Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  “Get it off me,” I screamed.

  Bernard laughed so hard at this absurd scene, he could hardly stand. He finally trapped the rat in a corner of the berth, took it on deck and dumped it into the harbour. I came out after him, and we watched to see where the rat would go. The little monster found the mooring line and started to climb back onto the boat. Bernard pushed it down with a broom, and we waited for a while to see if it would try again. For a moment, it looked as though it might, but thought better of it, and swam off. The next day we bought rat protectors (small shields that look like the cones vets use on animals after surgery) for the ropes.

  Had I been native to the area, I might have seen the rat as a dish in the waiting that walked in and delivered itself. Shortly after the incident, the Hong Kong China Post published an article with a culinary tip on how to deal with rodent infestation. I cut out the recipe and tucked it into my new Chinese cookbook. Here is the recipe:

  Rat Recipe for Gourmets

  Catch one rat — plump and juicy after gorging on grain during the harvest season — scald with steam and plunge it into cold water to peel off the fur.

  Carefully gut the bald rat and soak in brine, ginger and pepper before flattening it into a steak with weights.

  After drying for a day, cook in a sealed pot with rice, bran and a soupçon of sesame oil until the aroma permeates the whole kitchen. Then eat it.

  Chapter 10

  MACAO AND BACK

  The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.

  — ST. AUGUSTINE

  With a bit of cajoling, I managed to pry Bernard away from the Santa Rita for a trip to Macao, an hour from Hong Kong by hovercraft. The behemoth vessel that took us to the island skimmed over waves on puffs of air inches above the sea, and gave the illusion of sailing through space. So relaxing, I thought.

  A well-dressed Chinese gentleman with a pocket mirror in one hand and two coins in the other sat across from us. I watched him deftly pluck his beard by placing a coin on each side of a lone hair and giving a sharp yank. He had an extra long pinkie nail, an ancient custom in China to show that one wasn’t a labourer. But I knew that long pinkie nails were also used as spoons for snorting cocaine. Was this a foreshadowing of our visit to Macao, a city with a reputation for drugs, prostitution, and gambling?

  Stepping off the hovercraft was like stepping out of present time onto a stage set in some exotic, tropical country. The streets were a jumbled mix of 15th and 16th century Portuguese architecture, Chinese temples, baroque style churches with curved oriental roofs, and slums. Brightly coloured buildings along some of the narrow streets opened to wide plazas with stately colonial buildings in pastel colours. Elegant doorways, arched windows, and balustrades vied for attention with haphazardly placed signs in front of Chinese shops. Wooden shutters in shades of green or burnt sienna with their patina of age could be seen behind lacy wrought-iron balconies that shaded narrow streets. I pictured myself in a 1940s film where at any moment I might come across Peter Lorre nursing a gin and tonic while waiting for some local shady character.

  Macao’s history is filled with shady characters. In 1557, in exchange for eliminating deadly pirate raids by Chinese smugglers along the coast, the governor of Canton province agreed to let Portuguese traders use Macao for their lucrative silk trade. When silk stopped being profitable, the traders tried their hand at opium until the British quashed the business. They picked up the slack by indulging in human trafficking. Chinese men were captured and sold in Cuba, Peru, and Portugal, where they were in great demand, until 1761 when slavery was abolished in Portugal.

  With its history of lax laws and a sliding scale of morality, it was no surprise that gambling became the next viable option for profit. By the time the island was returned to China in 1999 its reputation for illicit dealings was already well established, leaving the door open for prostitution and the notorious Chinese organized crime organizations known as Triads. They still exist but function more as successful businessmen in questionable activities than as thugs on the street.

  Intrigued by its reputation as a Mecca for gamblers, we first made our way to the Lisboa Casino. It was just after breakfast when we arrived, but the place was already teeming with people from Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland. The dumpy building with its weird, tacky arcades was the main gambling house in the 1980s. Today’s Lisboa Casino, built near its shabby sister, boasts being the tallest building on the island. Its lure is posh hotel rooms with mind-boggling luxury that comes with or without an in-house prostitute — legal in Macao. But I was glad to experience Macao in its more laid-back days, before the gambling strip took on the allure of a transplanted Las Vegas. I don’t even begrudge the twenty dollars I lost within five minutes at the blackjack table — my cards swept away before I could count the numbers.

  “How are you doing?” I asked Bernard when I finally managed to elbow my way through the pressed bodies that crowded the roulette table. He had chosen the roulette wheel over the blackjack table.

  “This is where the high rollers are,” he told me, amused to be among them.

  He showed me his empty hands as he left the table, his spot taken instantly by another player. “You managed to last longer than me,” I said, laughing at our limited gambling skills. All in all, we must have spent thirty minutes at the casino, five minutes for me and a half hour for Bernard.

  Our early losses at the gambling house left us with the only other thing to do on the island — enjoy the Macao cuisine. Portugal’s farflung trading route had taken them as far as Africa and through countries bordering the China Sea including India. Along the way, they picked up people, spices, and cooking styles and brought them back to Macao. The Macanese are a seamless blend of these different cultures as is their food. To traditional Cantonese fare was added chicken dishes from Africa, spices from India, and the famous Portuguese bacalhau, a layered dish of salted cod, potatoes, and onions. Until we reached Singapore, I would never again see such a rich fusion of food. Bernard tried the African chicken in coconut milk, and I went for the bacalhau, both dishes washed down by good Portuguese wine. Food is so tied to emotions, we left Macao on a high.

  Typhoon warnings greeted us on our return to Hong Kong, and brought our exuberant mood to an abrupt halt. We knew we had to move the yacht to a safe haven, but we were missing Jonah. He had left early that morning to meet Camelia Wong, a journalist, for tea in downtown Hong Kong. She was to interview him about our sailing adventure. After the interview, he planned to take the Star Ferry to Cheung Chau to spend time on the beach. We were going to sail there on our return from Macao to pick him up.

  Stefan had been in charge of the yacht in our absence and was aware of the warning, but there was nothing he could do until we returned. It was imperative that we got to shelter as soon as possible, but we couldn’t leave without Jonah. Stefan offered to take the ferry to get him. It would be quicker than sailing. We waited until nightfall but neither of the boys returned, and the storm was picking up.

  Bernard and I sat below deck, each in our own world, drinking cup after cup of coffee. We were too tense to make small talk or even speculate where they might be. Bernard fiddled with little gadgets. I tried to read but couldn’t. The wind howled, and the yacht jerked about violently.

  I looked at Bernard. “What are we going to do?”

  “We can’t stay here,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. We’ve got to move.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. “How will they find us?”

  “They’ll figure it out. I’ll give the watchman at the Aberdeen Yacht Club some money in case he sees them. That way they can find shelter.”

  The sea was rough but still manageable. Bernard threw on his slicker and took the dinghy to shore. I felt comforted that he thought to leave cash behind. It meant that the watchman knew they were gone and would be on the lookout for them.

  On his return, we motored to Causeway Bay, where we hoped to find protection from the worst of t
he typhoon. From our safe haven, I prayed that the boys found shelter somewhere.

  “Will they find us?” I asked in an effort to break through my anxiety.

  “They’ll be okay,” Bernard said. “They’re not babies. They’ll use their common sense.”

  He was trying his best to comfort me, but his calmness fuelled my angst.

  Later, Jonah told us he had heard the storm warnings and returned. By the time he got to the harbour, it was raining hard. He searched the waterfront but couldn’t find us as we had already left, then spotted the Elf Chine anchored a distance off shore. He managed to find a sampan willing to take him to the junk, and spent a hairy night aboard. The Elf Chine heaved violently throughout the storm, rain pouring in through cracks on deck.

  The next morning he left the Elf Chine to try to make it to Causeway Bay because Bernard had left word by radio with the Elf Chine crew that we’d be moored there. He got to the area by subway and bus. “It was like a ghost town,” he said. “All the buildings were boarded up.”

  A lone person on the street told him he shouldn’t be out, that the worst of the typhoon was yet to come. He climbed a hill to get a better perspective in his search for us.

  “A pack of wild dogs attacked me,” he said. “I tried to hold them off with a stick, when a stranger showed up out of nowhere and threw a rock at the leader making them scatter.”

  When he couldn’t find us, he hitchhiked back to the subway where a Good Samaritan gave him money for a subway ticket.

  “You didn’t see the watchman at the yacht club?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  Once back in Aberdeen Harbour, he slept on the pleasure junk of an English guy anchored there.

  Meanwhile, Stefan hadn’t been able to return because the Star Ferry had stopped running, due to the typhoon warnings. Stranded on Cheung Chau with no money and nowhere to shelter, he sat on a bench facing the water and wondered what to do next when two police officers approached him.

  “What are you doing here?” they asked.

  “I’m looking for my brother.”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “Can I spend the night in the police station?”

  “No, you have to go to a hotel.”

  “I’ve no money,” he told them.

  They took him to a hotel anyway, and the manager let him sleep on a desk in the office.

  The following morning, he rushed to the ferry terminus, but it was still closed. He met up with a dozen sailors from the Philippines who were also stranded. One had a girlfriend working as a maid on the island. She brought them food and bottles of San Miguel beer. They sat on benches outside a closed newspaper stand and filled up on canned sardines and beer. That night they covered themselves with newspapers and slept.

  After two days the typhoon veered off towards mainland China. Stefan made it back to Aberdeen Harbour and found Jonah there. By the time we sailed back into the harbour, the boys had shared stories and were ready to tell us of their adventures.

  I hadn’t slept for two nights. I stayed awake on black coffee in order to nurse my angst and silently accused Bernard of leaving Aberdeen Harbour too soon. I couldn’t say anything because rationally, I knew he’d done the right thing. Had we not left, our small yacht would have been badly damaged or worse.

  As for the boys, they seemed no worse for wear. It had been an adventure for them. I wish I could say that was the last time I feared for their safety, but our journey had only begun.

  Chapter 11

  ANCHORS AWEIGH

  Autumn 1981: Hong Kong

  You can’t cross a sea merely by standing and staring at the water.

  — RABINDRANATH TAGORE

  During our three months of sailing between Hong Kong and Cheung Chau Island, Stefan developed a good set of sea legs. Jonah still got seasick in rough weather but never complained, and I was now a whiz at preparing simple, nutritious meals on my new gas stove. Bernard, believing the Santa Rita to finally be seaworthy, installed an autopilot to take our place at the helm in good weather. Life would have been idyllic except for tension brewing between Jonah and Bernard. It started when Bernard discovered Jonah couldn’t take heights after he’d ordered him up the mast. Bernard shouted at him that a teen the same age on a neighbouring yacht climbed the mast like a monkey.

  “Look, I can’t do it, that’s all,” Jonah said.

  “You’re too much of an intellectual,” Bernard said. “You’ll never learn to sail. I wish I had that other kid aboard.”

  “Why don’t you leave him alone?” I said. “That other boy’s a menace. Even his parents can’t deal with him. Why do you find him so great?” I reminded him that Jonah was always willing to do his share of work. “When you were in France, Jonah went to the boatyard everyday to check out the progress on the yacht. You’ve never even acknowledged that.” I waited for a response, but he said nothing. He looked past me, turned, and walked away. His reluctance to admit our journey was a team effort perplexed me, and I had no idea how to handle it.

  An incident between Jonah and Bernard off Cheung Chau Island exacerbated the tension. Jonah was about to hoist the anchor over the side of the hull when it slipped from his hands making a loud thud on the deck. Bernard lashed out at him. “You clumsy idiot,” he shouted. “You don’t give a damn about this boat. You’re a lazy write-off.” The anger in his voice was so out of proportion to the “so-called” crime that I was stunned into silence. Stefan and I exchanged glances but said nothing.

  “Do it yourself,” Jonah said. “Why don’t you get an automatic winch like other yachts? We do everything by hand, and that anchor is damned heavy.” He walked away leaving the anchor where it fell.

  Later, I couldn’t find Jonah anywhere. He wasn’t aboard, and it was more than a mile to shore. Panic crept into every joint of my body. I was sure he had jumped overboard and committed suicide. I couldn’t think of anything else.

  “He probably swam to the island,” Stefan said.

  “No, no. It’s too far.” I could barely see the shoreline, and couldn’t believe he’d have swum that distance.

  I turned on Bernard. “You killed my son,” I cried.

  Bernard didn’t reply. He lowered the dingy and went to search for him.

  I kept moving from one end of the yacht to the other, looking for Jonah, though I knew he wasn’t there. “Why had I come on this adventure?” I kept asking myself.

  Bernard returned half an hour later with Jonah beside him. “Found him sunbathing on the beach,” he said. Jonah had swum to shore.

  On the surface, everything looked resolved, but that evening Jonah said to me: “Screw sailing. I just want to be out of here. He can ask me anything. It’s over. I’m not doing it.”

  The estrangement between Jonah and Bernard wounded me deeply. I wondered if Bernard was using Jonah to act out some angst or discontent he couldn’t handle inside himself. I was having misgivings about having my sons with us, and grateful that Jonah, who had turned eighteen in April, would be flying out from the Philippines to start college at Middlebury in Vermont. I was also grateful he was a strong swimmer. I’m still impressed that he made that swim to shore without drowning.

  As there were no more scenes between Jonah and Bernard, I tried to stay focused on the positive. I noticed that my coordination was better and my balance improved. In the beginning, I wobbled across the two-by-four beam that Bernard would place between a pier and the yacht for us to get ashore. Now I danced across it. I felt I could walk a tight rope and loved the sense of control it gave me. A yacht is never static, and I made constant body adjustments to compensate. It was a bit like sitting on an exercise ball but with no chance of getting off.

  My body got stronger, and I felt healthier. I turned a nice shade of brown and kept my weight down without thinking about it. It felt empowering knowing that my body could function so well physically. Bernard and the boys were also in great shape — lean, tanned, and co-ordinated in their movements.

/>   I learned how to reef the sails, but was stumped when it came to feeling the wind. I liked sailing, but I wasn’t a natural. Bernard may have thought that Jonah lived in his head, but that was a lot truer of me. It gave him concern to see how inept I was. On the other hand, Bernard was right in his element. It was as though he, the Santa Rita and the wind were one. It gave me a great sense of security to see how effortlessly he handled the yacht.

  “It’s so easy, Rita. Why aren’t you getting it?” He’d sigh and shake his head.

  Fortunately, I could steer, a plus because manoeuvring into a crowded port was tricky, and someone had to do it while the other jumped ashore to secure the ropes. I thought I’d be a boon on windless days relieving Bernard at the helm, but we now had the autopilot, and in good weather the yacht stayed on course without anyone steering. Frustrated by my mediocre sailing skills, I compensated by finding the right provisions, cooking well-balanced meals, and keeping the boat physically tidy. I was the one who went ashore, struggled in various languages, tracked down the markets, learned to haggle, and searched for work in various ports. I was our lifeline to the outside world. Bernard handled the boat — the navigation, sailing, and repair.

  I had no problem with this division of labour and felt the arrangement suited both our temperaments. He loved being aboard the Santa Rita, could spend hours doing maintenance, and enjoyed drinking with fellow yachties moored nearby. He could repair anything, and was in demand for his good-natured services. This was part of his adventure.

  My adventure was exploring different cultures without a time frame, my home with me wherever I went. I loved the idea of not being bound by anything but the mutable sea. It was a time before borders were so closely monitored and before an internet profile of you could be sent anywhere tracking your movements. I thought of Columbus and Vasco de Gama and, like them, I wanted to venture to less trodden places.