East Sound
By Ken Ely

It was dark - but not so dark I couldn't see. The octopus moon hid behind a patch of clouds but its watery tentacles reached around my window curtains, creating bands of light offset by inky shadows within my room. " Brackenby?" I called softly from my cot. "It's midnight." " Midnight," he muttered drowsily from the other room. I could hear his covers being thrown back and the ancient bed he was lying in creaking under his shifting weight. "Midnight, and Peter's sound asleep."


" You still want to go?"

" Of course," he said, with little of the enthusiasm he had expressed earlier, when we'd made the decision to embark on this adventure. Groping for the door knob where I'd hung my jeans, I stumbled over one of my tennis shoes. A flashlight came on in the other room. Its glow, reflected by the walls, was enough to allow me to get my feet down my pantlegs and cautiously shuffle in to join my brother at Peter's bedside without tripping over the shoe's mate.

" I've shaken him twice," Brackenby said, shining his flashlight full in the sleeping Peter's face. "If he wasn't warm, I'd think he was dead." " The sea breeze'll bring him to life," I murmured, throwing Peter's covers over the foot of his bed, leaving him nothing but his briefs to snuggle down under. I opened the door that led outside.

-&-

The Vicarage was perched upon the rocks among gnarled madronas and pines overlooking East Sound, the arm of water that nearly divides Orcas Island. Our quarters were built separate, below the main part of the house and formed a long L below the living room and kitchen. The roof of the L was supposed to serve as a sundeck, but troubles with leaks discouraged that. Gramma Benson, alone, was permitted to walk out on it, and only to feed the gulls or to call people up from the beach for tea.



Had Grampa and Gramma not lived there, the Vicarage would have had some other name. However, as Grampa was the Very Reverend Canon Glion T. Benson, Episcopal Vicar of the San Juan Islands Mission, their residence was rightfully called "the Vicarage" by everyone on the island.

-&-

The cool air and a few proddings had the desired effect on Peter. He groggily swung himself out of bed and began to fumble about for his clothes in the bouncing shadows created by the flashlight. Tying his shoes, he asked, "Where'd I leave my coat, anyway?"

I recollected seeing it earlier on the back of the couch in the living room. "You didn't bring it down when we turned in?"

" No," Peter replied, unperturbed. "Say, can't we turn a light on in here? Brackenby's driving me nuts the way he's waving that flashlight around."

" No, we can't. And keep your voice down," I cautioned. I didn't want to give Grampa any idea we were up and about. Taking the boat out at night was a big no-no with him, which made the missing coat a bit of a problem. It was too cool out on the water for Peter to go without it; and the front door had a bell hanging on its curtain rod while the back door, located next to the folks' bedroom, was sticky. We could not retrieve the coat by either entrance without putting an end to our enterprise entirely. Peter shrugged. "Boost me up onto the sundeck. I'll go in through that door."

" The sundeck," I said without enthusiasm.

" It's the only door left," Peter argued, reasonably.

" Okay, the sundeck door. The latch doesn't work anymore. There's a hook on the inside that holds the door closed. It hooks in a leather thong tied around the door knob. I think - well, I hope - there's enough slack in the thong for the door to open a crack if you push on it. Lift the hook out of the thong with your pocket knife. The back of the blade, not the cutting part. Or is your knife in the living room with your coat? No?

Well, well. Remember, now, don't cut the thong."

We went outside, and with a last reminder to not cut the thong, Brackenby and I boosted Peter up onto the sundeck. Directly, we heard the clatter of tin.

" The bird pan," Brackenby observed. "He might as well have gone in through the front door." After an eon or so, the mislaid coat came sailing down. Then, lying on his belly, Peter flailed feet first over our heads. Brackenby and I each grabbed a leg and a buttock to lower him to the ground.

" Wait a minute! Wait a minute! My shirt's caught! Ah! Something's sticking me!"

" Be quiet!" I hissed. "Fooey!" I grunted to my brother. "Push him back up a little." We weren't together in our push and moved Peter as much sideways as up. This tore his shirt and his hide to the point that we drew some blood.

" Well, it's a long way from your heart," Brackenby sympathized, as we surveyed the damage by flashlight. Peter didn't want band aids, so up the cement steps we went, past the belled front door to the rear of the house. The oars and boat cushions should have been just behind the house, where I had strategically put them before supper - but now they were gone.

" Oh, crumbs! Grampa's moved 'em," Brackenby whispered.

" Then he's onto us," Peter dispaired.

" Never in life," I assured him; but in my mind, I wasn't so sure.

The house and the back porch made a corner between the folks' bedroom window and the sticky door that lead onto the porch. It occurred to me that Grampa might have put our gear there, so we shuffled along the back wall of the house to check. Bingo. Our stuff was there.Years later, I found out from Aunt Elpie that that particular corner was like a big ear: it collected the slightest sounds produced in its proximity and conveyed them right into the folks' bedroom. But even without this essential piece of information, we took every precaution to remain undetected. Holding the oarlock rings to keep them from rattling along the looms, we made off like thieves, climbing the steps past Gramma's weedy but bountiful flower garden to the gravel parking strip above the house. From there, it was up the dirt road, out onto the tarmac and on into town.

-&-

Waxing in summer and waning in winter as the tide of vacationers flooded and ebbed, the village of Eastsound, in 1965, consisted of the Outlook Inn, Roger Perdue's service station, Russ Honnicker's service station, Emmanuel Episcopal Church (of which Grampa Benson was Vicar), a clothing store, a cafe or two, a small library, a bank, a real estate office, Templin's Grocery, Gow's lumber yard, a fair sized school, and some residences. (I may have omitted something, but these were the essentials.) It was on the strand below the church that Grampa kept an eight-foot pram which we called HMS Lion. We had been forbidden to use this gloriously named little ship at night; but it was to the strand where it lay, and to whatever adventures that nocturnal voyaging might conjure up, that the three of us marched in the dark.

I was sixteen that summer. Peter Vincent was fifteen. My brother was fourteen. My brother's given name was Philip, and he, like Peter, was commonly called "Pete." Why we did not use Pete and Peter or Philip and Peter, well, who knows? I solved the problem by calling my brother " Brackenby." The name was a private joke between him and myself, but it struck some cord of caprice in Grampa Benson; and after he heard it, the old priest never again called my brother anything else - ever.

-&-

The tide was in, which made launching Lion a dry enterprise. While my brother held the oars and the boat cushions, Peter and I rolled her right side up, picked her up bow and stern, and carried her out along a great log until we had sufficient depth of water to accomodate us aboard. Stepping down into her as if from a dock, we shoved off, we pulled out a little way from the beach, where we drifted while discussing where to take ourselves.

" There's the oil barge," I offered. "It should be about ready to get under way. We could row over and listen to the whistle signals."

" How do you figure she's about to get under way?" my brother, sitting facing me in the stern sheets, wanted to know.

" Because she came up-sound while we were eating supper. The flood was still making but it must be slack water by now, if the ebb hasn't already begun. I expect her skipper will take her out on the ebb. I would, if I were the skipper. Thus, (I held my index finger aloft histrionically) he should be casting off shortly!"

" Oh, sure!," Brackenby contested. "You always think you know just about everything."

" Well, I know about this. I've watched it before," I countered.

" In the dark, I expect."

" Come on, you guys!" blurted Peter, behind me on the bow thwart. "Row somewhere! I'm getting sleepy sitting here rocking in the dark." I began to pull for the oil dock.

-&-

The oil dock still jutts like a jack'o'lantern's tooth from the western shore of Eastsound Cove. Oil is no longer received there; but in those days, the oil barge came in once a month and moored port-side to, its bow flush with the south corner of the dock, its stern projecting beyond the north corner.

This particular barge resembled a small tanker. I have always speculated that started life as a small tanker but that its engine had been removed to convert it to a barge; but I don't know for certain. It possessed no propulsive power of its own at the time of which I write, although it had a generating plant aboard for pumps and lights. A large tug made fast on its starboard quarter pushed it up and down Puget Sound. This tug was an old-timer, whose most captivating (to me) feature was the fact that, in order to reverse the thrust of her single screw, her engine had to be stopped entirely and then restarted in the opposite direction. This arrangement, called "direct reversible," was a fairly common one in tugs of that vintage, but it fascinated me because I had no difficulty envisioning the excitement that would follow should the engine fail to restart when required. With this Damoclean sword suspended (in my mind) above the tug, I delighted in watching her maneuver.

To lay the barge against the dock, the skipper had to turn the whole assembly completely around in the confines of Eastsound Cove. This would have been a simple feat if the center of the cove had not been obstructed by a pile of rock locally known as Jap Island. When making a landing, the tug's captain usually gave his orders from the bow of the barge by means of hand and whistle signals, rather like a football referee. Coming up East Sound and approaching the confines between Jap Island and the oil dock, he would give one loud, short chirp on his whistle for "all stop." The low chugging of the tug's engine would cease. Gliding slowly abreast the dock, his hand signal for "right half rudder" and two short whistle chirps for "slow astern" would be given. A low growl, a black puff of smoke from the tug's stack, and the boiling of the water under her counter would mark the restarting of the engine in reverse. This would begin to check the barge's headway and start her on a clockwise turn back toward the dock. Three short chirps for "full astern" would kick up a white froth and stop all forward progress while continuing the spin. As sternway began to gather, the hand signal for " left full rudder" would be given. This would pull the bow of the barge to starboard and on around to lay her nearly parallel to the the dock. A chirp for "all stop," followed immediately by a chirp for "ahead slow," would check the swing of the barge's bow, plus move her forward again once the tug's rudder was put amidships. Nearing the dock, a chirp for " all stop," followed by two chirps for "slow astern" would bring her up all standing along the pilings, slightly bow in and stern out. The bow line and an after spring line would be passed to the dock and made fast.

As sternway commenced, the spring line would snub the barge full against the dock while the bow line prevented her head from falling away. One more chirp and the passing of the remaining dock lines marked the end of the process.

Leaving the dock was less dramatic: the barge was already pointed in the direction she was to go; but departure still required its own measure of chirping, arm waving, engine growling, black smoke, and churning water. And it was all this - exclusive of the black smoke, which we couldn't see in the dark - that we were rowing over to observe.

-&-

Resting on the oars near the bow of the tug, we really couldn't tell what was happening aboard the barge: our eyes were only 36 inches above the waves. Hence, we decided to go up where we'd have a better view. Pulling around the tug's stern, we arrived at tje small float tied to the north side of the dock. Indeed, it was barely "a float," (pun quite intended) for the seaward side of the thing was submerged. This was a convenience, however, for it was a simple matter to run Lion's bow onto it, allowing us to step out like we would on a beach. From there, a wooden ladder took us up to the oil dock platform.

The barge crew was just beginning to close valves and disconnect hoses as we arrived on top. A heavy man chewing an extinguished cigar was saying something about 44,000 gallons to a little man with white hair and glasses. We meandered around the dock to eavesdrop and watch the preparations to get under way. Soon, the tug captain, identifiable by the whistle hanging about his neck, strode forward along the barge's deck.

" Come on," said Peter. "Let's get back to our boat. This is going to be fun!"

Brackenby objected. "Let's get back to our boat? We can't see anything from the boat! That's the reason we came up here!"

Anticipation written all over his face, Peter began pushing us toward the ladder. "Just get in the boat and I'll show you! And I get to row."

" The honor's all yours," I said, going down the ladder ahead of him. "But this had better be good enough to miss watching from the dock for." My brother sat in the bow this time, and I the stern. Peter pulled at the oars with a will - straight for the stern of the tug.

" Where the hell are you going?" I expostulated. "You're going to lay us right in the wash of the prop!"

" I know! When the tug goes forward, we'll go shooting out behind! A nice bumpy ride!"

Our pram nudged the tug's counter. "Bumpy ride, my butt! This tug's going astern first! We'll be forced under her counter by the wash, maybe even swamped! I don't want to get chewed up in that big screw! Get us out of here!"


" You think so?" Peter speculated. "Why would the captain do that? He can go straight ahead."

" He's going astern first, I tell you! On the after spring line! Don't you see? To swing the bow out from the dock!" I elaborated in a panic.

" Haven't you ...?"


Two short chirps for "slow astern" rang like a death knell in my ears. My words died in my throat. My heart leaped beyond them. The wash of the prop errupted beneath us. It swirled us under the tug's counter, then pinned us between the turn of the hull and the monstrous woven hemp fender.
"Oh, the herald of death! Push off!" I yelled. "Push off!" Our unanimous lunge against the tug's hull nearly capsized the pram, bringing a flood of water over the gunnel, nearly swamping us. One more short chirp stilled the maelstrom. "Now! If you want to live, push off!" I cried. Another short chirp sounded.

Brackenby managed an off-balance effort against the tug. It gained us twelve inches of clearance. With a low growl from the engine, the water boiled under the tug's counter again, this time in the other direction. We were now flung aft - literally spit into the white billows of the prop's wash. Fortunately, we remained afloat.

I quietly suggested to Peter that he pull for the shore. " We've lost an oar," he quavered.

" It's there, by the float," Brackenby indicated in a reedy voice.

" Give me the other oar then, Peter. I'll scull."

We retrieved our oar, then pulled for the gravel beach to the north of the oil dock, where we relieved ourselves - for it is a marvel how full one's bladder can suddenly become in the extremes of terror. After we tipped Lion up on her side to dump the water out of her, we sat down on a log, like three crows on a fence, to gaze out at the scene of our near calamity. The tug and barge had cleared the dock and were headed downsound. The white-haired man was going home. The lights on the dock were out, except for the big mercury vapor light that operated on an electric eye.

" The herald of death?" my brother chided. "I thought the herald of death was a bell."

I tossed a little rock at the water. "Sometimes it's a whistle."

" Why did the captain back up?" Peter softly asked. "Why didn't he just go forward?"

I sat thinking for a minute - not about the question but about the feelings the tone of Peter's voice betrayed. He was embarrassed, maybe even ashamed that he had gotten us into such a situation. When I answered, I was deliberately gentle. "The skipper backed down on his spring line to pull the bow out clear of the dock. Otherwise, with the tug on the starboard side, he would have scraped along the full length of the barge when he went ahead. Make sense?"

Peter nodded dismally.

Our shoes and pant legs were soaked. "Let's build a fire," my brother suggested.

" We're next to an oil dock," Peter observed. "But we could row out to Jap Island and build one. We'll have to take wood with us, though. Not much driftwood out there."

" Anybody got matches?" I asked.

Brackenby had some, but asked about paper.

" Well," Peter drawled, "Fred Jensen saves newspapers in that little barn behind the Outlook Inn. He's got stacks of 'em. But we'll have to watch out for Cimarron. He bites."

" Cimarron?" my brother derided. "Just kick him in the teeth!"

" I dunno, he's pretty big," Peter countered.

Brackenby pressed on, "Well, how big can a dog be?"

" Big. He's a horse."

Brackenby would not retreat, even if Cimarron was a horse. "We'll just take some rocks along, then. I never saw a horse that would bite while rocks were bouncing off his skull. Or a dog, either."

" And I never saw you throw a rock well enough to bounce it off a horse's skull - or a dog's, either," I chimed in, standing up. "Let's go back to the oil dock and see if the trash can has some paper in it. That way, we won't have to row all the way over to the Outlook. And," I added, in an aside to Peter, " we won't have Cimarron biting at us while Brackenby misses with his rocks."

-&-

Actually, there was more paper than we needed in the trash can. Someone had thrown out a half box of invoices, box and all. Returning to the beach with it, we freighted Lion with enough dry driftwood to build a signal fire. Loaded thus, launching then became a bit of a problem, so we removed our footwear and rolled our pant legs up above our knees to avoid getting them any wetter. The gravel beach was kind to our bare feet, if not to the paint on the bottom of the boat. With only a mild wetting of our firewood, we shoved off. Laden as we were, our freeboard at the lowest point in Lion's sheer was about three inches; but the water was calm, for the breeze that had helped waken Peter earlier had died. To land our lumber on Jap Island, due to its lack of beaches at this tide, we selected a large, flat rock as a quay. With two of our boat cushions hung for fenders, we passed our fire wood ashore hand to hand. Once she was empty, we hauled the pram itself up onto the rock.
Jap Island offered only one comfortable site for fire building. This was a shallow depression some six feet wide running across the south end of the island's level surface. In the center of this trough we started our blaze, using the box of invoices as kindling.

" Too bad we didn't bring something to eat," Peter lamented. I agreed. "Which makes me think of a kid who was visiting Gramma and Grampa last summer."

" Why, didn't they feed him?" my brother querried.

" Sure, they fed him. But one day, he and I hiked over to Lime Kiln Bay.

It was about four o'clock when we got there. We knew we were missing tea time with Gramma, and this kid said he was hungry. Since it was low tide, he began to look around amongst the rocks 'til he came up with a little oyster. I asked him if he intended to eat the oyster and he said that he did. He pulled out his pocket knife, opended the oyster and swallowed it down. I asked him how he liked it. Huh. He just looked at me for a second, then threw up. After the oyster was back amongst the rocks, he grinned at me and said, 'Needed butter.'"

" Where do you come up with this barf?" asked Brackenby, disgustedly.

" Why? Don't you like my story?"

" No. It needed butter."

In this fashion we affirmed our manhood to each other until the desire for sleep overran our recumbent positions and put our wits to rout. Then, rousing ourselves to the effort, we stowed our surplus wood in a cleft in the rocks against some future expedition, doused our fire by piling a small cairn of stones on it and returned to our boat.

The tide had fallen about a foot since we had pulled Lion up onto her rock. This complicated launching her, for it brought two more rocks above the water's surface directly where we had to launch her. A few more service decorations were added to her hull, but we managed the business without rewetting our damp tennis shoes. In a matter of minutes, we were ashore on the strand below the church, carrying our little man-o'-war up to her perch on the logs.

Our hike back to the Vicarage was an exercise in somnambulation. The oars and boat cushions were replaced in their nook between the sticky back door and the bedroom window. Then we descended to our beds beneath the sundeck.

-&-

" And top o' the mornin' to you, Cap'n," Grampa intoned as I opened my eyes in response to his hand on my shoulder. "Breakfast is about ready, so maybe we ought to roust the crew. Sleeping pretty soundly, are they?" Propping myself up on my elbows, I blinked the sleep from my eyes. Sure
enough, it was morning. I answered in kind, "Aye, sir. I reckon they are, to be sure. What time is it?"

" Eight bells, the morning watch, Cap," he continued." 'Course, you know it's the morning watch, good seaman that you are."

" Aye. Good seaman that I am."

" You three can muster upstairs in fifteen minutes easy, I suppose." This smiling speculation was Grampa's gentle way of giving orders.

" I suppose."

" Right. Fifteen minutes, Cap. See you all pipe-clayed and club-tied at the table," he chuckled. Pausing at the other two beds to lift his bifocals for a better look at their contents, he went out. Fifteen minutes. "Brackenby! Roust out!" I called, throwing off my covers. "Help me get this loggerhead of a Peter up."

My brother groaned. "What about this loggerhead of a Brackenby?" Once again tossing Peter's covers over the foot of the bed, we took him, hands and feet, and laid him out on the tile floor. The cold tiles on his bare hide brought him up quick. "Fifteen minutes to muster," I said, grabbing his arm to prevent him from toppling back onto the bed. " Pipe-clayed and club-tied. Grampa's orders."

We dressed in befuddled haste, not caring if we missed a button or forgot a snap, splashed water on our puffy faces, made obligatory efforts with our wild hair, and caromed out the door and up the steps to the main part of the house. We were on time, but "pipe-clayed and club-tied" wasn't in
it.

Breakfast was sumptuous, as usual: tea, toasted homemade bread, Grapenuts, eggs, and grapefruit halves. Other than comments like, "Pass the butter, please," we boys ate in comatose silence. Grampa ate very slowly, as was his custom. He chewed every bite of Grapenuts twenty times. At least, he said he did. I often thought of counting, but never rose to the occasion. When we had finished our own breakfasts, we boys sat in attendance upon him while he chewed. That, also, was the custom. " And I guess you fellows have a big day planned?" he asked, pausing in his chewing.

" Big morning planned, anyway," Peter answered. "We're going into town this morning to help set up booths for the Historical Day celebration."

" We are?" Brackenby demanded. "When did we plan this?"

Peter and I ignored him, which was reinforced by Grampa's "Very commendable." Then he added, "And Mother Dear, you are going into town this morning too, didn't you say?"

" Yes, dear. That's quite right," Gramma replied in her level British way. More silence followed while Grampa resumed chewing. I yawned and reflected that Grapenuts would probably be just as digestable without chewing as with, for they were, after all, nothing more than milled cereal glued together in little clumps and baked to the hardness of obsidian. Chewing only broke them into smaller lumps. The lumps probably possessed certain teeth-cleaning properites, like crunchy cat food, but with Grapenuts, digestion certainly could not begin in the mouth, if it was possible at all.

Presently, Grampa shot me a side-long glance through his wire-rimmed spectacles. He smiled and chewed some more. "Did you fellows notice the oil barge coming up-sound at dinner time last night?"

" Sure," I said, speculating absently that Grapenuts had probably been originally invented as a compound to soak up oil on garage floors. "We always watch for the oil barge. Like to hear the whistle signals."

" I wonder what time he left."

" Around one o'clock," I replied, realizing my slip in the same instant that Brackenby's shoe connected with my shin beneath the table. I tried to make a recovery through pain that clamped my jaws shut. "At least, that's about when the tide - was to start ebbing, and I figure - he left with it."

Seemingly oblivious to both my blunder and my agony, Grampa continued his inexorable twenty-strokes-per-bite chewing. His next question was directed to Peter, and to my relief, it concerned the booths for the Historical Day celebration. As that topic led the discussion safely away from the oil barge, I began to lapse back into a security whose sole point of focus was my shin. Presently, Grampa finished his obsidian and pushed back his chair. Glancing at me briefly while wiping his moustache with his napkin, he asked, "And how many gallons of oil did the barge leave off, Cap? Do you know?"

I always knew just about everything. "44,000 gallons."

Two shoes crashed against my shins this time. My vision became blurred by tears. Through them, I could see that Gramma was smiling broadly as she suspended the tea pot over my empty cup. "Ken, would you care for some more tea while we talk?"

-&-

©2004 January 12, 2004

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