Gone to Drift

by Diana McCaulay

  Then he felt the stern of the Surrey swing free, and he heard the sound of ropes being coiled on deck just a few feet from where he lay, the whine of the anchor winch started, the sailors shouted commands, and the boat moved forward. They were finally free of the land. Lloyd allowed his spirits to lift a little. He said good-bye to Dwight in his mind. He hoped he was not at the Port Royal police station, or in some lockup on the Coast Guard base.

  A day came when Luke went to Pedro and did not return. He had made the journey with a young fisher called Donovan, who was said to be involved in drugs. Donovan was from Black River; he flashed money around and he owned two fishing canoes. He asked Luke to crew for him although Luke was the more experienced seaman and by rights should have been captain. He offered more money than was customary and Luke went.

  They left with another fisher, old Percy in his boat Lady Joan. Six days later Percy returned to Great Bay. He hauled up his boat, stored his engine, sold his fish, and later that day showed up at Sheldon’s Bar. That is when he asked for Luke and Donovan. The fishers in the bar shook their heads, no, they had not seen the two men. Old Percy said that was strange because they had left Top Cay before him.

  Luke and Donovan had gone to drift.

  15

  The Surrey left Kingston Harbour; Lloyd thought it was just after midnight. He knew the instant they rounded the point by the change in the sea under him. He explored his hiding place with his fingers; it was shaped like a triangle with a short base and most of the space was at the apex. He thought he would be most comfortable if he folded himself into the apex, like a half-closed ratchet knife.

  He looked around for something to hold on to and, in the murky light, saw there were ropes around the hull of the dinghy. He took hold of one of the ropes and gasped as the first burst of spray hit the deck and found him where he lay. He could hear the chatter of a radio from the flying bridge above his head. He did not know what the men on the bridge could see of the dinghy where he hid, but he hoped they would keep looking ahead.

  It was not long before the ship met heavy weather. Up and down the Surrey crashed, rocking from side to side as well, the worst of all movements for a boy hidden in a small space. Waves poured over the ship from bow to stern and ran along his body. Lloyd vomited helplessly onto the deck, grateful as each wave washed the vomit away. At least the engine noise was loud. Then Lloyd heard retching sounds nearby. First-time sailor, he thought, and he was glad someone else was being sick. His hiding place seemed to grow smaller and he wished he could walk the deck. Despite his sickness, it would be exciting to be at sea at night in this huge ship, to go farther out to sea than he had ever been.

  He had no sense of speed; the Surrey seemed to wallow and lurch, but not to move forward. That was one thing about a canoe, even those with small horsepower engines, they raced over the water, fast and nimble, belonging to the sea, at home in it as much as any sea creature. This big ship pounded and churned and fought the sea; it was an invention of man, a machine, and Lloyd thought it would take days to get to the Pedro Cays.

  He was cold to his bones and his eyes and lips burned from the spray. The sea was a hard place, a dangerous place, but a man did not complain, he told himself. A man held strong. He tightened his grip on the dinghy ropes and gave himself to the journey. He was going to the place where his grandfather was last seen, and he felt closer to him than at any time since he had disappeared.

  The news about Luke traveled around Treasure Beach like the crack of a whip. I was helping Maas Allan mend his pots at the time, near to the buttonwood tree at the end of Calabash Bay. Maas Jacob came running up to me—you no hear, he said? Luke gone to drift. Go tell you mama.

  Me? I said. Where Dada is?

  Him gone to Black River. Him don’t know yet.

  I remember the next half an hour because the loss of my brother was both true and not true. It could remain a rumor until I told my mother. Once she knew, it would be so. Where were my elder brothers? This should be their task. For so long elder had meant benefits. But I did not know where they were. At sea, Maas Jacob said vaguely.

  Why you think Luke gone to drift? I asked Maas Jacob.

  Old Percy did see them leave Top Cay, Maas Jacob said. Old Percy come back.

  Mebbe they go Shannon Reef, I said.

  Maas Jacob shrugged. Mebbe.

  Maas Jacob left me and I sat on the knotted trunk of the buttonwood tree. I was not yet afraid. The words of my Christian schooling came to my mind—let this cup pass from me. I had never understood the imagery—for me, a cup held good things, fish tea and cocoa tea and mint tea. For as long as I sat on the trunk of the buttonwood tree and stared out to sea, my brother would come home.

  16

  Lloyd realized he could see the rough gray skin of the underside of the dinghy. Dawn was coming. Somehow the night of spray and pounding sea had passed and there was no way he could now be returned to Port Royal before they reached the Pedro Cays. Maybe the shallower water of the Pedro Bank would soon appear? He wanted to see it. His head pounded and his muscles cramped—he had to stand up. He was thirsty enough to lick the deck, but Gramps had drilled it into him: never ever drink seawater, Lloydie. He had stopped vomiting sometime in the night and his body wanted food and water.

  Sunlight warmed the deck. Lloyd heard doors opening, the sound of feet on ladders and he smelled coffee. His mouth watered. It was morning and the sea was calming and he could not stand his hiding place a minute more. He slid out from under the dinghy and tried to stand, but his legs buckled. The light of the sun was dazzling. He lay where he had fallen, in plain sight, eyes closed, soaked, shivering, bruised and bloody from the slamming his small body had suffered. He waited to be discovered.

  It did not take long. He heard someone say, “But see here now? CAPTAIN!” He opened his eyes and saw two sailors standing over him, wearing blue uniforms and orange life jackets. One held a steaming mug in his hand and Lloyd stared at it. “Captain Blake!” the shorter of the two shouted again. The taller sailor grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “How the hell you get here, bwoy?” Lloyd looked down and said nothing. He would explain himself to the captain.

  Soon he was surrounded by a group of sailors, all speaking at the same time. Him look terrible, eeh? Him is a Haitian? Get him some water. Where him was hidin? Anybody know where him come from? Him say anything? Bwoy! What is your name? Mebbe him don’t speak English. You in big-big trouble, bwoy! Lloyd’s fear was gone; he had stowed away on a Coast Guard boat and what happened next was up to the captain. “Water,” he whispered to the man who held him. “Please, sah, me could have some water?”

  An older man pushed his way through the sailors. “Sah!” they said and stepped back. “We found this boy on deck,” said the tall man. “A stowaway, Captain.”

  “Have you searched him, McKenzie?” snapped the Captain. He did not sound kind. McKenzie patted Lloyd down and found his pocket knife. “This is all he has, Captain.” He held the knife out to the captain, who took it.

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Him just ask for water, sah.”

  “Get him some water. And a blanket. Clean him up and take him to my cabin. Get Miller to check him out there. Then bring him to the control room.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The sailor called McKenzie hustled him through a hatch inside the ship. Lloyd gasped when he felt the freezing air—the ship was air conditioned. His shivering became uncontrollable. They were in a brightly lit passage with closed doors on either side and the ship still heaved. Lloyd felt sick. McKenzie pushed him along until they came to an open area with a table and a bank of seating. Another sailor brought a folded blanket and held it out to him. Lloyd was shivering so hard he dropped it. McKenzie grabbed the blanket, shook it out, and roughly draped it over his shoulders. It was heavy and Lloyd staggered. His head swam. “Please, sah,” he said again, “some water?” He fell to his knees, hunched over, dry retching. “Him going mess up the place,” said the oth
er sailor.

  “Bring a bucket,” barked McKenzie. “And some water. Never seen anything like this yet.”

  That day I sat on the buttonwood tree too long and Miss Adina told my mother that Luke was missing. When I walked up to our front door I heard her wailing. She sat with her apron over her head and Miss Adina tried to embrace her, but my mother avoided her offered comfort. Miss Adina counseled prayer. Pastor Peter would call a special service. She looked up and saw me. Conrad, she said. Go find your father. My mother did not lift her head. I turned and went outside to where Maas Lenny and his taxi waited for passengers.

  During the drive to Black River I thought about my brothers. Which one of us was my mother’s favorite? If she had to pick the one to lose, who would she sacrifice? I was sure it would be me, the last one, the smallest one, the one measuring the least investment of time.

  The road to Black River was just a track back then, with a few marled areas where there were cattle farms and giant guango trees. We raised a thin dust as we drove and I remember the dry heat and the tinny sound from Maas Lenny’s radio. He spoke only once at the beginning of the journey, to tell me Luke would be fine, he would come home, God always answered prayers if they were made with a clean heart. I knew this was not true.

  We drove over the bridge and into Black River. I had not the first idea how to go about finding my father but I was glad to have something to do. We try the market first, Maas Lenny said.

  A fisher on the river bank told us my father was up the river trapping shrimp. I had never eaten a shrimp and did not know my father knew how to catch them. While Lenny talked to the fisher, I sat on an old dock and stared at the calm, wide river. This close to the sea, it was one great moving body of water. I watched the birds in the mangroves and the fallen leaves floating by. It was only the second time I had been to Black River and I had never been on its waters. I knew crocodiles lived in the river. I got up and went over to Maas Lenny. He was trying to persuade the fisher to go up the Black River to get my father. Is his son, man, Maas Lenny said. Is an emergency. Life and death, man.

  The fisher sighed. Me soon come, he said, and he walked away without urgency. I was sure he would not return and I wanted to hit him, or at least to steal his boat, which sat right there, moored to the dock, engine at the ready. Just cool, Maas Lenny said. The sun had passed its high point and soon it would be afternoon and once night fell we could no longer tell ourselves that Luke and Donovan had simply made a stop at Shannon Reef.

  The fisher came back with a woman carrying a basket, and she took his fish and walked away. Make us go then, he said.

  We got into his canoe.

  17

  “I’m the ship’s medic,” said Miller. He took Lloyd into a tiny cabin, peered into his eyes and mouth, took his temperature, and made him drink from a bottle of water in small sips. He was matter of fact but not rough. He listened to his chest with an instrument. “When last you eat, bwoy?” he said.

  Lloyd had to think for a moment. He felt he had been on the Surrey for days. “Yesterday, sah. Me brought some bulla in my bag, but me lost it. Aaah!” he cried out, as Miller swabbed his cuts and bruises with something cold and stinging.

  “We don’t have clothes your size, but put on this T-shirt anyway,” he said. “You can eat a bully beef sandwich? A cup of mint tea?”

  “Thank you, sah. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, bwoy. You in more trouble than you been in your life. You stowaway on a Coast Guard boat; you really lick you head!”

  Lloyd dried with the rough blanket and stripped off his shirt. He wished he had dry shorts—maybe McKenzie could retrieve his bag. He realized it must be buried under a pile of soaking anchor rope. The medic opened the door and called for the sandwich and the tea. Lloyd was becoming used to the motion of the ship. He looked around him, the gray steel hull, the bed with tightly stretched sheets, the small desk with a laptop computer open, a narrow cupboard door. He wondered if they were below the surface of the sea and wished the medic’s cabin had a porthole. “Sit,” he said to Lloyd. “Not on the bed! Take my chair.”

  There was a knock on the door and Miller opened it. A sailor handed him a plate with a sandwich on it and a mug. Lloyd could smell the mint in the tea and he grabbed for the mug. The tea was almost boiling and burned his lips, but oh it was delicious. Gramps loved mint tea; he gave it to Lloyd whenever he was sick. The aromatic tea warmed him from the inside. He ate the sandwich in three bites—the hard dough bread was cut thick and the chunks of bully beef were salty and filling. The medic watched him. “Come,” he said, when Lloyd had drained the last drop of tea and wiped his hands on his wet shorts. “Time to see the captain. What you name?”

  “Lloyd. Lloyd Saunders, sah.”

  “Drink some more water and we go.”

  Lloyd took his time drinking the water. It was too cold in the belly of the ship and the air had a strange dry metallic smell. He didn’t want to talk to the captain. He looked around the small cabin, with its cupboards and bunk. The ship seemed like a strange house to him, a house that went to sea, but a house with electricity and running water and bedrooms and a kitchen where mint tea could be made. There were probably even bathrooms—Lloyd realized he needed one. “Sah, could . . . could I use the toilet first?”

  “The head?” said Miller. Lloyd wasn’t sure what he meant, but he nodded. They came out of the cabin and the medic knocked on another closed door. He opened it and Lloyd saw a closet-like space with a toilet. “See that handle at the side?” said the medic. “Crank it up and down when you done.”

  There was a tiny basin next to the toilet and Lloyd turned on the faucet. Whoy, he said softly when fresh water came out of the tap. There was no towel on which to dry his hands and face—the sailors probably brought their own kit into the bathroom—the head, he corrected himself. He knew there were special names for things on boats. He would learn them. He wondered if he could become a sailor on a Coast Guard boat. He would want to be a sailor on the bridge, in the control room, though, not one below in a cabin. He hoped they would let him climb the ladder to the bridge so he could see what the ocean looked like from way up high.

  I remember marveling at the calmness of the river, the way the prow of the boat cut through the water and how the wake seemed oiled. The mangrove trees towered over the river and the down-growing roots were as thick as a man’s arm. The river forked and the fisher—Maas Len, he told us—took the western fork and then the river took a wide curve through logwood and guango trees and banks of wild cane and other plants I had not seen before. We turned into a tributary—Slipe River, Maas Len said—and the wide river became smaller and Maas Len cut the engine and we glided. There was no shade and despite the coolness of the water under the canoe, the heat was fearsome.

  The tributary became so narrow that vegetation brushed at the side of the boat and Maas Len pulled the engine over the stern, and picked up a long stick. He poled the boat along, leaning heavily on the stick, finding a rhythm born of long practice. The river was now more land than sea and the vegetation on the banks was tall. Mosquitoes swarmed. I had never been anywhere on land so silent.

  The river came to a circular pool, where it seemed to end. The plants crowded in. And there a few boats were moored, and in one of them, my father was loading his boat with cone-shaped baskets. He looked up and saw me, and said only these words: Which one? Which one of my sons has gone to drift?

  18

  “Come in,” Captain Blake said. Miller took Lloyd’s arm and they went inside, the boy almost tripping over the blanket that was still draped around his shoulders. The control room was full of dials and equipment. “Sir!” said Miller, coming to attention. “The stowaway. Lloyd Saunders. He’s a little dehydrated, some cuts and bruises, but no infectious diseases as far as I can see. No fever. Lungs clear.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Did he have something to eat?”

  “Bully beef sandwich, sir. Polished it off. And some mint tea.”

&
nbsp; “Dismissed.”

  “Sir!” Miller left the control room and shut the door behind him.

  “You’re in deep trouble, youngster,” said the captain. His voice was rough but he did not sound cruel.

  Lloyd met his eyes. “Me know, sah. My granddaddy is lost at sea. Him been missin almost a week. The last place him go is Pedro. Me had to come look for him.”

  “You could have just asked the Coast Guard to look for him.”

  “Me do that—we do that. But them not so interested in one old fisher.”

  This was the wrong thing to say. The captain was not pleased. “The Coast Guard will search for any lost Jamaican.”

  “Yes, sah, but me is his grandson, and . . .”

  “Lloyd Saunders? Is that right? How old are you?” The captain picked up a pen and began to write on a large yellow pad.

  “Soon be thirteen,” said Lloyd, although his birthday was months away.

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  “Told my mother me was crewing for a fisher; no, she don’t know.”

  “And your father?”

  “Him don’t know.”

  “How did you get on board the Surrey?”

  Lloyd told his story. He left out Dwight’s part in his daring plan—he did not want to tell the captain his friend’s name. He could see the captain did not believe him, but he did not ask him for more details about the beatbox artist. He told the captain of his first visit to the base with Jules—he hoped the captain knew who she was. It was good to have high-up friends. The captain wrote on his pad, stopping him every now and then to ask a question. Lloyd realized the sea was much calmer and his eyelids felt heavy. He thought he could sleep for days. He thought of his dry, steady bed at home with longing.