Chapter 2 #2
Maria was nearby in her pretty dress, carrying her small white pocketbook.
I jumped down, shoving her to the ground so hard I imagined I heard her eyeballs rattle.
She wasn’t hurt but avoided me like the plague after that.
Most of all I regretted giving her my doubloons and wanted them back.
I never asked, figuring they’d long since ended up in the trash.
When I told Dad the story, he shook his head.
“What a waste,” was his verdict.
The coins weren’t worth anything, but what I’d done was foolish and self-destructive. I’d set myself up to be victimized, he said. Much later in life when my literary agent Esther Newberg began negotiating huge deals, making me millions, Dad would shake his head rather often.
“You’ll have a lot of money someday if you don’t spend it or give it all away,” he’d warn.
Often on Sunday mornings when I was five, Dad would take my brothers and me fishing, weather permitting. I’d wake up in the pitch dark to his quiet voice.
“Rise and shine, Patsy Boo! Time to go fishing!” Dad’s warm breath tickled my ear, and I’d open my eyes, excited and joyful.
There wasn’t much I loved more than going out in the boat. Mom didn’t come with us anymore, and we’d be gone long before she was up. I’d wrap my arms around Dad’s neck as he lifted me out of bed, telling me to hurry and get dressed, we’d be leaving in a few minutes.
He’d load my brothers and me in the car.
Usually, I was in back and it was hard to keep my eyes open.
The first stop was Sambo’s restaurant for a hearty breakfast. I’d drink orange juice and eat pancakes with tiger butter, pouring maple syrup on everything, including my eggs.
Afterward, it would still be dark when we followed Old Cutler Road to the marina.
I remember the smell of gasoline and creosote as we carried the ice chest, the bait bucket, and fishing gear.
I don’t recall what kind of boat we had, but something small like a twenty-footer.
My brothers and I settled on our cushions as the outboard motor puttered to life, the bow light glowing red, reminding me of Rudolph.
We’d set out along the channel, the NO WAKE buoys nodding their welcome as we passed.
I didn’t understand what the signs meant, only that we always slowed down.
I assumed something was sleeping underwater that we weren’t supposed to wake up.
Maybe a family of manatees that Dad called sea cows.
I imagined their reaction to boats with sharp propellers churning overhead.
I didn’t like the Snapper Creek channel, the water dark and murky with gasoline slicks that in daylight looked like spilled rainbows.
When Dad’s boat was going slowly, the mosquitoes caught up with us, the air thick and too warm.
It seemed to take forever as we’d rumble past the dark, twisted shapes of mangroves.
Their roots showed above the water as if the trees were lifting their legs and about to run.
Sitting on my orange cushion, I’d look up at the sky, counting the stars, wondering what would happen if the Big Dipper flipped over.
What would spill out, and would it drench us?
Maybe milk, I deduced, connecting the constellation to the Milky Way.
Or perhaps the Big Dipper was full of stardust that would settle over us like a magic pollen and we’d live happily ever after.
I’d stare at the moon, making out the craters that Dad showed me through the telescope he sometimes set up in the backyard.
The channel cut through a wildlife preserve impenetrable with trees, shrubs, all kinds of birds, and fish, the water brackish.
I’d slap at mosquitoes while Dad stood behind the wheel, silhouetted in the red glow of the bow light, the tip of his cigarette a tiny orange coal. I could smell his smoke downwind.
When we entered the Biscayne Bay, he’d open the throttle.
I’d close my eyes, hanging on to the railing as we roller-coasted over waves, bumping up and down.
Opening my mouth, the wind rushing in, I imagined blowing up like a balloon and floating off my cushion.
Then Dad would catch me with his fishing pole, reeling me back.
He’d laugh at how clever I was, and there I’d go again, spinning another story.
Dad’s favorite fishing spot was a submerged pipe that I found mysterious and spooky.
I wondered how it ended up there, possibly during the construction of the nearby Cutler Power Plant, its two smokestacks jutting into the horizon.
Sometimes when the tide was low, I could see the vague rippling shape of the pipe on the bottom like a sunken submarine.
By the time we’d anchor, the sun was rising, and Dad would put on his dingy terrycloth tennis hat.
We’d fish at the pipe for hours, rocking on the surf, our reels click-click-clicking.
I was impatient, jerking up my line every other minute, rarely catching a thing, and not caring.
I was content to sit on the boat, spending time with Dad, and I found the motion soothing.
Inside the ice chest were the fisherman sandwiches and soda pop he’d bought the day before, and I was more interested in them than in catching anything.
But I played the part, holding my cork-handled pole, sometimes standing up.
Usually, I’d lost my bait long ago and did nothing about it, including telling anyone.
Sometimes Dad anchored near a sandbar where my brothers and I would wade, netting blue crabs that he’d cook that night for supper, dipping the tender white meat into melted butter.
I’d think about a huge cannibal chasing me with a net, throwing me into a big cauldron of boiling water.
I hoped the crabs didn’t feel any pain but feared they did.
It was always disheartening when the day was done and we’d return along the Snapper Creek channel, my mood sinking like the sun.
The thick mangrove roots now reminded me of snakes I’d seen at the Miami Serpentarium with its huge concrete hooded cobra in front.
I remember glass cages of pythons draped over trees, and Dad saying that they wrap around animals, even humans, squeezing them to death.
Fear and I are old companions. Our introduction was mostly because of Mom, but not entirely.
Dad often took my brothers and me to places that could be scary for a little kid.
Not just the serpentarium but the seaquarium where he’d show us the shark tank.
I’d gawk at dead-eyed gray predators swimming like missiles, getting close to the glass.
I hoped never to encounter such a thing while swimming.
My first visit to the zoo, I screamed when a peacock fanned its spectacular tail in my face.
My father said it sensed I was afraid, and that made it aggressive.
In other words, it was my fault. Had I been brave and calm, it would leave me alone, Dad pronounced from the sidelines.
I cried and stood on top of a bench until someone shooed the huge bird away.
I’d wish I could be like a hermit crab hiding in an empty shell.
The instant I’d try to touch its spindly legs, they’d tuck out of sight.
Dad said it was for self-protection. If only I could keep the fear from showing and barricade myself where no one could touch me.
Much later in life, I’d master that ability.
Usually, it was late afternoon when we’d arrive back at the marina, our feet thumping hollowly on the dock as we carried everything to the car, the mosquitoes and sand fleas attacking in squadrons.
Big horseflies droned, their stings itching and smarting during the hot ride home with the windows open.
My skin was always bright red, sunblock uncommon then.