Castle of Water: A Novel(44)

“Yes! Let me put in my contacts.”

Suddenly eager as a Labrador puppy, Barry bounded out of the hut and loped across the sand, to the other side of the island where their craft kept its berth. Sophie jogged just a few feet behind him, excited, for a change, to see the look on his face.

And there it was, basking in the sunlight. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks. Sophie had erected the mast, fixed firmly in place between the vise grip of two lashed driftwood planks. Its blue tarpaulin sail had been rigged but not hoisted, and one of the emergency raft’s plastic paddles leaned teasingly against its side. Apparently, she had even given it a name: Carved into the smooth wood of its prow was Askoy III.

“It’s perfect,” Barry uttered, circling the craft and admiring its form. “It looks like something from a museum.”

“Let’s make sure it actually floats first before we give it a grade. But I feel good about it.”

“And the name?”

Sophie blushed, something Barry had seldom seen her do before. “Jacques Brel’s yacht, the one that took him to the Marquesas, was the Askoy II. He loved it. I thought it might be good luck to name ours the Askoy III.”

“Works for me. But what’s that inside?”

Indeed, something bunched and filamented was hiding inside the hull.

“Do you remember that tangled ball of old fishing net that we found buried in the sand?”

“Yeah. I thought you threw that back in the sea.”

Sophie shook her head. “I untangled it and cut out a smaller section. I put some weights on it and laced a cord through the top. Maybe it will work for catching fish.”

“See, I never even thought of that.”

“Of course not, that’s why you need me.”

“I won’t disagree with you there.” Barry whittled his palms together eagerly—he was ready. “Come on, give me a hand and let’s push this baby down to the water.”

He was shocked at how light it was; in its loglike state, it had required a healthy portion of brawn to move it a few feet. The Askoy III, on the other hand, slid like a bobsled across the sand. And when it kissed the water, rather than buck and roll as it had before, it steadied itself and slipped across the surface.

“Son of a bitch, it’s working! It’s working!”

Even Sophie let out a very uncharacteristic “Wahoo!” when Barry sprang over the side and sank his paddle in the water. “Try taking it out to the reef,” she called to him.

“I will, just let me get my bearings.”

“The water is that way, the land is this way. What more do you need, imbécile?”

Grinning, Barry waved adieu and paddled the craft past the first small line of breakers, out toward the calmer waters of the island’s shallow lagoon.

“Take your time,” Sophie shouted through a bullhorn of cupped hands.

“Don’t worry, I will,” Barry answered, raising the sail.

And whoosh. He was gone.





30

It’s common knowledge among seasoned mariners: Given the opportunity, the ocean will play tricks on you. Spend enough time away from land on that salty desert and any manner of peculiar mirages will appear. Mermaids, St. Elmo’s fire, the lost city of Atlantis—anything is possible when too long at sea.

Barry, however, had been out on the water for only a few hours in the Askoy III when he received his first dose of maritime legerdemain. He leaned over the prow and sniffed again at the wind, thinking that he must have been mistaken. But no, it was there. Fried chicken. The aroma lingered just for a moment and then vanished like smoke on the next gust of air. Confident that no KFC had opened up shop nearby, he attributed the strange smell to one of those improbable mysteries of the nautical life and decided it best to head back in. Perhaps he had spent a little too long on the water.

But there it was again, giving him cause to salivate while pushing the Askoy III onto shore. This was bizarre, and after more than a year of bland, starchy bananas, Barry was beginning to resent the ocean’s somewhat sick sense of humor. But his instincts kicked in, and like a bloodhound, he found himself trailing the smell across the island with his nose in the air. It took him weaving into the dappled light of the palm grove, around the fern-kissed base of the rocks, through the shaggy glades of banana trees, and right smack-dab into the middle of their camp, where Sophie had their stone table set and ready for supper.

And there, on a banana-leaf plate, if his eyes were not mistaken, was his favorite food in the world, the one that reminded him of his grandmother’s kitchen, Fourth of July celebrations, county fairs, and an untold number of sun-soaked picnics. Son of a bitch. Fried chicken.

“Surprise. I made what you asked for.”

Barry was speechless. He gurgled and stuttered and made a sound like a frog.

“You don’t like it?” Sophie asked, afraid that perhaps she had done something wrong.

Barry nodded to indicate some small measure of his enormous approval. He repressed the urge to fall weeping at her feet.

“So sit. Eat. There’s enough for both of us.”

Barry sat down on his rock stool, gazed openmouthed at the drumstick, breast, and thigh before him, and finally regained his powers of speech. “But how? I don’t understand.”

“You didn’t realize I’ve been raising chickens this whole time? There’s a secret henhouse at the top of the mountain.”