The Cow, The Cat, The Captain and The Church Mice (Part 3)

Her father owned boats in  Her father owned boats in Bermuda. 

Blue canyons opened under her feet before she could speak; waves heightened and narrowed her distance from clouds. She rode with him, an odd appendage for a seaman, and took her first wobbly steps on a reeling deck.  There was plenty of food, beauty and love.  Colors, sunshine and fruit even brightened her dreams.  Scary thoughts followed her, like children everywhere, into the night. She, however, had unique advantages.

She had the sea's relentless reminder that she was not alone.  Waves on the shore spoke assurances without words; without cessation.  A bad dream or troubled thought might sit as a lump in her throat but the merciless pounding of the turquoise defender always won.  If the problem was big, part of the solution was spending more time on the beach.  A visit with eyes closed would often do the trick.  If complexities tugged, she would enter to her ankles; heartbreak required knees or hips be submerged.  Recreational forays were not the same as problem-solving visits.  Age, experience and observation helped her differentiate.  She watched her father.

She watched him take sea baths, submerging himself in rote memorization.  He used the same format each time: a handful on each shoulder, squinting at open water as the droplets ran down his back.  Again.  Then with cupped hands to the face, he bent his knees and disappeared below.  Watching him gave the same steady confidence she derived from sunsets and the tide.  She could tell him what was wrong and he could fix it.  Childhood limitations kept her father's problems beyond consideration.

She first suspected trouble when his sea bathing pattern changed.  A wearied resignation laced his wading in and out.  She used to recite the order of his libations by heart.  Deferential respect kept her from telling him he was messing up; rather she watched.  The more she watched, the more she saw that he was not messing up; something was messing him up.

When she looked up from his sea baths, she saw that his boats were still in the harbor.  She saw his crews - she called them "Oco" in an attempt to pronounce "Uncles" - on dry land.  Above her head and behind closed doors, decision makers were changing the sea.  The Smoot-Hawley Tariff ended Bermudan exports to the United States by increasing her father's prices by 200%.  Many stubbornly sowed the next year but her father's boats taught without words.  As a crop, planted in defiance, rotted in the fields, his eyes turned from the water to his daughter.  Recognition and merciless simplicity trickled from his gaze to her girlhood. People he had never seen in rooms he'd never entered were making decisions about the people he loved. 

His home, so welcoming after so many voyages, became a prison cell; the island a prison yard.  She watched her father's descent.  First the ships stopped, then the creditors appeared: polite and apologetic at first.  Slowly their vitriol moved in like the tide.  Heirlooms and essentials were appraised, inventoried and taken as sequentially as cats kill mice.  The deeds took time and were at the pleasure of credit-lending cats; to the detriment of moneyless mice.

There had been indiscretions but her father took his lumps.  Her half sibling was provided for, but her mother was the queen.  He had drinking buddies but stood up and sat down in a shirt and tie each Sunday.  A gambling habit mirrored a career on open water but his crews served with distinction.  Debts were paid before voyages even if the currency was a collateralized stake in the payload.  Residents knew he would be back to claim his guarantees, cash in hand. 

As the tariffs stripped the cash, debts mounted, collateral evaporated and islanders left.  Under the guise of a stateside visit to family, she left her home without a fight.  If she had known her separation would be a decade, getting her off the island would have been difficult. While the deception of festive visitation was a problem, her parents ferreted her away because there were bigger problems.  Exported fruit and vegetables were exchanged for imported tourists and contractors. 

Her island home was initially ill-equipped to absorb mainland appetites, attitudes and assumptions.  A suzerain orientation thickened each airplane's landing and takeoff.  While her womanhood blossomed, so did expat expectations of archipelago femininity.  Workers, far from home, wanted warmth.  Rum and sun produced frothy certainty, in the foreign born, of love at first sight.  Each Saturday brought and sent daring men with disposable income and Antilles anonymity.  Law enforcement on the island was a slight step up from posses and club wielding militias.  The men empowered to protect and serve understood the signs of the times: wine, women and song were the new island exports.

The trade wind merchant sensed the shift and cashed in all of his chips.  Like an old pirate, he'd buried treasure with coded maps.  In an act of contrition, he fetched every farthing and picked the child to save.  He had two daughters but knew the cost of sending anyone to the mainland meant his children had to take turns.  After Sunday dinner, with his shiny shoes and thinning collar, he asked her mother to call her aunt in Shaker Heights, OH.  She was old enough to fly alone; old enough to draw tourists' gazes; old enough to know nothing would ever be the same.

Posted by Alex Pickens III at 4:46 AM  . 

Blue canyons opened under her feet before she could speak; waves heightened and narrowed her distance from clouds. She rode with him, an odd appendage for a seaman, and took her first wobbly steps on a reeling deck.  There was plenty of food, beauty and love.  Colors, sunshine and fruit even brightened her dreams.  Scary thoughts followed her, like children everywhere, into the night. She, however, had unique advantages.

She had the sea's relentless reminder that she was not alone.  Waves on the shore spoke assurances without words; without cessation.  A bad dream or troubled thought might sit as a lump in her throat but the merciless pounding of the turquoise defender always won.  If the problem was big, part of the solution was spending more time on the beach.  A visit with eyes closed would often do the trick.  If complexities tugged, she would enter to her ankles; heartbreak required knees or hips be submerged.  Recreational forays were not the same as problem-solving visits.  Age, experience and observation helped her differentiate.  She watched her father.

She watched him take sea baths, submerging himself in rote memorization.  He used the same format each time: a handful on each shoulder, squinting at open water as the droplets ran down his back.  Again.  Then with cupped hands to the face, he bent his knees and disappeared below.  Watching him gave the same steady confidence she derived from sunsets and the tide.  She could tell him what was wrong and he could fix it.  Childhood limitations kept her father's problems beyond consideration.

She first suspected trouble when his sea bathing pattern changed.  A wearied resignation laced his wading in and out.  She used to recite the order of his libations by heart.  Deferential respect kept her from telling him he was messing up; rather she watched.  The more she watched, the more she saw that he was not messing up; something was messing him up.

When she looked up from his sea baths, she saw that his boats were still in the harbor.  She saw his crews - she called them "Oco" in an attempt to pronounce "Uncles" - on dry land.  Above her head and behind closed doors, decision makers were changing the sea.  The Smoot-Hawley Tariff ended Bermudan exports to the United States by increasing her father's prices by 200%.  Many stubbornly sowed the next year but her father's boats taught without words.  As a crop, planted in defiance, rotted in the fields, his eyes turned from the water to his daughter.  Recognition and merciless simplicity trickled from his gaze to her girlhood. People he had never seen in rooms he'd never entered were making decisions about the people he loved. 

His home, so welcoming after so many voyages, became a prison cell; the island a prison yard.  She watched her father's descent.  First the ships stopped, then the creditors appeared: polite and apologetic at first.  Slowly their vitriol moved in like the tide.  Heirlooms and essentials were appraised, inventoried and taken as sequentially as cats kill mice.  The deeds took time and were at the pleasure of credit-lending cats; to the detriment of moneyless mice.

There had been indiscretions but her father took his lumps.  Her half sibling was provided for, but her mother was the queen.  He had drinking buddies but stood up and sat down in a shirt and tie each Sunday.  A gambling habit mirrored a career on open water but his crews served with distinction.  Debts were paid before voyages even if the currency was a collateralized stake in the payload.  Residents knew he would be back to claim his guarantees, cash in hand. 

As the tariffs stripped the cash, debts mounted, collateral evaporated and islanders left.  Under the guise of a stateside visit to family, she left her home without a fight.  If she had known her separation would be a decade, getting her off the island would have been difficult. While the deception of festive visitation was a problem, her parents ferreted her away because there were bigger problems.  Exported fruit and vegetables were exchanged for imported tourists and contractors. 

Her island home was initially ill-equipped to absorb mainland appetites, attitudes and assumptions.  A suzerain orientation thickened each airplane's landing and takeoff.  While her womanhood blossomed, so did expat expectations of archipelago femininity.  Workers, far from home, wanted warmth.  Rum and sun produced frothy certainty, in the foreign born, of love at first site.  Each Saturday brought and sent daring men with disposable income and Antilles anonymity.  Law enforcement on the island was a slight step up from posses and club wielding militias.  The men empowered to protect and serve understood the signs of the times: wine, women and song were the new island exports.

The trade wind merchant sensed the shift and cashed in all of his chips.  Like an old pirate, he'd buried treasure with coded maps.  In an act of contrition, he fetched every farthing and picked the child to save.  He had two daughters but knew the cost of sending anyone to the mainland meant his children had to take turns.  After Sunday dinner, with his shiny shoes and thinning collar, he asked her mother to call her aunt in Shaker Heights, OH.  She was old enough to fly alone; old enough to draw tourists' gazes; old enough to know nothing would ever be the same.