SHARON CREECH
The
Wanderer
Drawings by
DAVID DIAZ
DEDICATION
For my daughter, Karin,
who journeyed across the ocean
and who inspired this story.
From
the mother who worried
while you were gone
EPIGRAPH
This tale is true, and mine. It tells
How the sea took me, swept me back
And forth…
—anonymous,
“The Seafarer”
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
I. PREPARATIONS
1. The Sea
2. Three Sides
3. Slow Time
4. The Big Baby
II. SHAKEDOWN
5. Afloat
6. Slugs and Bananas
7. Wildlife
8. The Dolt and the Orphan
9. Beheading
10. Ahoy
11. Juggling
12. Blah-blah-blah
13. Shakedown
14. Bompie and the Car
III. THE ISLAND
15. Grand Manan
16. Stranded
17. Tradition
18. Bompie and the Train
19. Wood Island
20. The Little Kid
21. The Baptism
22. Bompie and the Pastor
IV. UNDER WAY
23. Whoosh!
24. Oranges and Pizza
25. Fired
26. Code
27. Insurance
28. Charlie-Oscar-Delta-Yankee
29. Blips
30. Knots
31. Rosalie
32. Bompie and the Swimming Hole
33. Life
34. Little Kid Nightmares
35. The Blue Bopper
V. WIND AND WAVES
36. Bouncing
37. Wind
38. Howling
39. Bobbing
40. No Time
41. Surfing
42. Battling
43. Weary
44. The Son
45. Alone
46. Bompie at the Ocean
47. Force Ten
48. Night
49. Spinning
50. The Wave
51. Limping
52. Jumbled
53. Bompie and His Father
54. Mr. Fix-it
55. Wet
56. Useful
57. Thinking
58. Little Kid: Push and Pull
59. New Dreams
60. Questions
VI. LAND
61. Ahoy Ahoy
62. Land
63. Bursting
64. New Body
65. Push-Pull
66. The Visitor
67. Phone Calls
68. Wales
69. The Little Girl
70. The Castle
71. The Cottage
72. Bompie
73. The Story
74. Apples
75. Oh, Rosalie!
76. Gifts
77. Remembering
78. Home
READER’S GUIDE
Questions for Discussion
Questions for Sharon Creech
About the Author
Other Works
Credits
Copyright
Back Ads
About the Publisher
PREPARATIONS
CHAPTER 1
THE SEA
The sea, the sea, the sea. It rolled and rolled and called to me. Come in, it said, come in.
And in I went, floating, rolling, splashing, swimming, and the sea called, Come out, come out, and further I went but always it swept me back to shore.
And still the sea called, Come out, come out, and in boats I went—in rowboats and dinghies and motorboats, and after I learned to sail, I flew over the water, with only the sounds of the wind and the water and the birds, all of them calling, Sail on, sail on.
And what I wanted to do was go on and on, across the sea, alone with the water and the wind and the birds, but some said I was too young and the sea was a dangerous temptress, and at night I dreamed a terrible dream. A wall of water, towering, black, crept up behind me and hovered over me and then down, down it came, but always I awoke before the water covered me, and always I felt as if I were floating when I woke up.
CHAPTER 2
THREE SIDES
I am not always such a dreamy girl, listening to the sea calling me. My father calls me Three-sided Sophie: one side is dreamy and romantic; one is logical and down-to-earth; and the third side is hardheaded and impulsive. He says I am either in dreamland or earth-land or mule-land, and if I ever get the three together, I’ll be all set, though I wonder where I will be then. If I’m not in dreamland or earthland or mule-land, where will I be?
My father says my logical side is most like him, and the dreamy side most like my mother, which isn’t entirely fair, I don’t think. My father likes to think of himself as a logical man, but he is the one who pores over pictures of exotic lands and says things like “We should go on a safari!” and “We should zip through the air in a hot-air balloon!”
And although my mother is a weaver and spins silky cloths and wears flowing dresses, she is the one who gives me sailing textbooks and makes me study water safety and weather prediction and says things like “Yes, Sophie, I taught you to sail, but that doesn’t mean I like the idea of you being out there alone on the water. I want you to stay home. Here. With me. Safe.”
My father says he doesn’t know who my hardheaded mule side resembles. He says mules don’t run in the family.
I am thirteen, and I am going to sail across the ocean. Although I would like to go alone—alone! alone! flying over the water!—I’m not. My mule-self begged a place aboard a forty-five-foot sailboat with a motley crew: three uncles and two cousins. The uncles—Stew, Mo, and Dock—are my mother’s brothers, and she told them, “If the slightest harm comes to my Sophie, I’ll string you all up by your toes.”
She isn’t worried (although maybe she should be) about the influence of my cousin Brian—quiet, studious, serious Brian—but she frets over the bad habits I might learn from my other cousin, Cody. Cody is loud, impulsive, and charming in a way my mother does not trust. “He’s too charming,” she says, “in a dangerous sort of way.”
My mother isn’t the only person who is not thrilled for me to take this trip. My uncles Stew and Mo tried their best to talk me out of it. “It’s going to be a bunch of us guys, doing guy things, and it wouldn’t be a very pleasant place for a girl,” and “Wouldn’t you rather stay home, Sophie, where you could have a shower every day?” and “It’s a lot of hard work,” and yakkety-yak they went. But I was determined to go, and my mule-self kicked in, spouting a slew of sailing and weather terms, battering them over the head with all the things I’d learned in my sailing books, and with some things I’d made up, for good measure.
Uncle Dock—the good uncle, I call him, because he’s the one who doesn’t see any harm in my coming—said, “Heck, she knows more about boats than Brian and Cody put together,” and so they caved in.
There are two other reasons my mother has not tied me to my bed and refused to let me go. The first is that Uncle Dock gave her an extensive list of the safety provisions aboard the boat, which include a satellite navigator, the Global Positioning System. The second reason, not a very logical one, but one that somehow comforts my mother, is that Bompie is on the other side of the ocean. We will end up in Bompie’s arms, and she wishes she could join us just for that moment.
Bompie is my grandfather—my mother’s father, and
also Uncle Dock, Stew, and Mo’s father—and he lived with my parents for many years. He is like a third parent and I love him because he is so like me. He is a man of three sides, like me, and he knows what I am thinking without my having to say it. He is a sweet man with a honey tongue and he is a teller of tales.
At the age of seventy-two, Bompie decided to go home. I thought he was already in his home, but what he meant by home was the place where he was born, and that place was “the rolling green hills of England.”
My father was wrong about mules not running in the family. When Bompie decided to return to England, nothing was going to stop him. He made up his mind and that was that, and off he went.
Bye-bye, Bompie.
CHAPTER 3
SLOW TIME
We are hoping to set sail the first week of June, right after school ends. These final weeks are limping by, plodding hour after plodding hour. In my head, though, I am hurling myself toward that final day, picturing every little detail of it. I told my parents that I would zip home on the last day of school, grab a backpack, snare a ride to the bus station, and meet my uncles and cousins in Connecticut, and off we would all go, sailing out into the sea.
“Not so fast, Sophie,” my father said. “When the time comes, your mother and I will drive you there. We’re not dumping you on a bus by yourself.”
Alas. In the wee little town where we live, everyone is having adventures except me. We used to live on the coast of Virginia, curling up against the ocean, but last year my parents came up with their Great Plan to move us to the countryside, because my mother was missing the Kentucky mountains in which she’d grown up. So we moved to this sleepy town, where the only water is the Ohio River, which is as sleepy as the town. People here sure love that river, but I don’t know why. It doesn’t have waves or tides. There are no crabs or jellyfish living in it. You can’t even see very much of it at a time, only a little stretch up to the next bend.
But for kids in my class, that river is like paradise, and they have had adventures on it and off it. They have fished in that river, swum in it, rafted down it. I want to do things like that, but I want to do them on the sea, out on the wide, wide ocean.
When I told some of my friends that I was going to sail across the ocean, one said, “But it’s nice here, with the river rolling along every single day.”
Another said, “But you just got here. We don’t know anything about you. Like where you lived before, and—”
I didn’t want to get into all that. I wanted to start from zero. That had been one good thing about moving here. It had been like starting over.
Another said, “Why would you want to be a prisoner on a boat anyway?”
“Prisoner?” I said. “Prisoner? I’ll be as free as that little jaybird up there floating in the sky!”
And so I told them about the waves calling me and the rolling sea and the open sky, and when I finished, they pretty much yawned and said, “What-ev-er” and “You could die out there,” and “If you don’t come back, can I have that red jacket of yours?” I figured they were probably never going to accept my adventure, and I was just going to have to go without their understanding why I wanted to go.
My mother gave me this journal I’m writing in. She said, “Start now. Write it down. All of it. And when you come back, we can read it, and it’ll be as if we were there too.”
My teachers don’t want to hear about it, though.
“Sophie! Put away that sailing book and get out your math book!”
“Sophie! School isn’t over yet! Knuckle down to business! Get out that grammar homework!”
Yesterday, Uncle Dock phoned and said that we won’t be setting out across the ocean as soon as I get there. There is work to be done first, “a lot, a lot of work!”
I don’t mind the thought of work because I like to mess around with boats, but I want to get out on that ocean so bad I can feel it and taste it and smell it.
CHAPTER 4
THE BIG BABY
In the end, it was only my father who drove me to Connecticut. My mother said she could not guarantee that she’d behave like an adult. She was afraid she would “dissolve into a blob of jelly” and cling to me and not let me go. I kept telling her that this was just a little trip across the ocean, no big deal. We’re not even sailing the boat back because Uncle Dock is leaving it with a friend in England.
I think my mother imagines horrible things happening on that ocean, but she will not say so aloud. My own mind does not want to imagine horrible things.
“Sometimes,” my father said, “there are things you just have to do. I think this might be one of those things for Sophie.” That surprised me. It did feel as if it was something I had to do, but I couldn’t have said why, and I was surprised and grateful that my father understood this without my having to explain it.
“Okay, okay, okay!” my mother said. “Go! And you’d better come back home in one piece!”
For two long weeks, my uncles and cousins and I have been holed up together in Uncle Dock’s small cottage. I am beginning to think we’ll never live through this time on land, let alone the sea journey. We’ll probably kill each other first.
The boat is propped up on dry land and was a sorry sight the first day, I have to admit. It didn’t look anywhere near ready to head out to sea. But it has a terrific name: The Wanderer. I can picture myself on this sailboat, wandering out across the sea, wandering, wandering.
The boat belongs to Uncle Dock, and he calls it his “baby.” It seems huge to me, enormous, far, far bigger than any boat I’ve ever been on. It’s forty-five feet long (that’s a pretty big “baby”), navy and white, with two masts of equal size, and nifty booms that wrap around the sails.
Below deck there’s sleeping for six (four in the forward section, two in the back); a galley with icebox, sink, and stove; a table (two of the beds double as bench-seats for the table); a bathroom; a chart table and navigation equipment; and cubbyholes and closets.
Uncle Dock, who is a carpenter in his real life, walked us around The Wanderer the first day, pointing out things that needed fixing. “This baby needs a little attention,” he said. “Rudder needs work, yep, and the keel, too, yep,” and “That whole bilge needs redoing, yep,” and “Those electrics—gotta rewire, yep,” and “Whole thing needs sprucing up, yep.”
Yep, yep, yep.
My cousin Brian was busy making a list of all these things on his clipboard. “Right, then!” Brian said, after we’d walked around and around the boat. “Here’s the list. I figure we should also make a list of the equipment we’ll need—”
His father, Uncle Stew, interrupted. “That’s my boy, a real organizer!”
Uncle Stew’s real name is Stuart, but everyone calls him Stew because he worries and stews about every little tiny weeny thing. He is tall and thin, with a scrub of black hair on his head. Uncle Stew’s son, Brian, looks like a younger photocopy of him. They both walk in a clumsy, jerky sort of way, as if they are string puppets, and they both place a high value on being organized.
While Brian was still making up his list, my other cousin, Cody, started fiddling with the rudder. “Not yet!” Uncle Stew said. “We’re not organized yet!”
Brian said, “We’ll get all our lists together and then divide up the jobs.”
“That’s my boy,” Uncle Stew said, “a real take-charge sort of guy.”
Yep.
It’s hot, ninety-five degrees most days, and everyone has his own idea about how things should be fixed. Uncle Mo spends a lot of time leaning back in a deck chair, watching the rest of us, and barking orders: “Not that way—start on the other side!” and “You knuckleheaded doofus! Is that any way to use a brush?” Mostly this is aimed at his son, Cody, who has selective deafness. Cody can hear the rest of us just fine, but he can’t ever seem to hear his father.
Uncle Mo is a bit on the chubby side, and he likes lounging around with his shirt off, getting a tan. His son, Cody (the one my mother thinks is
charming in a dangerous sort of way), however, is fit and muscular, always humming or singing, and smiling that wide white smile of his. Girls who stroll through the boatyard on their way to the public beach stop and watch him, hoping to catch his attention.
And Uncle Dock is easygoing and calm. Nothing seems to faze him, not all the work that needs doing, or the mishaps that occur—like when Brian knocked over a can of varnish, or when Cody gouged the deck, or when Uncle Stew tangled the lines. Uncle Dock shrugs and says, “We’ll just fix it, yep.”
On the second day, after Uncle Stew and Brian had doled out most of the assignments to everyone else, I said, “What about me? What do you want me to do?”
“You?” Uncle Stew said. “Oh. Yeah. I guess you could clean up—you know, scrub things out.”
“I want to fix something.”
Uncle Stew laughed a fake laugh. “Huh, huh, huh. And what do you think you could fix, Sophie? Huh, huh, huh.”
“I’d like to do that bilge—”
“Oh?” he said, smiling all around at everyone else, as if they were sharing a private joke. “Now, how exactly might you do that?”
And so I told him how it could be redesigned and what sort of equipment I might need, and the more I talked, the more Uncle Stew’s smile faded, and the wider grew the grin on Uncle Dock’s face.
“See?” Uncle Dock said. “She knows something about boats. Let her tackle the bilge.”
Brian, with his clipboard in hand, jerked his puppet-arm and said, “Who’s going to do the cleaning, then? I don’t have anyone down for cleaning—”
“We’ll all clean,” Uncle Dock said.
“Not me,” Uncle Mo said. “I’m a lousy cleaner. Ask anybody.”
And so we (all of us except Uncle Mo, who was lying in his chair getting tan) have spent these hot, sweaty days working on The Wanderer at the marina. We’ve repaired the rudder and keel, redesigned the bilge, rewired the electrics, and organized and cleaned.