minute downg, at d'mos’.”
I looked all around us. There was nothing but blue sea with occasional patches of orange-brown seaweed. No sight of the
Hato
, or other rafts, or boats. Just the sea and a few birds that wheeled over it. That lonely sea, and the sharp pains in my head, and the knowledge that I was here alone with a black man instead of my mother made me break into tears.
Finally the black man said, looking at me from bloodshot eyes, “Now, young bahss, I mos’ feel like dat my own self, Timothy, but 'twould be of no particular use to do dat, eh?” His voice was rich calypso, soft and musical, the words rubbing off like velvet.
I felt a little better, but my head ached fiercely.
He nodded toward the cat. “Dis is Stew, d'cook's cat.He climb on d'raff, an’ I 'ad no heart to trow 'im off.” Stew was still busy licking. “ ’E got oi-ll all ovah hisself from d'wattah.”
I looked closer at the black man. He was extremely old yet he seemed powerful. Muscles rippled over the ebony of his arms and around his shoulders. His chest was thick and his neck was the size of a small tree trunk. I looked at his hands and feet. The skin was alligatored and cracked, tough from age and walking barefoot on the hot decks of schooners and freighters.
He saw me examining him and said gently, “Put your 'ead back downg, young bahss, an’ rest awhile longer. Do not look direct at d'sun. ’Tis too powerful.”
I felt seasick and crawled to the side to vomit. He came up beside me, holding my head in his great clamshell hands. It didn't matter, at that moment, that he was black and ugly. He murmured, “Dis be good, dis be good.”
When it was over, he helped me back to the center of the raft, saying, “ ’Tis mos’ natural for you to do dis. ’Tis d'shock o’ havin’ all dis mos’ terrible ting 'appen.
“We 'ave rare good luck, young bahss. D'wattah kag did no bus’ when d'raff was launch, an’ we 'ave a few bis-cuit, some choclade, an’ d'matches in d'tin is dry. So we 'ave rare good luck.” He grinned at me then.
I was thinking that our luck wasn't so good. I was thinking about my mother on another boat or raft, not knowing I was all right. I was thinking about my father back in Willemstad. It was terrible not to be able to tell him where I was. He'd have boats and planes out within hours.
I guess the big Negro saw the look on my face. He said, “Do not be despair, young bahss. Someone will fin’ us. Many schooner go by dis way, an’ dis also be d'ship track to Jamaica, an’ on.”
After a bit, lulled by the bobbing of the raft and by the soft, pleasant sounds of the sea against the oil barrel floats, I went to sleep again. I was very tired and my head still ached. The piece of timber must have struck a glancing blow on the left side.
When I next awakened, it was late afternoon. The sun had edged down and the breeze across us was cool. But I felt very hot and the pain had not gone away. The Negro was sitting with his back toward me, humming something in calypso. His back was a great wall of black flesh, and I saw a cruel scar on one shoulder.
I asked, “What is your name?”
“My own self? Timothy!”
“Your last name?”
He laughed, “I 'ave but one name. ’Tis Timothy.”
“Mine is Phillip Enright, Timothy.” My father had always taught me to address anyone I took to be an adult as “mister,” but Timothy didn't seem to be a mister. Besides, he was black.
He said, “I knew a Phillip who feesh out of St. Jawn, but an outrageous mahn he was.” He laughed deep inside himself.
I asked him for a drink of water.
He nodded agreeably, saying, “D'sun do parch.” He lifted a hinged section of the raft flooring and drew out the keg, which was about two feet long. There was a tincup lashed to it. Careful not to spill a drop, he said, “ ’Tis best to 'ave only an outrageous smahl amount. Jus’ enough to wet d'tongue.”
“Why?” I asked. “That is a large keg.”
He scanned the
I looked all around us. There was nothing but blue sea with occasional patches of orange-brown seaweed. No sight of the
Hato
, or other rafts, or boats. Just the sea and a few birds that wheeled over it. That lonely sea, and the sharp pains in my head, and the knowledge that I was here alone with a black man instead of my mother made me break into tears.
Finally the black man said, looking at me from bloodshot eyes, “Now, young bahss, I mos’ feel like dat my own self, Timothy, but 'twould be of no particular use to do dat, eh?” His voice was rich calypso, soft and musical, the words rubbing off like velvet.
I felt a little better, but my head ached fiercely.
He nodded toward the cat. “Dis is Stew, d'cook's cat.He climb on d'raff, an’ I 'ad no heart to trow 'im off.” Stew was still busy licking. “ ’E got oi-ll all ovah hisself from d'wattah.”
I looked closer at the black man. He was extremely old yet he seemed powerful. Muscles rippled over the ebony of his arms and around his shoulders. His chest was thick and his neck was the size of a small tree trunk. I looked at his hands and feet. The skin was alligatored and cracked, tough from age and walking barefoot on the hot decks of schooners and freighters.
He saw me examining him and said gently, “Put your 'ead back downg, young bahss, an’ rest awhile longer. Do not look direct at d'sun. ’Tis too powerful.”
I felt seasick and crawled to the side to vomit. He came up beside me, holding my head in his great clamshell hands. It didn't matter, at that moment, that he was black and ugly. He murmured, “Dis be good, dis be good.”
When it was over, he helped me back to the center of the raft, saying, “ ’Tis mos’ natural for you to do dis. ’Tis d'shock o’ havin’ all dis mos’ terrible ting 'appen.
“We 'ave rare good luck, young bahss. D'wattah kag did no bus’ when d'raff was launch, an’ we 'ave a few bis-cuit, some choclade, an’ d'matches in d'tin is dry. So we 'ave rare good luck.” He grinned at me then.
I was thinking that our luck wasn't so good. I was thinking about my mother on another boat or raft, not knowing I was all right. I was thinking about my father back in Willemstad. It was terrible not to be able to tell him where I was. He'd have boats and planes out within hours.
I guess the big Negro saw the look on my face. He said, “Do not be despair, young bahss. Someone will fin’ us. Many schooner go by dis way, an’ dis also be d'ship track to Jamaica, an’ on.”
After a bit, lulled by the bobbing of the raft and by the soft, pleasant sounds of the sea against the oil barrel floats, I went to sleep again. I was very tired and my head still ached. The piece of timber must have struck a glancing blow on the left side.
When I next awakened, it was late afternoon. The sun had edged down and the breeze across us was cool. But I felt very hot and the pain had not gone away. The Negro was sitting with his back toward me, humming something in calypso. His back was a great wall of black flesh, and I saw a cruel scar on one shoulder.
I asked, “What is your name?”
“My own self? Timothy!”
“Your last name?”
He laughed, “I 'ave but one name. ’Tis Timothy.”
“Mine is Phillip Enright, Timothy.” My father had always taught me to address anyone I took to be an adult as “mister,” but Timothy didn't seem to be a mister. Besides, he was black.
He said, “I knew a Phillip who feesh out of St. Jawn, but an outrageous mahn he was.” He laughed deep inside himself.
I asked him for a drink of water.
He nodded agreeably, saying, “D'sun do parch.” He lifted a hinged section of the raft flooring and drew out the keg, which was about two feet long. There was a tincup lashed to it. Careful not to spill a drop, he said, “ ’Tis best to 'ave only an outrageous smahl amount. Jus’ enough to wet d'tongue.”
“Why?” I asked. “That is a large keg.”
He scanned the
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