The Tidewater Tales

by John Barth

  Kath’s heart hums. You’re making notes for another story?

  Nope. He kisses her bandanna en route downstairs. Fact is, my water just broke. I’m delivering.

  Round and Round do a maypole dance. Their mother’s eyes brim. The Tidewater Tales?

  Not yet. Just a little warm-up exercise.

  Thus is it left for our woman to observe to Story’s log that while the day stokes up and boina’d Peter Sagamore scribbles away at who knows what in his old faithful three-ring loose-leaf college binder (which he uses never for mere note-taking, only for serious sentence-building) with his old faithful British-made fountain pen (K didn’t even know he’d stowed it aboard!) bought back in apprentice days in honor of great Boz in a stationer’s shop in Rochester, England, alleged to be Mr. Pumblechook’s premises—an English pen for penning English, says P—it is left to her able young brother and her equally able though terminally pregnant self to sail us all on a slow easy reach the pretty miles to Georgetown. By 1000 hours, the Sassafras is festively abustle: Ultralight aircraft, bright as spinnakers, wheel overhead; yachts of all sizes, power and sail, swarm down from the Georgetown marinas—at least four and a half million dollarsworth, Chip casually estimates, assigning a median value of $30,000 to, say, 150 yachts; water-skiers, Windsurfers, Sunfish zip through the swarm; ospreys protest the traffic from their nests on every beacon; herring gulls dive and kvetch. A splendid spectacle withal, sailing through which (Story seems to be the only vessel headed upstream) requires Chip’s and Katherine’s unremitting attention to helm and sail-trim and right-of-way rules—but scribble scribble scribble goes Peter Sagamore, only now and then popping his bereted head out to check and smile upon the world.

  We park at the first commercial fuel-dock—not we, Kath corrects her log entry: Chip and I do it, Himself being at it belowstairs—and a tidy bit of seamanship it is, given the congestion and the circumstance that she and her brother dared each other to try it under sailpower alone, and took the dare, and made a perfect eggshell landing in the slot between a forty-foot Concordia yawl and a mighty sedan cruiser, both of whose skippers were sure they were about to be rammed by a pregnant lady and a pubescent boy—and re-ice and re-water. Who shleps the ice blocks? Andrew Sherritt. Who tops off the water tank? Herself. Lunch? Just an apple for Himself, thanks; scribbledy scribbledy scribble.

  Who’s Mimi? she’d like to know, resting her chin on his boina. Lee’s sister? Who’s that Fred?

  Tapping her turn with his pen-top, topless Peter says Them right there, probably. Stop peeking, okay?

  OKAY, OKAY.

  So: Sixty-six point seven percent of our crew raise main and genoa again and join the Bayward-headed fleet but get sweaty in the petering air so drop the sails and kick in the outboard and take the next exit-ramp off that nautical expressway into Woodland Creek, says the chart, where they don’t even bother to anchor but let Story drift in the no breeze while they cool down the kiddies and themselves with a nice little skinny-dip. Well well well, look who’s here: His now bottomless but still boina’d self deigns to join the party, if but briefly. Then it’s scribbledy scribble, under power under cockpit awning, back down past Back Creek to Ordinary Point, where Katydid isn’t yet but soon will be; Hank’s already turning the corner at Howell Point, Chip reports from our radio: seven miles downstream, out of the Bay and into the river’s underslung mouth. How long has it been since Katherine Sherritt last spoke with her parents? Oh, six hours. How long since she last saw them? Just three days. But she’s as pleased at their approach as if we’d been a season abroad. And now, further excitement: When Chip switches back to channel 16 and dutifully notes the above transmission in our radio log, a woman’s voice says Story, Story, this is Reprise, Reprise. Come in?

  Lee? cries Katherine. Proper Chip says Reprise, this is Story; go to sixty-eight, please, over, and switches to that working channel.

  Cries Katherine Lee? Leah Allan Silver Talbott chuckles from somewhere on the multifarious Chesapeake that she happened to pick up our transmission to Katydid IV while she was showing Simon Silver how to work the VHF. So how come we haven’t had some babies yet. Over?

  Says Kate ‘Cause it’s only the next-to-last chapter. Peter’s working on the last chapter now, but he won’t let me look.

  Without looking up, Peter says This isn’t the last chapter. And this isn’t the next-to-last-chapter.

  Katherine says Scratch what I just said, Lee, and sees her husband scratch out a line of whatever that is. So where are you?

  They are off Worton Point, Lee Talbott replies, between Fairlee and Still Pond Creeks, and headed north. They parked in Swan Creek last night and plan to park in the Sassafras tonight, but not early; right now they’re heading into Still Pond for a swim. Maybe we can get together this evening, if Kath’s not in labor? They have some friends of ours aboard.

  It’s Peter that’s in labor, Kath declares. He’s wearing Frank’s hat and breaking his promise not to write our stories until after B Day, so it must be serious. Who-all’s with you? Did you know your mother’s here?

  A grave boy’s voice says Hi, Missus Sagamore; this is Simon over.

  Hello there, Simon Silver. Is your mom with you?

  A mock-male voice replies gruffly So’s his old man. Ahoy there, Kisses, and over we go.

  Maze? Hey, Maze, what’s this Scheherazade business?

  May Jump says in her natural voice Everything in its place, Katydid. We’ll look for you tonight if this thing doesn’t tip and sink.

  By Godfrey there’s a wise old bird, remarks Peter: Everything in its place. I’m not breaking my promise, by the way.

  You’re not?

  Leah Talbott now calls from our loudspeaker Kath? Lee again. So Frank and I decided to follow your example; I’ll explain when we see you. So we picked up Mims and Simon and May at Kent Narrows yesterday and took off for a long weekend. Sy’s been a little bit seasick, but he’s getting his legs now, aren’t you, Sy? So Kath? Ma really took the plunge, and you guys ran into her and Whatsisname on his boat?

  Affirmative, Reprise.

  Lee giggles. What’s he like? He sounds like a kook. Over?

  Everything in its place, says Katherine. You can judge for yourself tonight. Look behind Ordinary Point for an old ketch called Rocinante Four, with lots of baggy-wrinkle on the rigging and eyeballs on the bow.

  We’ll be there late, Lee reminds us. Sy really needs to get off this boat and into the water for a while. So we’ll look for you, okay? Reprise out.

  Chip hopes the crew of Rocinante IV didn’t have their ears on. Who’s this Simon? He logs the transmission and goes swimming himself.

  SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE

  goes Peter Sagamore, at anchor behind Ordinary Point. Katherine and Andrew dinghy ashore to stroll the beach and make certain that the old Atlas automobile tire with the locust tree growing through it is still there. Kate delights in the prospect of seeing May Jump and the Talbotts again; she makes Full and By promise to hold on for one more chapter if they possibly can. Chip wonders how anybody could get seasick in three knots of wind; his sister reminds him that not everyone takes boats for granted. She is tempted to enlarge upon the May Jump/Marian Silver/Simon Silver ménage, but decides not to; she enjoys watching her brother size things up for himself. There’s Mom and Dad and the Basses, Chip says, pointing out to sea. Without binoculars, K sees an undifferentiated mass of sails stretching to the hazed horizon, but she doubts neither Chip’s discernment nor his estimation that Katydid IV, if it holds present course and speed, will round Ordinary Point in about thirty-nine minutes. He sets the bezel on the Seiko Sports 100 we gave him last Christmas.

  About thirty-nine minutes? grins Peter when they’re back aboard and Kath reports this news. That’s like saying it’s about fourteen minutes and twelve seconds after one o’clock.

  Replies Chip, checking his bezel, About seventeen minutes now, if they’ve held course and speed. But he further predicts
that despite the wind-shadow of the river’s south bank, which Katydid must move through in order to clear the point, his dad will not turn on the engine to maintain speed, but will round the point under full sail, even at one knot. So add . . . a quarter-hour.

  At (about) 1344 plus six seconds, Chip blows a great note from our bow with Story’s freon signal-horn, and Peter takes a break from his labors to join the reception committee. The Sherritts’ big ketch has just slid into view at maybe two knots under all plain sail—main, mizzen, and 150-percent genoa—and turned to where Chip now signals again our location among the anchored yachts. Way to go, Dad, the boy says proudly. If he were aboard to help instead of Doctor Jack, he declares, Katydid would be tooling along under mizzen staysail and reaching spinnaker as well, and would not be eight minutes late; Dr. Jack’s a racing skipper, but too old to be a racing crew.

  Even without his young foredeck hand, Hank now pulls off a spectacular bit of macho seamanship. Having waved recognition and roller-furled the jib, instead of starting the engine and readying the anchor, he and Jack Bass rig bow and stern lines and starboard-side fenders while Joan Bass stands bow lookout and Irma, no slouch in these matters, threads downwind under main and mizzen through the already busy anchorage, shaving just below this boat’s transom, just above that one’s anchor rode, between dinghies, sailboards, swimmers. Are they serious? Chip wonders happily. They’re going to raft up under sail? We’d better believe it, says Peter, and makes haste to hang Story’s portside fenders. We stand by then to take lines when the moment comes. With Hank at the wheel now, simultaneously monitoring water depth, headway, wind speed, and the other vessels both moored and moving, Katydid IV slides massively past us almost at boathook range. Admiring Peter says conversationally, as Irma goes by in the bows, Hello there, Mother-in-Law. A coiled line in her left hand, she blows a little kiss with her right and says, just as conversationally, The beret becomes you, Peter. Jack and Joan Bass waggle their fingers; Henry Sherritt turns his head for no more than a second to wink at his children—two knots seems swift indeed in these tight quarters, for a fifty-foot, two-masted object with no brakes—and then makes a short U-turn through disbelieving dozens in the last stretch of six-foot water at his disposal, maybe three of his boatslengths astern of us.

  Now comes the dicey part: rafting up under sail alone, which Peter Sagamore is an expert at in little Story but would never attempt with a twenty-ton ketch. Having swung around dead to windward, Hank aims at a slight angle for our port side, lets all sails luff, and banks on his intuitive estimate of how far Katydid will “shoot” of her own momentum through the crowd, against the tiny breeze. Five seconds after his father turns, Chip announces He’s got it. Just a tad fast, Pete predicts, but no problem; if he’d waited any longer to make his turn, he’d be aground. Chip says You should’ve seen Kath’s eggshell landing this morning. That he should have, P acknowledges, though he could tell from downstairs that it was A-plus.

  Almost so too is Katydid IV’s: a more considerable maneuver because the object at risk is another boat, not a wooden pier, and because the forces involved are larger by an order of magnitude. Be it credited to Henry Sherritt’s good sense that in any real breeze he would never have chanced banging up his and other folks’ expensive toys with a piece of show-offery. The last of his steerageway fetches him neatly alongside us; as the hulls kiss fenders, Irma tosses Chip the bow line, and Jack Bass hands Peter the stern. Both are quickly snubbed down, for as Peter foresaw, the ketch still has enough way on to shoot maybe another twenty feet, given her heavy displacement. The pull pulls Story half that distance forward on her anchor before the two boats settle back, rafted.

  Cheers Kate Bravo! Peter tips Frank Talbott’s boina; Chip says All right! and piles across the mated gunwales to visit his folks. There is even scattered applause from the relieved near-missed in the neighborhood. Henry Sherritt acknowledges us with a smiling short nod . . . and now ceremoniously starts his engine, to charge the fridge, top off the batteries, and heat water for the galley and showers.

  Peter kisses the ladies, shakes hands with the gentlemen, helps serve and eat a communal lunch aboard K IV, and then—having demonstrated to the family’s satisfaction that we are indeed again one person—excuses himself to get back to work. Chip helps his dad with a couple of boat jobs; boys his size are in especial demand for going aloft in bosun’s chairs to do this and that at the masthead. Then he breaks out Katydid’s Windsurfer to entertain himself for the rest of the afternoon. People swim. And Katherine Sherritt, happily spoiling herself, bathes both in the Sassafras and in the bosom of her family. Though no one, least of all Peter, has forgotten his late intransigence, all hands are relieved to see that we are quite okay.

  To give our man maximum privacy, the party remains under Katydid IV’s ample center-cockpit awning, though Katherine assures them that once her husband’s juices are flowing, he could work standing up in the concourse of Pennsylvania Station. What’s new with Molly Sherritt? she wants to know. There is no news, because for reasons unknown, Molly has abruptly changed gynecologists: some young Cuban in Chestertown, whom mildly miffed Jack Bass hasn’t even met yet. She and Willy are to drop in by Easton Air Freight helicopter tomorrow noontime for a little ceremonial presentation of the Back Creek granary to Breadbasket Inc.; maybe we’ll learn something then. Kate wants her parents and the Basses to meet our new friends Carla B Silver and Captain Donald Quicksoat, who’ll be sailing in shortly; also the Talbotts, ditto, whom Hank has met but not Irma. And guess who’s with them: May Jump!

  Says Irm That’s nice. Kath’s folks don’t know about May Jump and their daughter, any more than they know about their son-in-law’s professional-aesthetic difficulties; but though relatively innocent in some respects, they are neither blind nor stupid. So: That’s nice. Kath looks forward to introducing them, as she does Chip, to clumsy Simon Silver, his strung-out mother, and his potential foster father. . . .

  A landing party of six, plus Ark and Dove, piles presently into K IV’s Boston Whaler (on which has been hung a bigger outboard engine than the one we borrowed) to go have a look at Breadbasket’s new showpiece, appropriately backdropped by green cornfields also now owned by the corporation. Peter really would like to join the expedition—but no: The muse summons, sort of.

  Katherine worries: Sort of?

  He thought he’d told her: What he’s scribbling at is, per promise, not the real thing yet; just a warm-up, a stretching exercise. Don’t ask; she’ll see it presently.

  Cheer Scratch and Scribble, whose Uncle Andrew has already become their model: Way to go, Dad! Give us a scribble! Give us a scratch.

  SURE.

  At tide-turn the southerly catches its breath and settles in at a welcome five knots to ventilate evening on the Sassafras. About cocktail time—later than usual, since lunch was late and nobody except Chip is the least bit interested yet in dinner—Peter comes up for air and in for a swim and over for company, announcing with satisfaction that that’s that, muse-wise: enough new American literature for one day. Also (he’s climbing Katydid’s portside boarding ladder now and kissing his wife hello, who has missed him) that that looks to him like Rocinante IV across the river there, sails furled, motoring not our way but into Turner Creek, on the farther shore.

  Right you are, affirms Chip. Aboard Katydid IV, except under way, one does not drink beverages from their containers as one does aboard Story. The older foursome are sipping Jack Bass’s dry martinis; at his father’s instruction, Chip goes to the galley now to pour his brother-in-law a chilled glass of Dos Equis, of which Hank Sherritt has laid in a supply for Peter’s sake though he can get it only in fridge-inefficient, trash-intensive bottles. P raises his defrosting glass in toast to his parents-in-law and to Breadbasket Inc., whose involvement with Sherbald Enterprises we do not bring up on this agreeable occasion.

  K raises hers—Perrier only—in tacit toast to the unlamented memory of Less Is More, R.I.P., and borrows the binoc
s to watch Rocinante pick her way through the distant creek entrance: another of those tricky S-turns, with not a channel marker in it. She sees the old ketch go gently twice aground, back off, try again, and finally disappear behind a stand of mixed hardwoods into Turner Creek proper. That’s where we’re supposed to be, she suddenly remembers. And why are they parking over there instead of over here? Maybe Carla B Silver needs to use the pay phone in Turner Creek Park, Peter offers. Maybe they want to get off the boat awhile and picnic ashore. Maybe Donald Quicksoat’s friend Odysseus is anchored over there. Maybe there are thunderstorms in the forecast, and they want a snugger anchorage than this. Maybe they’re meeting Scheherazade and Sindbad at the public landing. Maybe their weekend isn’t working out, and Carla’s lighting out for Fells Point with Huckleberry Findley.

  Katherine explains to everybody that when he’s writing, her husband and father of our children can dream up seven reasons for anything.

  Chip points out that that’s only six. Peter adds, obligingly and at once, Maybe they’re not parking over there; maybe Capn Don’s just showing his friend Turner Creek. As for our supposed to be being over there ourselves, he assures his wife (as imagined in our prologue): Let us never forget that the late Jean Heartstone’s Magic Language Theory is fiction’s sport, not nature’s law. To thy rest, dear doomed Jean, may flights of angels sing thee! But it is enough and more that here we are, safely on the Sassafras on Day 13 of our reckless, random, pregnant cruise; we are no more obliged to park in Turner Creek instead of snugly rafted with our obstetrician than Katherine is obliged to give birth to a south Italian midwife named Ma Nontroppo and the rest, or Blam be followed by Blooey this time tomorrow.