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CHAPTER 1 KALI, July 15 Sunday dawn
The cat went here and there, and the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon, the creeping cat, looked up… William Butler Yeats Water lapped against the bow as a steady south wind moved us forward. Out of the darkness a glimmer of white light appeared. “There it is, Kali! The Ocracoke Light.” The skipper stared ahead as a dim glow materialized out of the darkness. He stood at the helm, scanning the water for the buoys that marked the channel. Big Foot Slough, as it’s called, is a narrow, winding channel, and nor’easters often change its path faster than the charts can keep up. I could tell he was nervous, so when he shouted for me to get my tail out of his face, I listened. I jumped off his shoulder and up onto the bridge, then sauntered up the gunwale to the bow so I could see better. The outline of the lighthouse was visible now, a pretty white beacon set back from the water. “Oldest continuously working light on the east coast,” the skipper announced. Ahead of us, on the left, was a rambling old Coast Guard Station, unmistakable even in the dim light. As we neared the mouth of the harbor, we passed a fishing dory heading out into the sound. It was piled high with yellow and orange crab pots. The lone fisherman raised his hand in greeting as we passed. “We’re coming up on the Ditch now!” His voice was tense but eager. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here—hope I remember it right, and I hope there aren’t any ferries coming out at this time of morning.” It was dawn, and as we sailed through the harbor mouth I could detect a faint hint of pink in the eastern sky. July 15, the day it all began. I remember, because I was sitting on the skipper’s shoulder that morning, as he recorded it in his ship’s log. I’m not likely to forget the events that followed, not any time soon. The worst afternoon of my life! All I can say is, it’s a good thing we cats have nine lives. Still and all looking back, I can’t say that I’m sorry for the way things turned out. And to give credit where it’s due, I must admit that I played a major role in it all. The skipper (or Sam, as he calls himself) had been talking about this island for some time, and I have to admit, I was a bit excited myself. Ocracoke! The name had a magical ring to it. Still, there was something odd about it all. Just a feeling I had, but you know we cats can sense things humans can’t even begin to fathom. Sam never said anything, but there was something—anger or fear or sadness—that always hit my radar screen when he talked about Ocracoke. Well, maybe now I’d find out. Soon we were in the deep, protected waters of Silver Lake Harbor. Muted lights showed where houses and shops lined the shore, and I could just begin to distinguish their shapes. It seemed to be a rather nice place, a cat’s kind of place, you might say. The village was strung along the shores of the harbor, and even from a distance I could tell that the buildings were comfortably weathered and lived in. They were the kinds of places where mice would choose to spend the winter. And there were big rambling porches on lot of the houses. I’d love to sit on a nice porch, especially if there were birds close by to watch. I did see a rather large brown Doberman pinscher trotting alongside a bicycle, but no place is perfect. I looked up at Sam and meowed my approval. “Glad you like it, Kali!” He reached down and patted my head. “A pretty place, huh? I’ve been thinking about coming back here for a long time. And look, there’s an empty slip at the Community Store dock. How about if we stay at the dock for a few days? Get a shower and wash the boat?” Humans are always asking ridiculous questions that they know good and well no self-respecting cat would answer. Me take a shower? Help wash the boat? I turned my head and looked away to show my disdain. Still, I must admit, I like it when he talks to me. His voice has a pleasant sound, kind of rough but gentle at the same time, and I would hate to be left out of the decision-making. “Look out now. I’m gonna have to tack.” I crouched down as lines scrambled past the boom and we swung around. I hopped down into the cabin and watched through the porthole as we approached a rambling old wooden dock. Sam jerked open a hatch and pulled out two fenders. He released the line. The sails dropped, and we slid up beside the dock with a minimum of curse words and only a few bumps. He threw the lines over two sturdy pilings and dropped the fenders over the side of the boat. I came back out and, as he secured the boat, surveyed our new temporary home. Sam and I live on a 30-foot sailing sloop. She’s a real beauty and she’s been around for a lot of years, according to Sam. She’s made of wood, the hull and mast painted dark blue. Her name, the “Mary Bee” is painted on the stern in white letters, along with the name of her home port, St. Augustine, Florida. That is where Sam bought her, back before I became a part of his life. The inside of the Mary Bee, which you enter by going through a hatch at the stern of the boat, is very cozy, with lots of teakwood which Sam polishes to a bright golden sheen. (He says he wouldn’t buy teak now—something about saving the rain forests—but since it was already on the boat we may as well enjoy it.) When you go down the steps into the cabin you first come to the galley, which has a two-burner stove, a sink and icebox, and cabinets full of canned meats and vegetables for Sam, cat food for me. Facing each other farther along are two benches with bright plain cushions and a teakwood table in between. They open up into a bed for company, Sam says; but since we never have company, he never opens them. A kerosene lantern hangs on a hook on one wall, a stereo underneath it. On the cabin walls are four oval portholes, which Sam keeps open so I can climb in and out. . Past the main cabin is another hatch that leads to the V-berth, where Sam and I sleep. There is a small closet and a head, or bathroom, where my kitty litter is kept. Our favorite place, though, is the cockpit at the stern of the boat. That’s where Sam sits when we’re sailing, and if the weather’s nice, that’s where he eats and sometimes sleeps. You can see the stars at night, and watch the gulls and dolphins and everything else that goes by. I have a perch on the boom, which is quite comfortable, when we’re not under sail. Now Sam finished securing the boat and reached down into the icebox for a beer. He sat down and let out a sigh. I climbed into his lap, sensing once again that strange combination of joy and dread, which he seemed to associate with the island of Ocracoke. HARVEY July 15 Sunday dawn The dog has seldom been successful in pulling man up to his level of sagacity…
James Thurber Just like Kali to try and take all the credit! I was the one who got the bone rolling to begin with! I recall that day too. It was the month my person Emily laid a blanket out on the beach and we watched fireworks spray across a pitch black sky and disappear into the surf. It was marked on the calendar with a red heart in the square with the 15, to remind Emily to give me my heartworm pill. July 15th was a Sunday, and Emily had overslept, ignoring the alarm clock that jangled next to the bed. I heard the great egret squawk as it made its daily trek over the house, flying from the rookery on Horsepen Point where it roosts at night to a spot in the creek where it likes to hunt fiddler crabs. A faint aroma of fish wafted in the open window on a sea breeze, suggesting that Virgil, one of the local fishermen, was heading out the channel to check his gill nets. It was already getting light and Emily was still asleep. I tried to wake her up politely, rubbing my head against her hand where it lay on the sheet. She didn't budge, so I licked her in the face a time or two. That got a little reaction. She opened her eyes and kind of groaned, but she still didn't look like she was going anywhere. I hated to do it, but I had to resort to drastic measures. I took a good swing and deposited my front left paw right on her chin. That always works. "Harvey, you big bozo! Don't do that!" She picked my paw up and thrust it out of her face, glaring at me. Time to make up now. I snuggled up next to her and, my head on her chest, gazed up at her with a soulful expression she can never resist About that time she realized what time it was. "Holy Cow, Harvey! I'm late! And Loren is supposed to meet me at the Clam House to look at my motor!" She threw back the sheet, hopped out of bed, and hurried over to the dresser to change her clothes. That is one thing I will never understand! I never change my coat and I'm quite happy. I'm sure we could go for two or three more walks a week in the time she wastes changing clothes. I trotted around in circles a few times to speed her up as she put on cut off jeans and a T-shirt, then brushed her long brown hair and pulled it into a ponytail. Glancing in the floor-length mirror where she stood, I couldn't help noticing how my brown coat shone, and I cocked my head, one ear up, in admiration. We made a handsome pair, I have to admit. I woofed once or twice. "Are you ready, Harvey? Let’s go!" (As if I'm not always ready to go biking!) She took my leash down from the hook out by the porch door and fastened it on my collar as I tried not to jump around too much. Then I pulled her down the steps as fast as I could, did my daily business, and tried to stand still while she climbed on her bicycle. We were off. Emily and I live in a little house in the middle of a salt marsh on the edge of an island called Ocracoke. Ocracoke is part of the Outer Banks which lie off the coast of North Carolina. It's a great place to live. Close by is the Pamlico Sound, where I can almost always find a dead fish or two to roll in. Emily always tries to stop me for some reason, but she's hardly ever fast enough. She yells and makes a face and tells me I'm disgusting, but I don't think she's ever even tried it. And let me tell you, dead fish are well worth getting yelled at over. There are otters living in the bank of the creek nearby, fiddler crabs that come out of their holes at low tide, and cats! There are cats everywhere around here, and believe you me, there is nothing, not even rolling in dead fish, that is as much fun as chasing cats! Not that I would hurt one, mind you, if I were to ever catch one. It's the chase that counts! Emily feeds some wild ones that live behind the house, so they all hang out and watch for her. I get to bark at them when she ties me out and, if I get loose, I chase them. What a blast! The big yellow one with the torn ear was sitting on the fence post as we bicycled out of the yard that morning, me trotting along beside Emily. I took off after it as best as I could, but she had a good strong hold on the end of the leash and pulled me back. Oh well, no big deal. Chasing cats! That's what started this whole thing anyway, and believe you me, I've had second thoughts about it all. Even a few regrets at times, but you can't turn back the clock. Emily and I headed down the road, me at a swift trot, pulling her along as fast as she could pedal. A creek runs along the road for a quarter mile before it crosses under the pavement and joins up with the sound. There are usually a couple herons or an egret fishing alongside it which we scare up when we go by. It's pretty exciting, hearing the rush of wings and the splash as they take off, then seeing the long necks rise up above the marsh grass. Today we rousted a tri-colored heron and a great egret. With a quick glance up and down the road, we scooted onto Firehouse Road, where my friend Annie lives with her people, Mary and Greg. Several cats and dogs can almost always be seen lying out in their yards. Usually I try to stop and at least bark at them, but we were on serious business today so I just kept on going. I heard Emily praise me with a "Good boy, Harvey!" when I ignored a fat black cat sitting on a white picket fence. We had just turned onto the Back Road when a big white car passed us and then blew his horn. Signaling us to stop, he pulled up and rolled down his window. The man inside the car looked to be about 50, with rolls of fat around his neck. Drops of sweat clung to his balding head, in spite of the air-conditioned air I could feel pouring out the window. Hostility was also pouring out the window. "I recognize you. You're the broad who raised so much stink at the meeting last Wednesday night, aren't you?" Emily stared at him, speechless for a moment. Then I felt her confusion turn to anger. I sidled around in front of her, ready to growl, or worse, if need be. "That's right." she answered. “I happen to be that ‘broad.’ And you're the jerk who wants to ruin our island and kill our fish with your stupid off-shore drilling, regardless of how it affects anyone else!" "Yeah, well, it's really none of your business, and I'd just keep that pretty little nose out of it, if I were you. I don't like know-it-all broads anyway, especially not when they stick their noses in my affairs. I highly recommend that you just forget the whole thing!" With that he gunned his motor and roared down the road, undoubtedly breaking the 20-mile-per-hour speed limit. Emily just stood there, speechless for a moment. Then she shook her head, climbing back on her bicycle. "Wow!" she mumbled. "What a jerk!" Then, a moment later, "Geez, Harvey, did you hear that? I think I've been threatened." The air of anticipation I'd felt was gone, me feeling like I had somehow failed her. We continued on along a winding boardwalk across the schoolyard and past the Methodist Church with the pretty white steeple. Then onto Howard Street, which Emily says is one of the oldest lanes in the village. It is paved with oyster shells and lined with huge live oak trees, behind which stand old island homes with big porches and family cemeteries. Jackson, a black lab I like to hang out with, was napping in his yard, but I didn’t slow down or bark. Howard Street ends at Silver Lake Harbor. Across the street is the Community Store, where Emily buys groceries. Farther down is the gazebo where Emily sells ice cream cones during the summer, and down near the Ditch, the old Coast Guard Station. We turned left, passing Murray's Fish House, where there are always great smells. We followed the road around the harbor to the end, where clam shells sit in great piles beside an old ramshackle shed with a hand painted sign that says "Clam House." As we pulled up at the shed, I looked across the water to see what boats were in. Now that I am an island dog, I try to keep up with things like that. I noticed that there was a new one, a blue and white sailboat, just tying up at the Community Store docks. To be continued Friday, September 28, 2007.    |
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