, feeling very close to him, shut my eyes, then said, "Dis b'dat outrageous cay, eh, Timothy?"

  On the wind that was rustling the palms I thought I heard laughter, and a voice from above that said, "Dis be it, Phill-eep..."

  I wasn't dreaming.

  Reader Chat Page

  After he is rescued, Phillip decides to risk a serious operation so that he might see the cay where he was stranded for three months. Why do you think Phillip wants to return so badly? Do you think it's a good idea? Explain.

  When Phillip first meets Timothy, he looks down on him because of the way he talks and because he can't read and write. But as he gets to know the older man, Phillip realizes that Timothy is an incredibly smart man. What do you think makes someone intelligent?

  As a young man, Timothy lies about his age to become the cabin boy on the Gertrude Theismann, and as an old man, he pretends to be younger so that he can join the crew of the SS Hato. How do you feel about his lies? What are the consequences of his choices?

  Phillip is only eleven, but his parents allow him to make the decision about whether to have life-threatening brain surgery to restore his vision. Do you think the risks of death, brain damage, and infection are worth the slim chance of Phillip regaining his sight? Do you think Phillip is old enough to make a life-and-death decision?

  For the rest of his life, Timothy regrets going out to sea on the day the Hettie Redd sank. Is it his fault that the boat sinks? Is there any truth to his superstitions?

  Phillip and Timothy couldn't be more different, yet they become dear friends. Have you ever become friends with someone who was very different from you?

  In his first job as a sailor's apprentice, Timothy tries to prove himself by climbing the two-hundred-foot-tall mast of the Gertrude Theismann. But halfway up the mast, he becomes petrified with fear, too scared to climb another step on the ladder. Have you ever had a lofty goal only to stop in your tracks because of anxiety or fear? What can you do to overcome your fear and achieve that goal?

  Both Timothy and Phillip have dreams that seem impossible at first. Phillip dreams of being able to see again, and young Timothy dreams of being a ship captain against all odds. What do you think motivates each of them to keep his dream alive, and in what way does each contribute to his own success?

  As a boy of fourteen, Timothy leaves everything he knows behind so that he can pursue his dream to become a sailor, and blind Phillip survives alone on the cay for weeks until he is finally rescued. Are independence and self-reliance inherent qualities, or are they skills learned as a result of necessity as people get older?

 

 

 

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