standing.
“Why’s it called Dead Man’s Island?” Aaron asks.
The concerned look in his eyes makes me want to tease him a little. “That’s where we Bethsaida Islanders buried the people who didn’t survive last year’s Fourth of July picnic. Donnie Burgess and his electric guitar were never seen again.”
Aaron’s gaze turns on me, angry.
“I’m just joking,” I add quickly.
“The story is that long ago a shipwrecked sailor washed up there,” Dad says over the engine’s roar. “There’s a plain headstone for him in the cemetery over behind those trees. They didn’t know what name to carve, so they left it blank.”
I’ve heard that story plenty — Amy and I even told it to Libby a few times. Though when we told it, the islanders did lots more screaming and fainting at the horror of finding the dead body than when Dad tells it.
“Why didn’t the man’s family ever claim him?” Aaron asks. “Or at least tell people his name?”
“I don’t imagine they ever knew what happened to him,” Dad says.
Looking toward the island, I wonder if that sailor did have people at home waiting. Hoping day after day, month after month, that he’d show up on their doorstep, older and tired, with an amazing story to tell.
People say it’s better to know the truth, but what if the ending’s a bad one? Is it still better to know? Or is it kinder to keep that string of hope dangling? To believe that maybe if you just wait long enough, everything could still end the way you want.
“What was the island called before the sailor came?” Aaron asks.
“Good question.” Dad checks his boat instruments. “It probably had another name before then, but I guess everyone started calling it Dead Man’s, and that’s what stuck.”
On the nearby rocky edge of tiny Sheep Island, a group of seals sun themselves. Their huge round bodies are stretched out, warm and drowsy. They raise their heads, curious, as we go by. A few more seals swim in the water between the island and our boat, the sun flashing off their wet fur.
“It doesn’t make sense to name a whole island for a guy who didn’t belong there,” Aaron says. “I’m sure he didn’t even want to be there.”
“No, but it’s where he stayed.” Dad slows the boatnear my first buoy. He leans out to snag the buoy with the gaff, a long pole with a hook on the end.
As Dad starts the hauler, I head for the rail, but Aaron doesn’t move. “My grandmother drowned, too,” he says.
Below me, waves slosh against the hull and I half-expect them to rise up in white-capped fury and pull us down to the depths. Anyone who knows anything about the ocean knows you never, ever say the D word on a boat.
Though my first trap hasn’t even broken the surface, Dad stops the hauler from pulling the trap up through the water. “Natalie said she had cancer?”
Aaron nods. “Fluid filled her lungs at the end. I didn’t know a person could drown in a room full of air.”
“I didn’t know that either,” Dad says quietly.
Every time I’ve allowed myself to imagine that unnamed sailor’s last seconds, there was always a dark, cold ocean folding around him, and maybe a horrible patch of watery light way up overhead — never once had I thought of someone drowning from the inside .
Stripping off his rubber gloves, Dad drops each one on the deck. He puts his arm around Aaron and turns him into his shoulder. I expect Aaron to duckout from under Dad’s arm or back away, but he leans his forehead, just enough to touch, against Dad’s shoulder. Behind them, I feel alone and “extra,” though I’m close enough to see every breath they take. I feel guilty for having an easier life than Aaron. For me, losing everything only means my home. I can’t even imagine finding myself all alone, too.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “You’ve been through more than any child should have to.”
I step closer. I feel a little bad about Dad taking one hand off Aaron for me, but I
“Why’s it called Dead Man’s Island?” Aaron asks.
The concerned look in his eyes makes me want to tease him a little. “That’s where we Bethsaida Islanders buried the people who didn’t survive last year’s Fourth of July picnic. Donnie Burgess and his electric guitar were never seen again.”
Aaron’s gaze turns on me, angry.
“I’m just joking,” I add quickly.
“The story is that long ago a shipwrecked sailor washed up there,” Dad says over the engine’s roar. “There’s a plain headstone for him in the cemetery over behind those trees. They didn’t know what name to carve, so they left it blank.”
I’ve heard that story plenty — Amy and I even told it to Libby a few times. Though when we told it, the islanders did lots more screaming and fainting at the horror of finding the dead body than when Dad tells it.
“Why didn’t the man’s family ever claim him?” Aaron asks. “Or at least tell people his name?”
“I don’t imagine they ever knew what happened to him,” Dad says.
Looking toward the island, I wonder if that sailor did have people at home waiting. Hoping day after day, month after month, that he’d show up on their doorstep, older and tired, with an amazing story to tell.
People say it’s better to know the truth, but what if the ending’s a bad one? Is it still better to know? Or is it kinder to keep that string of hope dangling? To believe that maybe if you just wait long enough, everything could still end the way you want.
“What was the island called before the sailor came?” Aaron asks.
“Good question.” Dad checks his boat instruments. “It probably had another name before then, but I guess everyone started calling it Dead Man’s, and that’s what stuck.”
On the nearby rocky edge of tiny Sheep Island, a group of seals sun themselves. Their huge round bodies are stretched out, warm and drowsy. They raise their heads, curious, as we go by. A few more seals swim in the water between the island and our boat, the sun flashing off their wet fur.
“It doesn’t make sense to name a whole island for a guy who didn’t belong there,” Aaron says. “I’m sure he didn’t even want to be there.”
“No, but it’s where he stayed.” Dad slows the boatnear my first buoy. He leans out to snag the buoy with the gaff, a long pole with a hook on the end.
As Dad starts the hauler, I head for the rail, but Aaron doesn’t move. “My grandmother drowned, too,” he says.
Below me, waves slosh against the hull and I half-expect them to rise up in white-capped fury and pull us down to the depths. Anyone who knows anything about the ocean knows you never, ever say the D word on a boat.
Though my first trap hasn’t even broken the surface, Dad stops the hauler from pulling the trap up through the water. “Natalie said she had cancer?”
Aaron nods. “Fluid filled her lungs at the end. I didn’t know a person could drown in a room full of air.”
“I didn’t know that either,” Dad says quietly.
Every time I’ve allowed myself to imagine that unnamed sailor’s last seconds, there was always a dark, cold ocean folding around him, and maybe a horrible patch of watery light way up overhead — never once had I thought of someone drowning from the inside .
Stripping off his rubber gloves, Dad drops each one on the deck. He puts his arm around Aaron and turns him into his shoulder. I expect Aaron to duckout from under Dad’s arm or back away, but he leans his forehead, just enough to touch, against Dad’s shoulder. Behind them, I feel alone and “extra,” though I’m close enough to see every breath they take. I feel guilty for having an easier life than Aaron. For me, losing everything only means my home. I can’t even imagine finding myself all alone, too.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “You’ve been through more than any child should have to.”
I step closer. I feel a little bad about Dad taking one hand off Aaron for me, but I
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