by Pam Withers
Arturo throws me a sympathetic look. I struggle to mask a sigh. “Well, I appreciate the coffee. Hasta la vista and great to meet you.”
They shake my hand; I step off the boat and slump up the steps. Slowly, not even trying to make it a workout.
• • •
You could stow away like we did once, Gregor says when I get to my bedroom and prop his photo up.
“Yeah, but we were kids and that was a customer we knew, who thought it was funny.”
So? You know exactly where to hide on that boat.
“I do,” I say, and I pull out my wetsuit, water bottle, water purification tablets, and waterproof backpack. Into the last item I stuff my wallet, down parka, rain poncho, some spare clothes, a compass, and a headlamp. I do another quick search for my cellphone, but no luck.
What’s with the power? Still not on. Takes forever out here in the boonies. So I sit at our living room window with my binoculars trained on the dock. As night closes in, I can barely see the yacht — just enough to know they’re still just hanging out. I’m waiting for signs they’re about to head out, or for total dark, whichever comes first. I’ll be back long before my parents, so there will be no worry on their part.
As the light fades to near darkness, I stand and stare. A half-dozen seals have surrounded Archimedes. They swim around and around the boat, like synchronized swimmers twisting and diving, or like mermaids. Huh?
I push the binoculars harder against my eyes, only to spot the captain on the deck aiming binoculars in my direction. I’m inside with no lights on, so he can’t possibly see me. Anyway, I won’t be approaching Archimedes from our stairs. And the neurotic seals will surely have disappeared by then.
It’s well past midnight when a spike of activity makes me suspect Archimedes is about to slip anchor. I lower the binoculars, grab my stuff, and lock up the house. Using some absentee neighbour’s rickety cliff steps, I slink down to the beach and enter the cold black water.
There’s no splashing; the seals have disappeared. Just the soothing whoosh of wind-stirred trees, the lapping of water, and the rigging in the masts shivering as the storm blows its last puffs.
Navigating by feel and my senses, ignoring the initial shocking chill, I swim slowly and noiselessly to our dock and then under it. Soon I’m near Archimedes’s rear swim platform, the steel-bracketed ledge from which swimmers and divers can lower themselves.
A flashback of pulling myself up that fateful night, my chilled hand gripping Gregor’s. I squelch the memory with all my might.
Hiding in the air pocket beneath the ledge for long minutes, I wait until I hear the captain and Arturo go quiet. That’s when I lift myself with flat palms and strong biceps onto the swim platform. Pausing to make sure no one has heard me, I push my feet up a ladder leading to where the dinghy hangs from davits — giant metal arms — that extend from the rear upper deck. It’s upright and covered.
Ahh. Feels so good to crawl under the tarpaulin, wriggle out of my wetsuit and into dry clothes from my waterproof backpack, wrap myself in my down parka and rain poncho, and settle myself on the rubber floor. Like lying in a comfy cradle.
I can’t see the stars when they come out, but the gentle sway of my bed as Archimedes heads out puts me to sleep fast, content in the belief that in the morning, they’ll welcome me aboard after a brief scolding.
• • •
Arturo
While the customers have their weekly night swim, it’s my job to wash their clothes and scrub down their quarters. I toss their smelly belongings into a heap, slipping my hand into pockets to transfer the odd coin to my own pockets.
At one point, I pause to run my fingers over the gold monogram embroidered on one of their blazers and slip my feet into one of the pairs of thick-soled leather shoes that I polish and line up for them daily. Just for a second, I let myself dream of being a rich schoolboy, of speaking English so well I can apply for a job as a guide on a tour boat. Or maybe I’d just buy a boat and cruise around the world. I would fill it with lots of food and give rides to kids who have never been on a boat.
The stench of an unflushed head quickly yanks me back to reality. They may have a life they take for granted, but I love my job, I try to convince myself as I apply mop to floor and pump out and wipe down the overflowing toilet basin. I steer my mind to the pay Captain will give me when we reach our destination in a day or two, and I smile.
This is my second trip up the coast this year, and it’s not even June yet. The little tin that holds my savings is growing heavier. It guards against my gnawing fear of ending up hungry and back on the streets. I may not deserve this awesome job, but I will do absolutely anything it takes to keep it.
Thump, thump. Six naked, half-frozen bodies scramble back onto Archimedes and elbow each other to stampede down the stairs to the second stateroom, the one the captain doesn’t sleep in. Each boy holds one of the small threadbare towels the captain has assigned them.
“Where’d you put our clothes, you bonehead?” demands a shivering Danillo, the boy I work hardest to avoid.
“Yeah, you’d better not be stealing from us again!” says sumo-wrestler-sized Sebastian, also in Spanish, of course.
“The head is disgusting,” accuses Sergio, Sebastian’s twin, who is equally impressive in size. “You need to clean it more often.”
“And stop stealing from our food rations. Think we’re stupid or something?” adds Lucas, the one with expensive-looking, thick glasses.
Everyone is quivering with cold and digging in duffle bags to locate their clean clothes. They have two sets each.
What, not posh enough for you? I want to say. Want me to ask Captain to upgrade you to first class? Or maybe we can toss you off the ship to improve our ballast?
But the thoughts pass as quickly as I walk away with mop in motion and teeth gritted. Showing feelings is a weakness that brings on trouble. Messing with rich boys increases the risk big time. These are lessons I learned before I could walk. But the clients aren’t finished with me yet.
“Arturo the kiss-ass,” Danillo says, stalking over to put his face up to mine. I step a little to the left and lower my hand to where I keep my pocket knife. Not that I’d ever use it on a client.
“Captain’s pet. Arturo the Artful Dodger,” Danillo continues with the menacing smile that makes my chest start prickling with an electrical charge. He has switched to English, which he assumes I can’t understand well. It’s the language all the boys use amongst themselves, because they come from a Guatemala City private school that allows only English. “But of course, you wouldn’t know about the Artful Dodger.”
The other boys laugh. I pull my face into a neutral mask, lower my shoulders and look away. I mentally lower the buzz in my body. There’s a certain power in doing the invisible servant act, in not reacting to their taunts. But someday …
“The Artful Dodger is a character in Oliver Twist, a book about a pickpocket scumbag like you. But don’t think you can dodge us forever, you nasty little thief —”
“Arturo!” the captain shouts from the salon above. “Finish up and get your bony butt up here pronto. And tell the customers to find their accommodations, or I’ll be down to speed things up.”
The deep-voiced Spanish, followed by a shrill blast from the whistle around the captain’s neck, sends the boys scurrying. Hopping one-legged as they pull on trousers, they dive into the storage cupboards and bulkhead lockers, which are in the dividing walls.
I smile at the suddenly empty and quiet second stateroom and amble up the companionway to my boss.
An hour later, I am curled up in my sleeping bag on the cushions around the eating nook when I think I hear a soft bump on the swim platform. Probably just an adventurous otter. I’m way too tired to go look.
CHAPTER FIVE
OWEN
It’s morning and my limbs feel like drumsticks tossed into a freezer. My empty stomach is mewling like a sea lion. I’m ready to crawl out of the dinghy except f
or the yelling going on down in the salon. The clash of voices could make a dude imagine it’s coming from more than two people.
“Arturo!” the captain shouts again, followed by a bunch of angry Spanish. I wince for my friend as I wonder what the hell he has done to make his uncle so mad. But minutes later it’s quiet, and the smell of something frying tempts me to leave my hideout. Refried beans, if my nostrils have it right. Definitely time to make my move.
I stretch under the cover of my tarpaulin and lace on my boots. Stashing my stuff in the dinghy, I poke my head out and climb down the ladder to the stern deck. As I stroll past a window with a smirk on my face and “Surprise!” on my tongue, I find my greeting drowned out by a single startling whistle blast.
“Hey!” I say, stepping over the door stoop of the aft deck. “Guess who stowed away on Archimedes last night?”
The captain freezes in place, an astonished and angry glare on his face. His fork clatters to his plate, and a silver whistle on a cord around his neck drops from his mouth. Why did he blow the whistle just now? His knees push him halfway up from his seat in the eating alcove. Next thing I know, his right hand dives under the table, like he’s grabbing at his lower pant leg.
Just as fast, Arturo places a restraining hand on his uncle’s arm. His open-mouthed surprise changes to a shaky smile.
“Owen!”
He’s standing between the captain and the galley, holding a heavy iron frying pan. For a split second, despite his smile, I wonder if he’s going to hurl it at me.
“Hi, Captain. Hi, Arturo,” I say a little less confidently than intended. “Sorry to surprise you. But I really, really wanted a ride on Archimedes. Only to the next port, wherever you’re going. So I snuck on last night and — hey, who’s on lookout if you two are here?” It occurs to me that I’ve heard them talking and yelling for a good fifteen minutes in the salon.
Arturo lays down the frying pan, exchanges glances with the captain, and dashes up the companionway to the pilothouse.
“Captain,” he calls down, and finishes the sentence in Spanish. I figure he’s reassuring the captain that it’s fine for me to be here.
The captain’s stormy face struggles to change expression. His arm relaxes and comes up from under the table. He takes fork in hand again and plunges it into his beans and cheese.
“So, you’re a sneaky little marina rat, are you? When did you join us? And where did you sleep?” he asks over-solicitously with sharp, not-so-friendly eyes.
“After dark,” I say, head lowered. “I slept in the dinghy. Hey, I’ll swab decks and pump heads and all that stuff to pay my way. Just needed a change of scene, you know? A little adventure.” With Gregor, who told me to come pick him up.
“Do your parents know where you are going? Does anyone?” he demands in that bass voice.
“No one,” I admit.
His face softens slightly and he devours the last of the breakfast on his plate. “Okay, then. You’re our guest till next port. That’ll be in a couple of hours,” he says in an overloud voice, as if to make sure Arturo and anyone within a mile hears. “Hungry?”
“Starved!” I reply with a big grin.
“Arturo! Get down here and rustle up some breakfast for our stowaway. I’ll take the controls now.” With that, he rises and lopes off. I wonder how long they leave the helm unmanned. Even on an automated luxury craft like this, it should never be for more than ten minutes at a time.
• • •
ARTURO
This is not good at all, I reflect, cracking some eggs for Owen. I hope Captain can find a port fast, and get in and out even faster.
And yet, why does it secretly amuse me to see the captain rattled and to imagine the clients holed up — cramped, silent, and anxious — with their stomachs rumbling for my good grub? Especially Danillo, who had to abandon his pilothouse watch and dive into the storage drawer under the two-seater behind the captain’s seat when the whistle blew. Probably got himself some bruises and is running out of good breathing air. I smile wider.
Hah! It is a pleasant change of routine, and Owen is someone new to practise my English with. Even someone to help me with chores. Anyway, it is only for a few hours.
“Over easy with bacon?” I ask, pronouncing Danillo’s favourite command with as little accent as possible.
“How’d you know?” Owen responds with a broad grin.
“What kind of jam you like on your toast?”
“Raspberry. Maybe you have some orange juice, too? I can get it from the fridge.”
“Sure,” I respond. “Help yourself.” This boy is way more polite than the clients. Keep him busy. Keep him in sight.
“So this is one nice rig for just the two of you.” Owen is peering around with his arm slung over the back of the eight-seat, horseshoe-shaped galley sofa. He looks all too at home.
“Two staterooms, right? And this nook converts to a bed. Altogether, I’m guessing Archimedes sleeps seven, parties thirty-five,” he quips like he has read the website.
“It is awesome,” I say, mimicking Pequeño (Spanish for little), my favourite client on this run, the youngest of the bunch at eleven. The toast pops up; I butter it and deliver the breakfast to the “marina rat,” a new phrase to add to my English vocabulary.
“What do we have for chores this morning?” Owen asks as he digs in. “I’m a hard worker, you know.”
“Owen?” the captain calls from the bridge a few minutes later as Owen and I finish washing the breakfast dishes.
Owen runs up the companionway and I move to the bottom of the stairs to listen in. Captain has his nautical charts spread out, and he questions the island boy about various ports and ocean currents without revealing where exactly we’re heading. Even I do not know our destination for sure, since it changes on some trips. Owen answers Captain’s questions easily, like he really knows the region.
“Can I take the wheel for a minute?” I hear him ask eagerly.
“Sure,” says Captain.
We need to keep this boy aboard. He makes Captain stay nice.
Captain lets Owen run Archimedes for a few minutes while I put away the dishes and drift back to spy on them. I love spying.
“Shall I hold it at twenty five hundred rpm or maintain eight knots?” Owen asks like he has operated this kind of boat before. Took me months to learn my way around Archimedes. I remember Captain training me, sometimes patiently, sometimes boxing me around the ears. I was a fast learner. I took to the sea like a seal pup. Now running a yacht is my world. It feels like the island boy lives in the same world.
“Hold it at twenty five hundred rpm.” Captain answers Owen, with a hint of surprise.
“Is the autohelm set on the correct course?”
“You bet.”
“Engine temperature seems to be fine. Oil pressure is good.”
“Arturo!” Captain snaps, catching me on the lower landing. “To your chores!”
At this, Owen leaps up. “I promised to help him.”
“No need —” Captain starts, but Owen has already dashed down the companionway and opened the closet holding the buckets, mops, and brushes. How did he know where that was, I wonder, exchanging a worried look with Captain.
“No you open doors without my permission, slave,” I try to joke.
“Gotcha,” Owen replies with a salute. He grabs some window cleaner and a roll of paper towels, heads down the lower companionway, and starts in on a mirror in the nearest head. So I squirt some cleaner into the sink beside him and begin scrubbing.
We laugh as we bump elbows. We speed up like we are in a race and we chat about Archimedes’s features as we move from one task to another.
“Why’s it called Archimedes?”
“Is famous owl in movie. Captain likes owls.”
“Yeah? Owls are sneaky. Their special feathers let them fly silently in the night. But they can’t see what’s going on around them without swivelling their heads back and forth. And they eat smaller owls. That�
�s mean, huh? They use their talons to crush the skull and body.”
“You know much about birds,” I say, impressed and amused.
Owen and I move into the main cabin, the captain’s private room with its queen-size bed and patchwork quilt. This is awesome, big time. We are going to finish chores in record time.
“What’s with the whistle around your neck?” Owen asks.
Think fast. “For soccer games Captain and I play in salon,” I joke.
“Yeah, right.” Owen waits.
“Is special bird caller. Brings birds if we are near shore.”
“Sure.” Owen smirks.
I spot some dead flies in the globe of the light over the captain’s bed. Stepping up onto the mattress, I lean back to unscrew and clean it.
My whistle dangles down my back. I never imagine that Owen will leap up onto the bed beside me, grab it, and blast it twice.
CHAPTER SIX
OWEN
It was just a joke. I didn’t blow it hard, not even hard enough for the captain to hear from the pilothouse.
What I don’t expect is for Arturo to spin around, lock his arms around my neck, and tackle me to the bed. The air whooshes out of my lungs and my fingers clutch the flannel quilt. Then comes the creak of cupboard and bulkhead doors flying open and the heart-stopping sight of three boys spilling out. Body odour and curiosity waft through the air as they stand around the bed, staring at us.
“Who’s he?” asks a tall, skinny one.
“Shut up,” Arturo says in English between clenched teeth. Then he delivers orders in excited Spanish that include the word capitán along with gestures toward the closet doors. Clearly, he wants them to disappear into the cupboards again before the captain comes.
It occurs to me that I could easily elbow Arturo hard and free myself, but there’s no predicting what these guys might do then. Who the hell are they, anyway?
