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1. Deja, Thursday, 4:20 a.m. Deja, Thursday, 4:20 a.m.
Queen, Uncle Glen’s sea-scarred, twenty-foot fishing boat, daubed in the sweet stench of fish and gasoline, tore through waves of turquoise toward Springtown Harbour’s floating dock at way too fast a speed. But Deja stood serenely behind the wheel, troubled only by inventory. Exactly how many bars of Irish Spring soap did she have left back at home? That was where her focus was. Her mother had included some in the barrel she’d sent from the United States. If Deja could figure out how many she and her siblings had used up so far, she could tell her mother exactly how many to pack in her next shipment of stuff they couldn’t buy on the island. Then there’d be more room for other things.
That was when one of the boat’s two engines started to sputter.
Deja immediately slowed the boat down. Uncle Glen lunged from the casting foredeck toward the casting rear deck, where his friend, and fellow fisherman, Mr. Wallace stood. The sound of Uncle’s boots made Deja think of fat flounders jumping out of the water and into the boat. The two men hunched over one engine, their heads rocking side to side.
“Backside!” Mr. Wallace shouted his favorite non-curse curse word. “Engine done.”
Uncle Glen gripped his chin. “Seems so.”
Two engines made docking easy. One was trickier. Much trickier, especially since the boat hadn’t been centered for one engine. Deja licked her sea-salty lips, eager for the chance to prove herself, hoping her uncle wouldn’t insist on taking the wheel.
With the morning winds whipping every which way, this had gotten real. She quickly adjusted the LED spotlight to shine on the slip up ahead.
Mr. Wallace joined Deja at the helm, waving his skinny arms. “Turn di boat, Deja, and head fi di west side dock. Di current no so strong pon that side.”
“No, mon, di fish market no right over deh.” Uncle Glen flicked a hand toward the old market at the edge of the gravelly beach. “A ’nuff fish we catch. It going to take us a long time fi haul it from di west side back over to di market.”
Mr. Wallace frowned. “So, you rather sink di boat and make di fish fall back inna di water?”
Deja looked from the bow to the slip. It was doable. “I agree with Uncle,” she said by way of answer.
Mr. Wallace’s frown deepened. “No easy fi dock inna this weather, you know, Deja.”
Deja glared his way. “I can do it.” His lack of faith was typical of most fishermen.
“Gwan, Deja!” her uncle encouraged, stepping up on the flybridge as well. He was never typical.
Mr. Wallace flung his arms in agitation; he should really cut back on the coffee. “You mad! She can’t dock di boat in di slip straight-on. The sea angry, mon, and is only one engine now!” You’d think this was his boat, Deja thought. “She going go crash it, mon,” he went on.
What a crosses! Deja fought back from giving Mr. Wallace the stink-eye. But then again, she shouldn’t feel a way about Mr. Wallace. After all, he’d never seen her pilot before, but still...
“Rest yourself, Wally. Deja all right,” Uncle Glen told him, as if reading her mind. “She have di skill—she going use di wind fi park straight-on. You no know nothing, mon.”
Deja smiled, then gripped the wheel and focused in on the slip. It was just like any other parking spot, except that it sat between two other boats—expensive ones. Imagine the boat has wheels that can turn any way you want, her uncle had told her again and again when he was first teaching her to dock. She’d just started high school—and Mom was still in Jamaica. Wow, was it really only three years ago?
Uncle Glen pointed at the slip. “Straight-on, Deja!”
Deja counted the weatherworn piles in the slip she was aiming at.
But Mr. Wallace wasn’t letting it go. He jutted his chin at Uncle. “Sure you no want take di wheel, mon?”
Uncle made a show of picking at a loose thread on his worn polo shirt. “Rest yourself, Wally.”
Mr. Wallace rubbed the back of his head. “Me no want rest in peace!”
Uncle shrugged, laughing with his mouth closed. “Is an important skill fi Deja to practice, mon.”
Uncle Glen was a master boatsman; he could handle this with his eyes closed. But in truth, Deja had done this maneuver right only one other time. The other attempts had dinged up the green and yellow paint pretty good, not that anyone would notice. Queen had been through it all, for sure.
Focus! Deja cut the engine. The boat slowed, heading straight for the slip. If she didn’t do this right, she’d smash the nose right into the dock. No, no... that was doubt talking. Uncle always warned that it would speak up exactly when she had to concentrate the most.
Basics, Deja. Four letters in port and four letters in left, so the right side must be starboard. Chanting the basics always helped her concentrate. Then she angled the nose of the boat just to the right of the middle of the slip. The wind blasted from the starboard side and gave the boat a shove. Like a judo fighter using the opponent’s force, Deja spun the wheel left, put the Queen into gear, and gave it a little throttle.
Mr. Wallace tugged the bill of his old Yankees cap. “She doing it to backside!”
Another strong gust swung the boat the wrong way. Mr. Wallace’s hat flew off. Deja gasped. The weather had turned enemy. She started working the wheel. A little throttle. A yank of the wheel the other way. The Queen closed in on one of the docked boats. Dang it! Uncle didn’t have money to fix his own, much less someone else’s.
“Deja...” Uncle’s usual bass approached soprano.
She threw the Queen in reverse. Throttled hard. Whipped the wheel. The boat straightened... and glided into the slip.
Mr. Wallace picked up his cap, and Uncle threw him a rope. “Wally, you have the honor of tying off after witnessing a most exquisite park by my most exquisite niece.”
Deja muted her exhale, tried not to grin. Never let them see you sweat. She went back to trying to figure out how many bars of soap Mom had included in the barrel and why she hadn’t sent the new barrel of stuff yet. And that got her thinking about needing to make some more money. Which was why she was heading right back out to fish for herself after dropping Uncle and Mr. Wallace off.
Then, right on cue... “Um, Deja, it was a long night.” Uncle was rubbing the back of his neck. “You sure you want to go out again?”
Like she had a choice! “Why you don’t take some of today’s catch fi yourself?” he offered.
“Come on, Uncle, you already paid me to pilot.” They’d gone over this before—she didn’t take charity. Her mom had drilled that into her head better than a dentist could fill a tooth.
“You piloted half di night—you no want fi get some rest?”
“Not tired.” It was true—her adrenaline was still pumping after docking the Queen.
“But... don’t you need fi go see about your siblings?”
“I told you, Straleen is looking after them.” Then she got why he was trying so hard to dissuade her. “It’s the engine, right? You don’t want me to take out the Queen.”
He glared back at the faulty engine. “Well, I should fix it first.”
“Uncle, I just docked with one engine. I can go out with one too.”
He held up a forefinger for her to wait. “Wally, Deja can borrow the Gregor, no?”
Surprisingly, Mr. Wallace agreed without any hassle. He must have been impressed with her docking job.
“Good, good.” Uncle Glen clucked his tongue two times. “Free of charge, too. And no worry ’bout unloading; just head on out, mon.”
She should be grateful, and she was, but her heart sank at the thought of piloting Mr. Wallace’s rusty old skiff. Still, she needed the money. So she reached for her fishing rod.
