Timothy of the Cay (10 page)

I tried to picture it. "Does the book talk about Serrana Bank?"

"Yep, says it's a dangerous shoal area about forty-four miles north-northeast of Roncador..."

"Quita Sueño?"

"That one, too. 'Lies with its south end about thirty-nine miles north-northeast of Isla de Providencia and is very steep-to and dangerous. Great caution should be exercised by vessels passing east of Quita Sueño as the current sets strongly to the west...'"

"How about Serranilla?" Timothy had mentioned that one, and so had Captain Murry.

"'Lies seventy-eight miles north-northeast of Serrana Bank, twenty-four miles long, twenty miles wide, and very steep-to.'"

"Steep-to means the coral rises sharply?"

"Yep."

Somewhere around those cays and banks and shoals was Timothy's cay, our cay.

"I wish you could see this chart, Phillip. You will! Anyway, there are cays, banks, and shoals all over the place, and anyone who has sailed back in there will tell you not half are marked. It'll be like going through a minefield."

That's what both Timothy and Captain Murry had said.

Mother said, "I think I'll take a walk."

My father paused, probably looking at her as she went out the door. He started again, slowly, "Anyway, I talked to a guy in the company shipping office who's taken small tankers into both Bluefields and Puerto Cabezas, in Nicaragua, navigating right through those waters. He said they're awful, full of wrecks..."

"Captain Murry also said that..."

"So what we'll do is charter a sloop, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five feet, not much draft, and sail it straight to Catalina Harbor in Providencia Island, which belongs to Colombia, and hire a turtle fisherman to guide us to the Devil's Mouth. Panama to Providencia looks to be about two-fifty, two-seventy-five miles. How does that sound?"

"Sounds great," I said.
Would I be alive?

"The guy in Curaçao said the turtlemen know those waters like no one else. Better to play it safe."

I nodded.

"When we get there, we'll anchor as close as we can, then you'll dive overboard and swim in. And if it's the right cay, I'll come in and you can show me around. Show me the palm trees you climbed, show me the hut if it's still there, the reef where you fished, Timothy's grave..."

"When can we do it?" I asked, fighting back tears.

"Next spring. The rainy season begins in May and the sailing directions say the northeasters blow from mid-June until early November; seas get rougher..."

I knew exactly why he was talking so much about going: to give me hope.

"I'll borrow a sextant and brush up on my navigation this winter," he said.

Would I be alive this winter? Would I be able to see this winter?

"We have to plan ahead."

He'd been an ocean sailor when he was younger. He sailed a twenty-two-foot cutter to Bermuda by himself when he was twenty-eight, before he married my mother.

I tried to think only of seeking out the cay and of what fun that would be.

"I'm looking at the chart now. Going to Providencia, until we get into the area of Cayos de Albuquerque, Cayo Bolivar, and San Andres Island, there shouldn't be any problems. Plenty of deep water all the way from the canal entrance."

Dr. Pohl said he was going to cut a window in my skull.

"How long will it take us to get to Providencia?"

"Oh, at five knots, let's say ... three days—if we get fair winds—four days, at most..."

Dr. Pohl said there'd be seizures, minor ones but maybe major ones, too.

"Then we stay there how long?"

"Just long enough to hire a guide."

Dr. Pohl lost one patient on the operating table.

"Then from Providencia to the cay, how long?"

"Oh, another two days, if we're lucky. Maybe the turtlemen will know exactly where it is..."

Another patient was brain damaged.

A ticking in my stomach had begun. Much as I tried not to, I was still thinking about tomorrow. I tried to clear my mind of the operating table and the ether smell and the gigli saw, but couldn't. My hands began to shake and I was ready to yell out, "I'll stay blind!" when my mother returned.

She said, "I saw Dr. Pohl in the hall, and he said he thought everything would go well tomorrow."

He'd said that to me this morning.

I said, "Could I please have a drink of water?"

I hated to have to ask someone for something so simple. But I'd already knocked two glasses off the bedside table by reaching for them.

She put the straw to my lips and said, "It's really pretty outside and not too hot." It had rained during the night. "Would you like to take a walk, Phillip?"

I said, "Okay." Maybe that would help. "The nurse said she put my shoes in the closet." I'd been in the room twenty-four hours and didn't know where the closet was. It seemed that every ten seconds, in every way, I was reminded that I was blind.

With my parents on either side, my father's hand lightly on my arm, guiding me, we left the hospital and walked a long way. The afternoon sun warmed my face and traffic noises rose and fell beside us. The exhaust fumes were bitter. Yet I didn't mind the sounds or the fumes. I welcomed all of them. I might never feel the sun again, hear the cars, smell the vapors. Suddenly, fear of the operation returned.

I tripped and fell, then tried to laugh it off.

***

Back in the room, we didn't talk very much. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

I could smell food, hear the dinner carts out in the hallway, but knew there'd be no food for me tonight. Another reminder of tomorrow.

Just before visiting hours were over, the night nurse came in and said, without thinking, "It's going to be another beautiful sunset tonight."

At that moment, I knew for certain I had no choice. I had to go ahead with the operation. There were sunsets and sunrises I wanted to see. And cays.

My parents stood by my bed, holding hands with me, and it was my mother who said, "We love you very much, Phillip, and have great faith in you and in Dr. Pohl." She bent over and kissed me, saying, "We'll go up in the Empire State Building..."

My father said, "We'll need your eyes to spot those coral heads on the way to Providencia..."

He squeezed my hand until it hurt.

Those might be the last words I ever heard from them.

APRIL
1886
—Under full sail, the
Gertrude Theismann
was far out in the Atlantic, roughly 250 miles off Trinidad and Tobago, at the tip of South America, when the weather turned ugly. In early afternoon, heavy sooty clouds filled with electricity swept in from the east and claps of thunder echoed in the distance.

Timothy didn't need to be told that a storm was approaching after ten days of fair winds and gentle seas. He could see it and smell it. The air had suddenly freshened and chilled. The taut halyards and shrouds had begun to vibrate and sing. He felt a throb of excitement. He'd never been at sea in a storm.

Luther yelled, "Clear de topside!"

Stow anything loose that might slide or whip around. Check lashings. Loose gear could mean broken legs or worse.

Timothy stowed his holystone, the soft sandstone block he'd been grinding over the wooden deck several hours a day for a week, and then joined Horace Simpson. They tightened the straps on a couple of empty barrels used to catch rainwater.

Then the cold-edged wind began to screech and Mr. Tanner shouted orders to furl the royals, crojack, and flying jib. Lower and gather them in.

Timothy's heart beat faster.

The flying jib and crojack, the fore and aft lower sails, could be easily furled. The royals meant going high up the mast.

Timothy eyed them, those rectangles of canvas bellied out three-quarters the way up. He eyed the ratlines. Fear came back in a hot rush, shortening his breath.

As rain attacked in bursts, squall seas mounting, Timothy hesitated and Luther singled him out. "Lay aloft an' furl, you damn nigra boy..." His eyes matched the lightning, full of meanness.

This time the climb wasn't to test courage. This time there'd be no cowardly moment in which to cling to the ratlines, give way to the height or to the roar of the storm, plead silently for help.

Horace shouted, "Climb ahead o' me!" and shoved Timothy to join Luther and the others running across the slick deck toward the foremast. Salt spray sheeted over them. The ship had begun to heave and roll, slanting over the waves, heeling to port under the full spread of her sails. Those sails had to be reduced or they could be torn away.

For the second time in ten days, Timothy was going up a tall mast. This time rain spattered him, wind grabbed at him. Heart slamming, his hands grasped the ratlines as the sailor above him left them. He made his legs move up.

Over the storm's fury, he heard Horace shout, "Remember what I tol' you!..."

When you get out on the yard, lay your belly over it, let the footrope take your weight; keep the middle of your soles on the rope. Don't step, slide your feet along.

The footropes were about four feet below the yards. Below that was empty air, then the deck or roaring seas. Fall and die! Above were churning clouds.

Wishing he'd never seen a ship, wishing he were safe at home in Back o' All, Timothy climbed.

Horace kept shouting, "Keep goin', keep goin'!..." Then, "Go to starboard," as they reached the foreroyal's yard.

A rope less than an inch thick was the only thing between Timothy's soles and certain death 165 feet below. He wanted to close his eyes but didn't dare.

Moving around him, Horace shouted, "Come on out, yuh doin' fine!"

Timothy found it hard to breathe but forced himself to follow. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Luther grinning at him, coming his way. The grin said,
Meet Ol' Debbil Wind.

In a moment, edging along the spar, separated from both Horace and Luther by seven or eight feet and sandwiched between them, Timothy found himself pulling at the leech lines to draw the wet canvas in. Leg and arm muscles straining, he soon realized he was almost as strong as the Bajan. There was no pause for fear. He didn't look down or up, just at the folds of the heavy, water-soaked canvas.
Gather them in; tie them off.

Twice more, he went aloft, each time as scary as the first. His feet slipped off the soaked mainroyal-yard footrope, causing a suck of breath, causing his stomach to drop like a cliff boulder. But his belly was firmly across the spar, as Horace had instructed, and his hands firmly clutched sail. A few seconds later he regained footing and kept pulling.

After the sails had been furled, he collapsed on his hands and knees on deck near the mizzenmast, as if he were praying, his whole body trembling. Though the squall wind had lessened, rain was still pelting down.

A moment later he raised his head and saw brown feet in front of him. He looked upward into the bleak face of Luther Oisten. "Lay aloft, nigra boy," said Luther. "Check de ties on de mainroyal."

It was unnecessary, everyone knew. Those ties would hold even if the wind blew for three days. For three weeks.

Timothy glanced at Horace, who was standing nearby.

Horace was staring at the Bajan and seemed ready to speak. Even to fight him. But an order was an order.

Horace finally looked back at Timothy and murmured, "Do it."
Don't cross the bo'sun. Show him! Show him, dammit.

Luther smiled at Horace. "Yuh dis boy's keeper?"

Horace nodded. "In a way."

Meanwhile, Timothy was headed for the mainmast shrouds, hoping there was enough strength still left in his arms and legs to get him up and down the ratlines.

Captain Roberts and Mr. Tanner stood impassively, just watching. After all, the captain had ordered the Bajan to train the boy.

When Timothy finally returned to the deck, exhausted, he hated Luther Oisten as much as he feared him. But Horace said quietly, "Yuh won."

He could climb and sail with the best of them, though he was only fourteen.

At about eight o'clock, after my parents had gone back to the Commodore, an orderly came into the room to shave my head.

"My name is Harold," he said. "I'll be givin' you a free haircut. First I'll use the clippers, then a razor."

"On my whole head?"

"Yep."

"Why do you have to do that?"

"So no germs can get in during the surgery. Doctor's orders."

He asked me to sit on a chair, and soon the hair clipper buzzed. I knew I'd look funny if and when I ever saw myself. Completely bald.

Harold asked, "What kinda operation you gonna have?"

"There's a malformation on my optic nerve. Dr. Pohl is going to try and relieve the pressure. Then I can see again." Hopefully.

"Never heard any complaints about him," said Harold.

"He's supposed to be world famous," I said.

"That I didn't know," Harold said, as the buzzing stopped. Cut hair had fallen over my face and he brushed it off. "Now I'm going to put some shaving cream over your head. I want you to hold very still."

He said he had a straight razor, then he laughed. "You got to hold still 'less you want the surgery to begin tonight."

I felt the warm cream, then the sharp blade as he pulled it over my skull. It tickled more than hurt.

"Oops," he said.

I'd felt that cut.

"I nicked you. Shame on me! Jus' hold still."

Before he finished and wiped my skull clean, I heard a female voice. "Hi, I'm Dr. Leonard." Her hand touched mine. I could smell her perfume. "I'm your anesthesiologist. I'll be putting you to sleep in the morning."

Harold said, "And she does it right!...You can get back on your bed now." He said, "Good luck," and departed.

I ran my hand over my head. It felt like a bowling ball. I was almost glad I couldn't see myself.

As I climbed back on the bed, Dr. Leonard said, "You're the talk of the hospital. We've never had a castaway patient. You're a live Robinson Crusoe..."

That's what the newspapers and
Time
magazine had said.
Life
had run a picture of me holding Stew Cat, walking off the
Sedgewick.