Read Online The Girl of the Sea of Cortez by Peter Benchley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Benchley
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to what was politely regarded as Paloma’s peculiarity. No other girl went out on the sea all day long and did God-knows-what.
Sometimes Paloma felt like a person with a chronic affliction, like a spastic tic. People’s attitude seemed to be: Poor thing, she can’t help it, let’s just ignore it. It increased her sense of being alone. But in another way she was glad for the treatment, for it reinforced her feeling of being special.
Paloma never volunteered information about what she had seen and done during the day. Most of the women would not have believed her, and that would have embarrassed Miranda. Those that did believe her would not want to hear what she had to say, for it went against all they had been taught about the sea.
From birth, most of the children of the islands were told that the sea was hostile. The people lived from the sea, could not possibly have existed without it, and yet it was viewed not as an ally but as an adversary. The attitude made no sense to Paloma, for she had been taught exactly the opposite, and once she had asked Viejo where the hostility had come from.“It has always been,” he said with a shrug. “The sea does not give; man takes from it. Perhaps it began as a way to make man feel stronger, that he has dominion over the sea as well as over the animals.”
“I think it’s silly,” Paloma had said.
“It may be,” Viejo had nodded. “But it is the way things are.”
To the women who washed and cooked and cleaned and never went on the water, the sea was alien and dangerous, populated by creatures that were ferocious, slimy, poisonous, starved for human flesh. They were comfortable with that view of the sea, and they would not have welcomed contradictions from a young girl.
As excited as Paloma was when she returned to the dock, as tempted to tell everyone what wonders she had encountered today, she restrained herself. She would wait to tell her mother when they were alone.
When the washing was done, Paloma picked up the heavy basket of wet clothes and followed Miranda up the hill. With a hand pump they washed the salt off the clothes, then draped them over a line behind the house.
They worked in silence, but it was a busy silence, for Paloma wanted very much to tell her mother about the manta ray and Miranda knew Paloma had something she wanted to say, and that she was trying to find a way to tell her.
Paloma did not want to frighten Miranda, so she could not say how big the manta was, nor how close to it she had gotten—let alone that she had knelt on its back and been tossed off violently. And she had to reassure Miranda that no one else knew what she had been doing, that no one else would know, that it would not become a subject of public gossip. What Paloma did all day every day caused enough chatter; fooling around with a giant devilfish might get herbranded as a witch. Miranda had had a husband whose reputation was as a rebel and a troublemaker. She had a son who spent all his time concocting harebrained schemes to make money—enough money to get him off the island and into a technical school in Mexico City, where the Lord alone knew what would happen to him. To add to those two a daughter who was a witch would be altogether too much for her to bear.
By now, the sun had dropped low and had begun to turn red. A light breeze was blowing through the hanging clothes, and the tails of the shirts made soft snapping sounds. Miranda sniffed and nodded and was satisfied; it was a good breeze.
There were three regular breezes that blew over Santa Maria Island. One was bad for drying clothes, one was fair, and one was good. The east wind was bad, because it blew across the dry, dusty eastern part of the island and carried dirt and dust with it. Clothes that had dried in an east wind felt gritty and itchy. Breezes from the west and south were fair. They came over the water. On dry days they carried a faint smell of the sea, but on humid days they were heavy with mist and
Sometimes Paloma felt like a person with a chronic affliction, like a spastic tic. People’s attitude seemed to be: Poor thing, she can’t help it, let’s just ignore it. It increased her sense of being alone. But in another way she was glad for the treatment, for it reinforced her feeling of being special.
Paloma never volunteered information about what she had seen and done during the day. Most of the women would not have believed her, and that would have embarrassed Miranda. Those that did believe her would not want to hear what she had to say, for it went against all they had been taught about the sea.
From birth, most of the children of the islands were told that the sea was hostile. The people lived from the sea, could not possibly have existed without it, and yet it was viewed not as an ally but as an adversary. The attitude made no sense to Paloma, for she had been taught exactly the opposite, and once she had asked Viejo where the hostility had come from.“It has always been,” he said with a shrug. “The sea does not give; man takes from it. Perhaps it began as a way to make man feel stronger, that he has dominion over the sea as well as over the animals.”
“I think it’s silly,” Paloma had said.
“It may be,” Viejo had nodded. “But it is the way things are.”
To the women who washed and cooked and cleaned and never went on the water, the sea was alien and dangerous, populated by creatures that were ferocious, slimy, poisonous, starved for human flesh. They were comfortable with that view of the sea, and they would not have welcomed contradictions from a young girl.
As excited as Paloma was when she returned to the dock, as tempted to tell everyone what wonders she had encountered today, she restrained herself. She would wait to tell her mother when they were alone.
When the washing was done, Paloma picked up the heavy basket of wet clothes and followed Miranda up the hill. With a hand pump they washed the salt off the clothes, then draped them over a line behind the house.
They worked in silence, but it was a busy silence, for Paloma wanted very much to tell her mother about the manta ray and Miranda knew Paloma had something she wanted to say, and that she was trying to find a way to tell her.
Paloma did not want to frighten Miranda, so she could not say how big the manta was, nor how close to it she had gotten—let alone that she had knelt on its back and been tossed off violently. And she had to reassure Miranda that no one else knew what she had been doing, that no one else would know, that it would not become a subject of public gossip. What Paloma did all day every day caused enough chatter; fooling around with a giant devilfish might get herbranded as a witch. Miranda had had a husband whose reputation was as a rebel and a troublemaker. She had a son who spent all his time concocting harebrained schemes to make money—enough money to get him off the island and into a technical school in Mexico City, where the Lord alone knew what would happen to him. To add to those two a daughter who was a witch would be altogether too much for her to bear.
By now, the sun had dropped low and had begun to turn red. A light breeze was blowing through the hanging clothes, and the tails of the shirts made soft snapping sounds. Miranda sniffed and nodded and was satisfied; it was a good breeze.
There were three regular breezes that blew over Santa Maria Island. One was bad for drying clothes, one was fair, and one was good. The east wind was bad, because it blew across the dry, dusty eastern part of the island and carried dirt and dust with it. Clothes that had dried in an east wind felt gritty and itchy. Breezes from the west and south were fair. They came over the water. On dry days they carried a faint smell of the sea, but on humid days they were heavy with mist and
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