My Diary from the Edge of the World (23 page)

It seems we're always packing and always leaving. And now everything's been carried on board. Eight men—each of whom is more muscular and smelly than the last—are lashing barrels and trunks to the back decks of our ship, which is called the
Weeping Alexa
. A skiff, which Oliver just explained is a smaller kind of boat, is attached to one side of the ship, just above the water line. Mom is vigorously discussing something with the captain, who seems to be doing several things at once: directing the men with strong thrusts of his arm in this or that direction, tying and untying things, and thoughtfully shoving obstructions out of my mom's way with his foot as they move down the decks.

The smell of fish is so strong I've had to cover my nose with one sleeve. The port is bustling with ships—
fishing vessels, steamers, and freighters on their way north to Canada or south to Central America. There are also cruise ships—emblazoned with names like West Coast Wilderness Adventures or Far Flung Global Expeditions—coming down from the northern frontier city of Vancouver, making a day stop to show people “Old LA.”

Prospero said he couldn't bear to come see us off on our “hopeless misadventure,” so there's no one here at the port to wave good-bye to us when we pull away, but of course Millie is waving anyway from behind the railing to California at large. She probably imagines she's waving to invisible admirers. Virgil is circling above with the seagulls, and Oliver and Sam are sitting a few feet away from me, making bets on how long they can go without bathing. The Cloud is hovering just a little bit farther down the shore, like a loyal dog on a leash, waiting for its master to get moving.

I think I'm the only one who feels seasick already, and the captain laughs every time he passes me, because apparently my face looks green. “Hang in there, Gracie, we haven't even left yet,” he said a few minutes ago, clapping me on the back. “Wait till our first storm.” Then he offered me some ginger root to suck on.

I've got that terrible
leaving
feeling, and it makes me sad that I forgot to pay attention to my last step on the solid earth before boarding the boat. It may have been my last footstep in my country ever. When I got on, I was stupidly thinking about how much I could go for some Twizzlers.

Well, I'm already in trouble and we've only just let the final line loose from the wharf. Right after I wrote those last words as the shipmates were starting to pull up anchor and unleash us from land, I ran down the gangway, leaped onto the docks, ran to the end, and touched the ground, said “Good-bye, America,” and ran back. The captain shook his head in exasperation, and my mom went red with anger, but it was worth it. I'm back, but I keep putting down my pen to try to rub the lump out of my throat.

Now everyone is waving to no one on the shore, even Mom and Dad, so I'd better go because I want to wave too.

We're leaving our continent behind.

Two

I'll bet right now winter
is tiptoeing through the hills around Cliffden, and Arin Roland's fireplace is lit and crackling orange and bright.

I remember that the year Sam was born, on Christmas morning Mom packed him on her back in a baby carrier, and we all hiked out to see the frozen reservoir and picked icicles off a big rock. Sam giggled for the first time when I touched my icicle just for a moment to his tiny hand. It's one of the few times I can recall Dad spending the whole day playing with us instead of focusing on the thin clouds over the reservoir or lecturing us about the scientific properties of snowflakes. It's funny, I can't really remember the winters at home before Sam came. I imagine they were similar, but with the feeling of something missing.

This morning, since we don't have a Christmas tree, we gathered around a potted plant Captain Bill has on the dining table of the galley, and Mom and Dad (who are speaking to each other, but only barely, because Mom will barely even look at him) presented us each with one gift: for Millie, a bottle of perfume. (Mom says she splurged on it in Luck City, remembering that her own mom gave her perfume for Christmas the year
she
was sixteen.) For me, a set of nice pens—which Mom said she found at Prospero's and took with his blessing. For Sam, a new teddy bear that she sewed together out of socks and buttons. And for Oliver, a signed copy of
The Atlas of the Cosmos
. The inside cover was inscribed in Mom's handwriting,
To our honorary sixth family member. Thank you for hopping into our Winnebago. We love you.
(I couldn't tell whether Oliver was pleased or just uncomfortable.)

“I know we can never take the place of your real family,” Mom said uncertainly, “but we want you to know how much we care about you.”

Oliver nodded shyly, and even though I felt sad for him, I also fought back a stab of envy. It's partly that there's never enough of my mom to go around, even for
me
. And it's partly that, when he first stumbled onto the
Trinidad, Oliver was
my
friend and
my
discovery, but these days he and my family belong to each other, too. I'm trying to learn how to be gracious about these sorts of things, but it's not always easy.

Now I'm sitting wrapped in a thin flannel blanket on the quarterdeck, with this diary leaned against my knees. You'd think I would have had endless amounts of time to write since we left port, but it's hard to explain—the sea is mesmerizing, and hours go by without me even noticing. The ship is so aflutter with activity that sometimes I forget to worry about the huge crossing we've embarked on, I'm so wrapped up in the sights and sounds around me. I've decided to believe that we're going to get where we're headed, and that it's all going to turn out exactly as Dad has hoped. I think it's the only option I want to imagine.

The crew keeps busy. There are eight of them, but I've only really talked to two: There's Troy, a balding guy from New Jersey, who says he used to work at a dart-and-balloon booth at the Jersey shore until the mermaids tore the boardwalk down. He wants to get back home just about as badly as I do, and every time I see him, he pumps a fist in the air and says, “Jersey forever.” It's become our shared anthem for missing home,
and even though I'm from Maine, I say it back to him. There's also a white-haired guy named Ronald who's lived in LA his whole life and has plenty of stories about giants. There are also a couple of young Canadians who apparently joined up when the ship last docked in Nova Scotia. At night just the captain and our family gather in the galley for dinner. The room is lit by glass lanterns with drippy white candles in them. The crew eats in a “mess,” which I haven't seen.

Apparently it takes a lot of work just to keep the
Alexa
moving in a straight line, and the men are usually too busy to talk. Captain Bill seems to spend a lot of time paying attention to the winds and the stars, his face pressed to the breeze day and night, breathing in the air and always looking around him as if he's in perfect harmony with the ocean.

The breeze is fresh and cool today, and the water is such a deep blue, it's almost black. The farther south we get, the more alone we are. At first we passed other ships several times a day—on their way up to Canada with supplies, or slowly making their way south along the west coast of Mexico, full of passengers escaping the winter weather. Three or four days ago we saw two angels carrying a banner through the sky above the
shore, and at first Millie and I thought it must be some sort of important announcement, but when we got closer we realized all it said was
JOE'S VOTED #1 MARGARITAS ON THE COAST
. I'm guessing that Joe's may have the only margaritas on the coast, as Mexico has an infamous sea snake problem that keeps the beaches empty.

I've asked Captain Bill if he'd like to own a shiny new steam-powered ship like the ones we've seen, wishing that we were on one of them. (Oliver says the
Alexa
is about a hundred years old.) But he only shook his head. “They're so hard to produce, so expensive, I couldn't afford one even if I wanted one. Still, I
wouldn't
want one anyway. This girl,” he said, patting the rails of the
Alexa
, “she's solid. She's reliable. I'd rather have her than a hundred new ships.”

Now we've peeled away from the Mexican coast, and we're lucky if we spot one or two ships a day.

*  *  *

Yesterday morning we did run into some excitement. I was in the galley, doing a sock puppet show for Sam, when a shout of “all hands on deck” startled us. Upstairs the men were trimming the mainsails and steering us away from what—at first—looked like a bubbling, churning hole in the ocean, about fifty yards
away and large enough to swallow ten ships our size. I hugged Sam against me and held my breath as the others—Oliver, Mom, Millie, and Dad (coming from another direction) surfaced from below. The size of the swirling hole, the sheer force of the water, made my heart pound.

“Whirlpool,” the captain said lightly, taking my mom's arm and leading her toward the center of the deck. “Don't want you to lose your footing near the sides, it can get bumpy.” His jaw was set with concentration, but his smile was reassuring. “The sea's full of 'em. Don't worry. We're too far away to get caught in it”

Under his orders the ship listed left, then right, and soon we were skirting the danger. It didn't look like we had much room to spare, but none of the deckhands seemed worried. Only when the whirlpool was shrinking in the distance did I remember to breathe.

“Deadly whirlpools are the least of our concerns,” Captain Bill said, trying to console me but only making me more nervous. He must have read it on my face, though, because he quickly added, “I'm sorry, Gracie. I forget what it's like encountering it all for the first time; I've been on the sea so long. The ocean is a wild place, but we'll make it.” He smiled at me gently.

Millie says she thinks he's “wildly romantic” (I think she got that from a movie): He's so strong and full of life when he's throwing barrels around the ship, or giving orders, or helping his men to hoist the sails, but then when he's not busy, he turns very melancholy and thoughtful. He likes to watch the sunset and read books of poetry from a tiny library he keeps in the galley. (There are some paperback romance novels in there too, which he says are Ronald's.) Millie and I have gotten into the habit of spying on him there through the windows. (There's something about him that makes us feel giggly.) Virgil, who spends most of his time hovering at the top of the mainmast being a lookout, is depressed by this, but resigned.

Captain Bill knows everything there is to know about the ocean—he knows the exact moments the tides turn, he can gaze at a clear blue sky and predict a storm, or glance up at an ominous patch of clouds and declare carelessly that it will blow over. He's given us several enthusiastic tours of the ship, his dark beard glistening in the sun and his blue eyes bright with excitement. (The ship, as I wrote before, is ancient, but he's added some modern conveniences: a few battery-operated radios here and there, a nice compass from
REI duct-taped beside the ship's wheel, a renovated bathroom.) He's taught us all the difference between a quarterdeck and a poop deck, a keel and a rudder, and all kinds of sails, from the mizzen topgallant to the spanker. Oliver memorizes it all easily, and I'm not bad at picking things up either. Millie mostly just says, “Oh, that's so interesting!” But really I can tell she's not interested much except in just being polite to the captain. Mom says one day Millie will “find what her real interests are” and then “she'll be unstoppable.” But I haven't seen any evidence of that yet.

*  *  *

This morning, getting up just as the sun was rising, I found Oliver and Captain Bill standing at the keel, silhouetted in the early light, the breeze ruffling their hair as they watched something in the water. At first I couldn't make out what it was that kept breaking the ocean's surface and then disappearing, but then . . .