Navigating Early by Clare Vanderpool
“Really?” Sam muttered. “ ’Cause by my clock it’s about five a.m., which is about an hour and a half before my alarm’s set to go off.” He stretched and, yawning, said, “Which means I’m about to go back to bed.”
“Time waits for no man, Feeney. Suit up.”
Emerging from my dorm room in my own Morton Hill–issued sweats, I finally clomped down the stairs. I made it out of the building and was the last one to catch up with the other eighth-grade boys on their walk down to the calm inlet called Wabenaki Bay. By the time we reached the water, the boats were all full, with groups of two and four boys to a boat. Those sleek vessels had names, painted on the sides, like Torpedo and Jerry Runner and Spoiler.
By the time I set foot on the swaying dock, the only boat left was a weather-beaten vessel named the Sweetie Pie.
“All aboard, Mr. Baker.” Mr. Blane extended his hand with a flourish, as if the Sweetie Pie were the flagship of a magnificent fleet of rowing vessels and not the sorry, saggy swamp bucket it appeared to be.
“This is my boat?” I asked.
“Yes. I know she looks a bit rough around the edges, but she’s yar,” he said, before moving on down the dock.
“Yar?” I repeated. I stared at the boat, with its two seats. My face must have screamed confusion.
“Don’t you know anything?” Robbie Dean asked. “Your boat’s a double, which means it’s for two people. But you’re the last one here, so you’ll have to row it as a single.” He took up the rowing position in his boat, which was sleeker and obviously designed for just one person.
“But what does yar mean?” I asked.
“Quick to maneuver. Easy to handle.”
“Quick to maneuver. Easy to handle,” I repeated. “Got it.”
“Now, remember, this isn’t a race,” said Mr. Blane. “We’re just trying to get our legs pumping. So let’s get you out and see what we have to work with.”
One by one, the boats were pushed away from the dock. Most were two-man boats. Robbie Dean and Sam shoved away from the dock in the Jerry Runner, while Preston Townsend occupied the only other single, the Spoiler. I watched as they glided through the water, straight as arrows, their bodies moving forward and backward, legs pushing, arms pulling, in one fluid motion.
“Mr. Baker. Let’s see how you fare. You know how to row, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. It can’t be that hard, I thought. My arms and legs were strong from swimming and bike riding, even though I hadn’t done much of either after everything with my mom. I eased myself aboard and tried to position myself in the seat, hoping to catch up with the other boats.
“Quit messing around, Baker,” hollered Mr. Blane. “Turn around and get moving.”
Turn around? I looked up, expecting Mr. Blane to yank me out of the water and put me in a beginners’ rowing class with the sixth graders. But he was studying his clipboard and seemed to mistake my bumbling for messing around. I guess I had told him I knew how to row, but I didn’t think he’d believe me.
Another boy rolled his eyes. “You don’t face forward. See how they’re rowing? You face backward.”
Backward?
I turned around. This time, my feet found their place, and I started rowing—backward. In a direction I couldn’t see. Still, it was a big bay. Nothing really to run into. I hunched forward as far as my body would reach and gave the oars a mighty heave. Mom always said I was as strong as an ox. And an ox had to be stronger than anything they had around here—like lobster and shrimp. I’ll be fine, I told myself.
My heart began pounding, and for the first few strokes, I felt the thrill of gliding through the water. Until I realized I was veering off course. I tried pulling a little harder with the left oar and veered off course even more. Must be the right oar. I tugged and pulled. Yar. Quick to maneuver. This boat isn’t quick to do anything except go off in the wrong direction.
Slowly, I veered back toward the center of the bay. Uh-oh. Too far the other way. And so it went. Too far this way, too far that way. I zigzagged back and forth across the bay. As I made a wide turn to head back, I saw that most of the boats had already arrived at the dock. Well, I could still make a strong finish. There’s no shame in coming in last as long as your head’s up and your tail’s not between your legs. Three guesses who said that.
I had the dock in sight, as much as it could be as I strained to look over my left shoulder. The other boats were already out of the water. What was maybe a twenty-minute row for the other boys was taking me twice as long. The rowers stood on the deck, watching me make my approach. My shoulders and back ached, and my legs shook violently each time they crunched forward and pushed back. Even my hands were clenched, so tight on the oars that I didn’t think I’d be able to pry them off. But I would finish, and it would be over.
I was already rehearsing my finishing line. It took me a while to figure her out, but she sure is yar.
Finally, I pulled the Sweetie Pie along the dock with a scraping noise that sounded like a cat on a midnight prowl. Preston, Sam, Robbie Dean, and the others all watched with pained grimaces on their faces, waiting for the boat and the noise to come to a stop. I stood up and felt the evil Sweetie Pie pitch left, then right, and before I could say Jack Tar, I was upended in Wabenaki Bay.
There were a few chuckles and shaking of heads as the boys lifted the remaining boats onto their shoulders and headed to the boathouse. I took my time getting out of the water, as I was not eager to catch up. Mr. Blane extended his hand and gave me a lift. “It’s all right, Baker. I guess you’re not as experienced at rowing as you let on. We’ll work on it for next time.”
Next time. That’s just what Coach Baynard had said after the incident in the pool. That’s what Mom had said about my next survival outing. How many next times would there have to be?
“Here, help me get her out of the water,” said Mr. Blane. I lifted the boat but wasn’t sure how much I helped. “I’m sure one of the boys will help you carry her to the boathouse. I’ve got a faculty meeting in a few minutes.” He patted me on the back. “You’ll get the hang of it next time. See you in math class, Baker.” Mr. Blane walked briskly up the dock.
“Yes, sir,” I said, glad to be left alone. I stood dripping and shaking like one of our old barn cats, glaring at the source of my contempt. The Sweetie Pie. I gave her a swift kick and toppled her onto her craggy side.
Yup, she sure is yar, if by yar you mean wobbly, easily tipped, and likely to throw you in the drink.
6
I read somewhere, probably in a National Geographic magazine, that you can tell a lot about people by what they enshrine. I suppose every place has its temples. In my hometown, the church is at the center of everything: pot-lucks, baptisms, weddings, auctions, bingo. At my old school the baseball diamond was our shrine. The folks from town would fill the bleachers and pray for victory. As players, we were well versed in the scripture of baseball lore and knew all the patron saints: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Ty Cobb, and Joe DiMaggio.
The moment I set foot in the stone boathouse, I knew this was Morton Hill Academy’s shrine. According to Headmaster Conrady, the Nook, as it was called, was the oldest building on campus. Inside were sturdy wooden beams, lobster traps, coiled ropes, and a colorful array of oars. The scents of lemon wax, polish, and apple cider vinegar were as powerful as any incense I’d smelled. But it was the boats themselves, gleaming and elevated like altars, that were the focal point.
I held my breath, waiting for the heavens to open and angels to begin singing as I walked almost in procession to a single boat called the Maine. It was in the center and seemed to hold the place of highest honor. I reached out my hand, thinking if I could just rub it like a genie’s lamp, I could have my wish granted. My fingers touched the rich grain, and I considered my wish. That should have been easy, right? Everybody’s got a special wish. I thought harder. Of course, I could have wished that Mom wasn’t dead. I could have wished that my dad wasn’t in the navy. I could have cli
Letting out a sigh of defeat, I realized I didn’t even know what to wish for. I looked down at the Sweetie Pie with scorn. Her tired frame and half-split oars seemed to reflect my own shabby state. I was too stubborn to ask the other boys for help, so I’d had to hoist and tug and even drag her back to the boathouse myself.
I pressed my hand to the rich wood of the Maine and let out a breath. It was a little wish, and I knew it didn’t count for much in the great scheme of things. But it was all I could muster.
I wish I had a better boat.
Then I heard a noise and drew back my hand. There was a rustling sound in the corner. I peeked around another boat, and there was Early Auden. What was he? Some kind of second-rate genie? His back was to me, but he spoke as if he were looking at me.
“You row crooked.” He reached into a canister of wax and pulled out a glob. “You’re left-handed, and you pull harder on that side. That makes you go crooked.”
“Is that so?” I asked, the spell of the boathouse broken. I went to look for the Sweetie Pie’s stall or rack or whatever fancy name they might call it, since they had a different word for everything. It would probably be in an out-of-the-way spot that wouldn’t be a source of embarrassment to the other boats. Sure enough, there was an open rack next to the workbench where Early Auden was kneading some honey into the wax.
“Your body is stiff and your shoulders are too tight. You’re working against the boat instead of with it.”
“Uh-huh.” I hoisted one end of the Sweetie Pie before Early helped me with the other end. He wasn’t very strong, so it was still an ordeal to lift the boat onto its rack.
“And you slouch.”
“Great.” I slammed the boat in place. “Maybe next time you should just hop on and give me your instructions the whole way.”
“Okay,” Early answered. “But we’ll wait a few days. Tomorrow you’ll be too sore. You’ll still walk funny, but here, this will help.” He scooped dollops of the wax and vinegar and honey concoction into a jar.
“What?” I said. “No, I didn’t mean—”
“Put your arms out. Like this.” He spread my arms out to the sides in a T, then took a tape measure from a drawer and began measuring. My arm span, height, and legs. “You’re tall. And your sculls are too short.”
He handed me a pair of shiny wooden oars with brightly painted paddles.
Right. Sculls equals oars. Got it. But at that point I didn’t care.
“You need longer sculls so you can have a wider rowing span.”
“Look,” I said, “I appreciate it, but … I didn’t mean I really wanted … What I’m trying to say is, I don’t need your help.”
Early smiled. “That’s what he said.”
“What who said?”
“Pi. Remember that part I told you, when he set out on his voyage? Remember that, Jackie?”
It hit me like a wave of ice-cold water, and I found myself holding my breath. My mom was the only one who called me Jackie.
“Remember, he wanted to set out. To be the first navigator. But it wasn’t easy for him at first either.”
My jaw tightened. “Yeah, I remember. But I don’t want to hear another story about numbers right now. And my name is Jack.”
“Jack Baker. I know you. You’re from Kansas. Do they not have boats in Kansas?”
“Of course we have boats in Kansas. Only we use them to fish, not just row around in circles. Besides, the boat I got stuck with is lopsided, rickety, leaky, and ugly. And it has a stupid name. What kind of name is the Sweetie Pie? I’m surprised it doesn’t have a pair of red lips smacked on the side.”
I took a breath after my rant.
Then Early said, “If you don’t like it, take it apart and make it right.”
I kept my back to him. I didn’t want his help. I didn’t want his advice. What did he know, anyway? He was just an odd kid who nobody listened to.
Still, I remembered my mom’s words about the soap box derby car that I’d left out in the rain. The same words Early had used. If you don’t like it, take it apart and make it right.
Then I turned around, but Early was gone. Only the jar of waxy goop remained. My muscles were already starting to tighten up, but I didn’t need Early’s help, so I headed back to the dorm to get ready for class, leaving the jar in its place.
I woke up the next morning and could barely get out of bed. The muscles in my arms, shoulders, back, and legs ached as if I’d just walked the Appalachian Trail, then swum the English Channel, then gotten hit by a bus. It even hurt to open my eyes. But I did, and that’s when I saw the jar of honey-colored ointment on my desk.
I sat up and tender-footed my way across the cold tile floor and reached for the jar. Opening it would be another matter. My hands had been clenched so tight on the mismatched oars of the Sweetie Pie throughout my zigzag course of the day before that now they felt the way my grandpa Henry’s gnarled, arthritic hands looked like they must feel. But I made them clamp on the lid and twist.
The smell was shifty. It wafted up first as honey, then snuck up on me with a stiff vinegar-and-menthol punch. I quickly put the lid back on to keep the odor at bay. After a painful and fairly awkward trip to the bathroom, I went back to my room and thought about whether or not to use Early’s ointment. Reasons for using it: Early said I’d still walk funny, but it would make me feel better. And the smell would keep vampires away. Reasons against: I’d stink to high heaven, and the smell would keep everyone else away.
But after the pool incident and then my latest embarrassment in trying to row the Sweetie Pie, I didn’t figure I’d have too many guys wanting me to join their table at lunch anyway. So I stuck my fingers in the goop jar and applied it to my sore spots, which pretty much covered my whole body. Then I put on my khaki pants and blue oxford shirt and walked out of my dorm room to brave the sniffs and snorts of the students of Morton Hill Academy.
Semper Fi.
7
By the time I got to math class, the boys were giving me a wide berth. I slipped in the back row and took out my textbook.
After a lesson on congruent triangles, during which I struggled to keep my eyes open, Sam Feeney raised his hand. “Mr. Blane, I read an article about that professor you mentioned and his theory of pi ending. He’s presenting his theory at the Fall Mathematical Institute, in Boston. How do you think he’s going to show that pi ends?”
“Well, I’ve read quite a bit about it myself, and his theory is based on a trend that he has noticed in the most recently calculated digits of pi. Right now, we know pi to over seven hundred digits after the decimal point. But as you know, mathematicians are continuing to calculate more and more numbers.
“Professor Stanton has discovered that in the last one hundred digits of the most recent calculation of pi, the number one no longer appears. He believes that this trend will continue and that the numbers will continue to cease to appear until the entire number pi collapses in on itself and ends.”
I looked around the room to see if everyone else was as befuddled as I was. They were.
“Imagine, if you will,” Mr. Blane continued, “a pool table. There are fifteen numbered balls on the table. Each time one of the numbered balls is sunk in a pocket, that number ceases to play a part in the game. If balls continue to be knocked into pockets, eventually there will be no numbers left, and the game ends.”
Robbie Dean’s hand went up. “And Professor Stanton can prove that numbers will continue to disappear until the whole number pi ends?”
“That remains to be seen at the Fall Math Institute.” Mr. Blane’s eyes flashed with excitement. “It might make for a great field trip, if any of you are interested. There will be mathematicians there from all over the world. It could be the equivalent of Sir Galahad discovering the Holy Grail—or, rather, discovering that the Holy Grail doesn’t exist.”
“What if he?
“That would be called a proof by contradiction. Someone would have to find one of the numbers that is supposed to have disappeared. It would be like finding one of the missing pool balls. If it could be shown that a missing number was back in play, Professor Stanton’s theory would be contradicted and rendered invalid.”
There was a buzz around the room as boys considered the prospect. Then the bell rang.
“Class dismissed, gentlemen.”
I didn’t think Mr. Blane’s revelation would spark such discussion, but that evening in the dormitory, a few boys congregated in Sam and Robbie Dean’s room, relaxing on their Friday night. Granted, it didn’t start out as a discussion of pi, but rather as a sort of pie-eating event. Robbie Dean’s mother had sent an apple crumble pie for him to share among his friends, and there was a great deal of dispute over how big a slice each boy should get.
From the talk I overheard from my room next door, mainly through the vent that opened into both rooms, I gathered that Sam was insisting he should get a bigger piece because there was more of him to feed. Robbie Dean said his mother meant for him to share slivers, not full-fledged pieces. And Preston Townsend said that he had always been a favorite of Robbie Dean’s mother, and he was sure that she meant for him to have a healthy portion.
I sat reading a National Geographic magazine on Machu Picchu, trying to convince myself that I preferred having a room all to myself and that I enjoyed the quiet. But the noises from next door, the eating, the chatter, the banter, presented me with a head-on proof by contradiction that I was fooling myself. I was lonely.