The Point of Vanishing, Maryka Biaggio [top inspirational books TXT] 📗

his captain’s chair up at the table’s end. When Barbara admired the large yellow-with-age map of the Pacific on the wall, the captain set off on tales of his travels. Barbara encouraged him, but her mother just sat there like a lump, her arms crossed.

After a round of seafaring parley, Barbara asked, “Tell me, Captain, is there any way we might sail with you to Washington? We need to get back to the States, and I can’t imagine a grander way to go.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t take any passengers. Owner’s rules.”

Oh, no, Barbara thought. “Is there no way? I promise we wouldn’t be a bother.”

Captain Jamieson scrunched his brow.

“We could earn our keep,” Barbara said. “I’m an experienced cabin boy.”

“Well, perhaps I could sign you on as crew.”

Her mother gave him a one-eyed squint. “With what duties?”

“Well, you could be stewardess and your daughter here assistant to the cabin boy. But only for a dollar each.”

Barbara’s heart skipped. How could her mother argue with that—no fare at all to pay!

Her mother braced her forearms on the table. “Would we need to pay for food? And what kind of quarters would we have?”

Captain Jamieson folded his thick, weathered hands over his belly. “Crew eats whatever the cook serves. It’s not fancy. There’s a room with one bunk you could share. But it’s small.”

He showed them the cramped room they might take, and Barbara turned pleading eyes on her mother.

“All right, Captain,” said her mother. “We accept your offer.”

✭

What great fortune: Finally, Barbara had discovered an old-style square-rigger as magnificent as any she could’ve imagined. Yes, she and her mother had to cram their belongings into two drawers and a cupboard and sleep head to toe on the narrow cot. But Barbara didn’t mind. She’d spend most of her time mixing with the sailors and helping on deck or in the galley. There was no better remedy for her sunken spirits.

The first morning out, Barbara made the rounds, asking the cabin boy to divvy up chores with her and inviting the cook to call on her whenever he wished—“I’m a darn good pot scrubber, and I actually enjoy clean-up duty.” Once wind filled the sails and set the Vigilant on a clear course, she regaled a party of seamen lounging on the deck with tales of her Norman D adventures. Over their first dinner, she positioned herself across from the first and second mates and recounted the tasks she’d mastered on the varied vessels she’d traveled on.

The sturdy second mate, Ethan Anderson, studied her quietly, leaving the first mate to carry the conversation, though he did ask a few questions along the way, such as “How did you find steamers after first sailing on a square-rigger?” and “What sort of sea life did you encounter in the Atlantic?” Oh, how she loved sailor talk!

On their steamer trips, Barbara and her mother had occasionally slept topside, for Barbara loved losing herself in the night’s starry sky. Their second evening on the Vigilant, Barbara begged her mother to sleep on deck: “Nothing can equal the spectacle of stars dancing about the mast, Mother.”

As the moonless sky darkened, Barbara and her mother brought their sleeping gear up to the deck and discussed where to pass the night. The open area behind the jiggermast seemed a suitable spot.

“Yes, the view’s clear enough here,” said Barbara, dropping their blankets and pillows.

“I have to get my journal,” her mother said, trailing off toward the companionway.

Barbara scanned the deck and noticed second mate Ethan Anderson stationed at the stern taffrail.

“Good evening to you,” she said.

He answered in a hushed tone. “And evening to you.”

Barbara stood a dozen paces from him, debating whether to speak. Should she emulate his meditative bearing or draw him out? Over dinner, she’d pegged him for a pensive soul, given mostly to listening, with a habit of scratching the back of his neck when he spoke. He was of solid build, around six-two, with wavy blond hair and questioning blue eyes.

“Are you on first watch?” she asked.

“Till eight bells. I don’t mind, though. It’s quiet. All you can hear besides the wind and water are the ship’s groans.”

This was as many words as she’d heard him utter at once. “Yes, I missed that on steamers. With their engines perpetually grinding and growling.”

“This is a ship you can appreciate. You can be a part of her.”

“She comes alive when you work her sails, doesn’t she?”

“There’s mystery in her,” he said. “In all the sailors who’ve crewed on her, cargos she’s carried, and waters she’s crossed.”

Barbara ambled toward the stern, to a position at the taffrail five feet from him. She guessed him to be in his mid-twenties, but he sounded like an old soul of the sea. “How long have you known her?”

“Six years. Can hardly imagine any other work.”

“You have the sea madness, then, like me?”

He chuckled softly. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

They stood silent for a minute, studying the skies.

“I missed the North Star, all those months in the South Seas,” Barbara said, tracing the stem of the Little Dipper to Polaris.

“I’d like to read that Norman D book you wrote.”

“I’ve also written a poem about pirates, with a mysterious map and wild deeds. It was nearly published in Vanity Fair. You might like that, too.”

“I’m sure I would.”

“Do you find much time to read at sea?”

“Yes, and in port, while the crew’s off carousing.”

“You can’t have much room for books on board.”

“I bring as many as I can. Conrad, mostly.”

Oh my, she thought, a sailor who reads Conrad. A philosophical sailor. She studied his silhouette—the forward thrust of his chin, a nose as straight as honesty, and willful coils of blond hair. “Last Conrad I read was Heart of Darkness.”

“A disquieting book, isn’t it?”

Might he be someone she could discuss Heart of Darkness with? The ship lurched over a swell, and she gripped the taffrail. She asked, “When Marlow said, ‘The mind of man is capable of anything,’ do you think he meant