Storm Warriors (10 page)

“Yes, I would like to borrow some breeches,” she said firmly. She stood and reached down to help me up.

We walked through the brush to my cabin. I told her where the breeches were and waited outside while she dressed. When she came outside to show me, she spun around. The breeches were completely hidden under her dress.

“No one will even suspect,” she said triumphantly.

“Not until you ride,” I said, raising one eyebrow.

“That doesn't matter,” she said, and flounced ahead of me as we walked back to the picnic.

When we got there, William was riding the buoy, hooting as he swung through the air.

“We've got to make sure Mamma doesn't catch me while I climb up,” she whispered.

I studied the situation. Mr. Meekins was still helping children climb up the pole. Most of the adults were standing or sitting in groups, talking and eating, and children were taking turns pulling on the whip line to make the breeches-buoy ride work. Fannie's mother was chatting and laughing with several other women.

“I'll help you,” I said. “Let's go
now
.”

We ran to the wreck pole, and I shoved Fannie in front of me toward it.

“Miss Fannie,” Mr. Meekins began to scold, “didn't your mamma—”

“I've got breeches on,” Fannie interrupted, and swished up her skirts to show him.

While Mr. Meekins was still too surprised to stop us, I pushed Fannie up the pole and climbed up behind her so no one could grab her ankles. She reached the top and hoisted herself into the buoy. She gave me a huge grin as she dangled there, her breeches-clad legs sticking out, waiting for the children to pull on the rope.

But the breeches buoy didn't move. Fannie's grin faded.

“Mamma doesn't want her riding.” It was Floyd's voice. He had hold of the whip line and was refusing to let anyone pull it.

Fannie looked down at me, fear and disappointment on her face. Now she would get a whipping and wouldn't even get to ride.

A flash of anger set my head throbbing. I swung down off the pole and marched over to Floyd. “Your mamma didn't want her riding in a dress. She's wearing breeches now,” I snapped. I yanked the whip line out of his hands and began to pull. Seabright took hold of the rope with me, and several of the other children did the same, and we sent Fannie swinging gently through the air.

Fannie smiled as she looked around, taking in the view on what might well be her last breeches-buoy ride. I imagined what
she was seeing—vast ocean stretching out blue-green in the sunshine, long white shimmering beach, the tops of picnickers' heads, all her friends and family.

The commotion when the ride was over rivaled the wildest street arguments I'd ever seen in Elizabeth City: Fannie's mother yelling at Fannie for disobeying and smacking her on the rear with a wooden spoon, Floyd shouting that it was my fault for pulling on the rope, Fannie crying and trying to show her mother that she was wearing breeches, so she hadn't displayed her bloomers at all, and Fannie's father trying to calm everyone down so he could at least understand what was going on.

When Fannie had a chance to explain, it didn't make her mother or brother any less angry. Once my part in it was clear, Fannie's mother gave me several hard swats on the behind with the wooden spoon, which I sincerely hoped would make Floyd happy and give him less reason to punch me in the face at a later date.

Fannie's father sent me and Fannie back to my cabin to return the breeches. We walked in silence, Fannie still sniffling. I felt like I'd done a terrible thing—made a fool of myself again and gotten Fannie in a heap of trouble. I wished I'd never suggested the breeches in the first place. It was all my fault.

At the cabin, I slumped against the rain barrel while Fannie slipped quietly inside to change. When she came out, I tried to form the words. I still couldn't look at her, but I had to say I was sorry.

“Fannie, I—” I began.

But suddenly Fannie wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her cheek against mine. “Nathan,” she said into my ear, “that was the best ride
ever
!”

And before I was over being shocked and surprised, she kissed me on the cheek, then skipped on ahead back to the picnic.

After the night I got thrown out of the surfboat, I didn't ask if I'd be allowed to help with more rescues. I was afraid to find out the answer.

As it was, the rest of February and all of March passed without another wreck. By the time April came in with sunny days and steady southwest winds, Mr. Etheridge said if we were lucky, there wouldn't be any more wrecks this season. It's the winter storms and the way the shore gets steeper in the winter that cause the ships to run aground. He said the “active season” for the life-saving stations used to be December 1 to March 31: the heart of the winter. But in 1877, the U.S. warship
Huron
wrecked near Nags Head just a week before the active season was to begin, and with no one at the life-saving station to rescue them, ninety-eight men drowned. After that
the government decided to make the active season longer, and these days it ran from August 1 to May 31—just in case.

The geese, ducks, and hunters all left, and the shad and bluefish started running. Daddy and I were busy every day in the fishing skiff, and sometimes Grandpa came, too, because the nets got so heavy we needed his help.

On April 30, Lewis Wescott went home to Roanoke Island, because he was the “winter man” and only worked December to April. The ocean was still chilly, but I was wanting to start my swimming lessons. So, one day when the waves had whipped themselves up to at least five feet high, I presented myself to Mr. Meekins and asked if he would show me how to fight them.

Mr. Meekins laughed. “You don't fight them,” he said. “You kind of sneak by while they're not looking.”

The other surfmen laughed, too, and I felt like Mr. Meekins was making fun of me. A few minutes later, I found out he was just telling the truth.

He led me down to the shore, and we both took off our shirts and rolled up our breeches.

“The first trick is getting past the shore break,” he said. “It'll try to grab you and topple you.”

I nodded. I'd certainly had that happen lots of times.

“The water is cold, so you want to get in slowly and not have too much of a shock, right?” he said.

“Right,” I said.

“Well, that's wrong,” said Mr. Meekins. “You've got to run into the shore break, crash through it as fast as you can, and before it even sees you coming, you'll be out past it.”

I shivered just thinking of it.

“Then, once you're in the waves, you probably think you ought to stay on top of them—keep your head above the water, stay where you can see the next one coming, right?”

I wasn't sure whether to agree or disagree this time, so I just waited.

“Well, that's wrong, too,” said Mr. Meekins. “The top of the wave is where the power is. If you sneak
under
the power, the wave won't even know you're there. Then you pop your head up, spot the next one coming, and dive under it. You understand?”

I understood that I should do exactly the opposite of what made logical sense to me.

“Stay next to me, do what I do, and you'll be fine,” he said.

He stared at the ocean for a moment, then shouted, “Go!” We ran full speed into the shore break, crashing through it and sending spray into the sunlit air. The cold took my breath away, and the waves sucked at my feet and legs, but I lifted them and kept running until I thrust myself into the deep water behind the break.

“Did it!” I cried between gasps for breath.

But there was no time to celebrate. A five-foot wave was towering over my head, ready to explode.

“Under!” Mr. Meekins yelled.

I dove. Water rumbled in my ears and I was rolled sideways. Salt water rushed up my nose. I felt the rough bottom against one hip, then, suddenly, I was floating. Mr. Meekins's words sounded in my mind. “Pop your head up, spot the next one….” I gaveone hard stroke toward the surface. I shot out stale breath, sucked in new air, took a split-second glance at the next monster wave, and dove under quickly.

On this wave I'd made it in time. My body curved in a graceful arc, down toward the bottom, then up to the surface. The turbulence washed over the soles of my feet as they flipped like fins behind me. The wave hadn't even known I was there!

Again, there was no time to relax, only a moment for a new breath and another dive toward the bottom. Over and over we dove, surfaced in the troughs, and dove again, working our way out, Mr. Meekins strong as a dolphin beside me. He was right. It wasn't fighting. It was sneaking.

We swam out through the breakers toward the horizon. Once, I got a faceful of foam and gulped in salt water and air until I was choking. Then, with a strong stroke of my arms, I swam past the last breaker. Here the green mountains of water rose and fell without tossing me. Mr. Meekins floated near me.

“Good swimming,” he said.

“William and Floyd taught me to swim, off Roanoke Island,” I said between quick breaths.

“They're good swimmers,” he said. “A surfman's got to know how to swim, even through rough breakers. Never know when the surfboat might capsize.”

“Right,” I said.

We were far from shore now, with the white foam of the breakers separating us from land. I paddled with my hands and turned myself around. A wave lifted me up, and I spotted five gray fins gliding through the water nearby.

“When they see us, they'll come closer,” said Mr. Meekins. “They're curious—think we're strange fish.”

The dolphins swept close, then leapt out of the water, their sleek gray bodies glistening.

“I could almost touch them!” I shouted.

The dolphins circled us, then swam farther out to where a group of pelicans were swooping down and grabbing at something in the water.

“There's a school of fish out there,” said Mr. Meekins. “Dinner for everyone.”

The excitement of the dolphins left me panting, out of breath.

“You tired?” Mr. Meekins asked.

“No,” I answered, and we kept on swimming.

But soon my arms and legs felt like limp rags. I knew I'd best get in before I had no strength left.

“Now I'm tired,” I said.

“We'll swim back into the breakers and ride one in,” said Mr. Meekins.

Ride? I gave him a worried glance. No one had said anything about riding.

We swam together back toward shore. When we passed the breaker line, I felt the sucking that comes before a wave topples. I spun around quickly and dove under, as we'd done on our way out. When I popped my head up, Mr. Meekins was gone.

My chest tightened. My arms felt suddenly weaker. Ride? I forgot to dive. The wave took my body. It tumbled me over, rolling me sideways and head over heels. When it let me loose and rolled past, I was closer to shore, but still amid the breakers. Before I could catch my breath and dive under, the next wave grabbed me and tossed me toward shore in a rolling heap. Water shot up my nose. The wave shoved me against the rough bottom. I felt sand under my knees and scrambled to my feet. I took two lurching steps forward, crumpled as the wave sucked backward, then fell on my face as the next wave pushed me from behind.

I managed to crawl to shore. There, I crouched, gasping and heaving, spitting out salt water and sand, feeling the sting of scrapes on my back, arms, and knees.

Mr. Meekins stood and looked down at me. “You could have ridden in a little better, but other than that you did fine,” he said.

I suggested that riding waves be part of our next swimming lesson, and he agreed.

George Midgett got weaker instead of stronger, with a loud cough and pains in his chest, so he was sent home to Roanoke Island to have a good rest. We thought he'd come back in a while to finish out the season, but he never did. Mr. Tillett came as his substitute, the way he'd done for Mr. Pugh when he was on leave last winter to get married.

The last few weeks before the crew left for the summer, I helped them overhaul the life-saving equipment, whitewash the stable and storehouse, oil the wood inside the station, paint the lifeboat and the window sashes, and pack up all their belongings in preparation for going home. They were happy to be going to live with their families for two whole months. I was sorry to see them go.

Mr. Etheridge seemed sorry to see them go as well. I think the
station must be awfully big and hollow-sounding for one man to live in alone. He said he tried one summer to have his wife, Frances, and the children come live with him. But Frances said it was too lonely out here on Pea Island.

With nobody else around but us and Mr. Etheridge only allowed to go see his family once a week or so, we figured on being good neighbors. Mr. Etheridge had his fishing skiff moored sound side, and sometimes Daddy and I went fishing with him. He also had a fenced-in garden and even a hog he was fattening up. When we found horseshoe crabs caught in our gill net, we brought them over for Mr. Etheridge's hog to eat.

With the warm weather, speckled trout and mullet were running, and our purse seine was always full. We had to check the gill net morning and evening, because if we left the fish for too long, they'd spoil in the warm sound water. We preserved them in strong brine until we could sail to Roanoke Island to sell our haul.

I helped Grandpa finish our garden fence. On one of our trips to Manteo, we bought seeds and later planted melons, collards, turnips, carrots, sweet potatoes, and tomatoes. They were sprouting up nicely in the sandy plot we'd prepared by burying fish heads there all year.

By July, the summer heat settled in like an itchy wool blanket. We stopped cooking indoors and dug a fire pit outside to use. Our fish and pan bread tasted good and smoky. In the evening,
as it was getting dark, we'd open the window and door to the cabin, take a bit of brush and light it on fire, then blow out the flame and get it smoking real good. We'd bring that inside in a pot so it would fill the cabin with smoke and run out the mosquitoes and yellow flies. Between cooking outdoors and smoking out the cabin, my clothes always smelled of fire.