I remember marveling at the calmness of the river, the way the prow of the boat cut through the water and how the wake seemed oiled. The mangrove trees towered over the river and the down-growing roots were as thick as a man’s arm. The river forked and the fisher—Maas Len, he told us—took the western fork and then the river took a wide curve through logwood and guango trees and banks of wild cane and other plants I had not seen before. We turned into a tributary—Slipe River, Maas Len said—and the wide river became smaller and Maas Len cut the engine and we glided. There was no shade and despite the coolness of the water under the canoe, the heat was fearsome.
The tributary became so narrow that vegetation brushed at the side of the boat and Maas Len pulled the engine over the stern, and picked up a long stick. He poled the boat along, leaning heavily on the stick, finding a rhythm born of long practice. The river was now more land than sea and the vegetation on the banks was tall. Mosquitoes swarmed. I had never been anywhere on land so silent.
The river came to a circular pool, where it seemed to end. The plants crowded in. And there a few boats were moored, and in one of them, my father was loading his boat with cone-shaped baskets. He looked up and saw me, and said only these words: Which one? Which one of my sons has gone to drift?
18
“Come in,” Captain Blake said. Miller took Lloyd’s arm and they went inside, the boy almost tripping over the blanket that was still draped around his shoulders. The control room was full of dials and equipment. “Sir!” said Miller, coming to attention. “The stowaway. Lloyd Saunders. He’s a little dehydrated, some cuts and bruises, but no infectious diseases as far as I can see. No fever. Lungs clear.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Did he have something to eat?”
“Bully beef sandwich, sir. Polished it off. And some mint tea.”
“Dismissed.”
“Sir!” Miller left the control room and shut the door behind him.
“You’re in deep trouble, youngster,” said the captain. His voice was rough but he did not sound cruel.
Lloyd met his eyes. “Me know, sah. My granddaddy is lost at sea. Him been missin almost a week. The last place him go is Pedro. Me had to come look for him.”
“You could have just asked the Coast Guard to look for him.”
“Me do that—we do that. But them not so interested in one old fisher.”
This was the wrong thing to say. The captain was not pleased. “The Coast Guard will search for any lost Jamaican.”
“Yes, sah, but me is his grandson, and . . .”
“Lloyd Saunders? Is that right? How old are you?” The captain picked up a pen and began to write on a large yellow pad.
“Soon be thirteen,” said Lloyd, although his birthday was months away.
“Do your parents know where you are?”
“Told my mother me was crewing for a fisher; no, she don’t know.”
“And your father?”
“Him don’t know.”
“How did you get on board the Surrey?”
Lloyd told his story. He left out Dwight’s part in his daring plan—he did not want to tell the captain his friend’s name. He could see the captain did not believe him, but he did not ask him for more details about the beatbox artist. He told the captain of his first visit to the base with Jules—he hoped the captain knew who she was. It was good to have high-up friends. The captain wrote on his pad, stopping him every now and then to ask a question. Lloyd realized the sea was much calmer and his eyelids felt heavy. He thought he could sleep for days. He thought of his dry, steady bed at home with longing.
An intercom squawked. “Arriving at Middle Cay, sir,” said a hollow voice.
“Thank you.” Captain Blake stood. “Well, you went through a lot to get here, youngster. I’ll say that for you. Leave me now. I will deal with you later. Foster! Take him below. Stay with him.”
“Please, Captain, let me stay on deck. Me don’t . . . me want to see.”
The captain looked at him. “Underneath the dinghy, eh? Foster, he can stay on deck but don’t let him out of your sight. After we anchor, I’ll decide what to do with him.”
“Aye aye, sah!” Foster said and saluted.
They went onto the deck and into bright sunshine. Lloyd squinted. Sailors stood around the ship at their posts and the Surrey’s engines raced. He sat on one edge of the dinghy he had hidden under while the Surrey made several attempts to anchor, the engines racing, sailors shouting orders. Lloyd heard the rattle of the anchor chain and wondered if he would be able to get his bag. Finally, the sailor on the forward deck shouted that the anchor held and the engines shut down. For a moment, there was silence and an air of relief on the Surrey. Then the voices of the sailors started as they made ready to disembark. Lloyd could see Middle Cay in the distance—probably the water was too shallow for the big ship to anchor closer to the cay.
The sailors gathered on the stern deck. They carried duffel bags and their faces were glum—it did not seem they wanted to spend a week on Middle Cay, exchanging places with the previous week’s shift. Lloyd wondered where on the Cay they stayed after the Surrey left them. Wherever it was, he was sure there would be no fresh water from a tap.
He saw two fishing canoes heading their way, leaping over the waves. One of the canoes came alongside where there was a ladder. Sailors jumped into the canoe. Orders
