My Diary from the Edge of the World (25 page)

I think it's been the happiest time we've had since we left Cliffden. I even said to Mom, out of breath, that it almost felt like being at home instead of in the middle of a vast and mostly empty ocean. “I think we carry home on our backs,” she said. (I'm still trying to figure out exactly what she meant.)

Anyway, we both looked at Sam, who'd fallen asleep
again, and Mom smiled. “I better tuck this one in,” she said, and wished everyone a quick good night.

Now here I am in bed, a little dizzy from the champagne and still wide awake. It's a new year, and Mom's violin playing has finally stopped. I suppose she's gone to sleep, and I guess I will too.

PS: It's turned out to be a fine, clear night, just like the captain promised.

I'm back in my favorite
corner of the poop deck , sitting on some fish netting. We're making our way down the coast of Chile after two full days off-ship. All afternoon South America's been winking at us, green and sparkling, arching up out of the water or tapering down into pristine beaches. Massive giants guard the shores against modern day pirates who sometimes invade the beaches, and every once in a while I think I can just make out a distant, enormous figure waving a club in the air and warning us to keep away.

*  *  *

Our stopover at San Cristobal was, as Millie puts it,
divine
. The morning we arrived, we woke to find we were already docked and that the captain and most of
the shipmates had already departed for the other side of the island in the skiff to do some trading. Before us was a thin sliver of turquoise water leading up to a pristine white beach, and some gleaming white rooftops in the distance beyond the trees (probably hotels, Mom said). It was all we could do to be patient enough for Troy to get the rowboat loaded and lowered and row us to shore.

Sam and I spent most of our time on the island building and knocking down sand castles. (I'm a little bit ingenious with sand sculpting and made some very nice creations, but Sam tore down everything I built while pretending to be a giant. I didn't mind at all because he's been feeling so good recently.) Virgil must have picked a hundred tropical flowers for Millie, flying all over the island to find the ones that were hardest to get, his wiry body shooting through the sky like a rubber band. No sooner would he hand a batch to her than she'd lay them down in the sand and forget them, or drop them into the waves while she waded. Finally she noticed the effect it was all having on Virgil's halo and general flicker, and the next flower he delivered (a Venus flytrap—poor Virgil thought it was a lily), she tucked between two buttons in her dress and gave him a faint, almost friendly smile.

I thought that was especially nice of her. She's been quiet lately, and going to bed early every night (Mom thinks she's not getting enough vitamin C), but she's also been in a strangely good mood. She spent most of our time on the beach wading and looking for shells, just smiling at nothing. She said at one point that the island made her feel like we were on a “luxurious vacation,” and she didn't even beg to go spend the night at one of the hotels we could see in the distance. (We slept on the ship both nights.) I agree that the whole place did kind of feel like resorts we've seen advertised on TV. It was sort of nice hanging around the deserted beach and having it all to ourselves. Even the Cloud hovering far offshore didn't dampen our pleasure. I could almost imagine it with a pair of sunglasses on (though I still can't picture how Millie and Sam both see it as a face of some sort) just lounging up in the sky, being mellow.

*  *  *

Our second day on the island—yesterday—happened to be Oliver's birthday.

I've decided Oliver may be fishlike after all, because we could barely entice him out of the water the whole time we were docked. Troy dug out some snorkels and
flippers the captain had stored away, explaining that the water was too shallow for mermaids or sharks, and that was pretty much the last we saw of Oliver for the entire two days. Occasionally he'd stand up in the water to wave at us and yell something like, “I just saw a starfish!” then disappear again, and only trudge up the beach—soaking wet—in time to eat, or in search of more sunscreen (also provided by Troy).

I took advantage of his absence to make him a present—collecting the best shells I could find on the beach and putting them all in a brown paper grocery bag from the ship (the best wrapping I could find). “Can we say it's from me, too?” Sam asked, crouched beside me with his hands on his cheeks and his elbows on his knees, watching me place the shells in the bag.

“Of course,” I said. “You hand me some shells. That would be a big help.” As I worked, I watched my dad, standing in a big hat to shield his face from the sun, picking his way along the palm trees edging the beach with a balloon he planned to launch high into the air on a string, then pull down and make some recordings from a small meter at its base. He was, of course, the only one of us who didn't relax at all.

Mom cobbled together a cake-ish construction out of
a box of graham crackers, some melted chocolate chips, and marshmallow fluff she'd rounded up on board. Even Millie had something for Oliver, which she'd beautifully wrapped in netting and a blue twine bow. (Her favorite color is blue, and she'd dyed the twine with some dark berries she'd found among the bushes.)

We set everything up on a blanket under some trees, and when Oliver came back from his latest snorkeling excursion, it was all waiting for him. He smiled, surprised. His cheeks were sunburned, and he still had his dive mask up around his forehead.

Millie's gift was much better than mine, it turned out: a drawing of Tweep, which she'd made herself. “You remembered Tweep,” Oliver said, his voice soft. He was touched. “I didn't even know you could draw.”

“I fiddle around,” she said. I watched Oliver admire her work, and I jealously admired it too. Millie does have Mom's artistic gene, but she rarely uses it.

“That one's from me and Millie,” Sam fibbed, scooting away from me and distancing himself from my rolled-up, wrinkly grocery bag, which I picked up and handed over only with reluctance. Oliver unrolled the top and looked inside.

“Wow, shells?”

“I didn't really have anything else,” I explained. “And I can't draw.”

“I love them, Gracie. Thank you.” He rolled up the bag and held it tight. “I'll never lose them.”

A while later, after we'd all eaten the cake (which was pretty much a blob of sugar, and which sent Sam racing in circles around the palm trees), Oliver walked back down the beach. He took my bag of shells with him, like he didn't want to leave them behind. Millie's drawing—though it was the far superior gift—lay on the blanket, and Millie looked slightly amused, her lips turned up at one corner in a subtle smile. For some reason it embarrassed me.

Millie had also remembered to bring one of the radios from the ship, and now she turned it on and pulled me up to dance. It was a weird Hawaiian song, which was perfect for the setting, and Millie tugged at my hand as she did a hybrid-hula. I tried to follow her, and soon we were shimmying and shaking in unison, halfway between hula-ing and club dancing like we'd seen on TV. Millie threw back her head and so did I, like we were just too carried away by dancing to think straight, and Mom and Sam applauded us, trying to catch their breath from laughing at our crazy moves. Looking at
us from far away, you might have thought we were two sisters who got along and even enjoyed being together.

*  *  *

Captain Bill and the others came back early this morning with big crates full of fruits, vegetables, and even some items from home that had been imported, like boxes of cereal (including five boxes of Fruit Loops! Joy joy joy!!!), cans of evaporated milk, and about a million boxes of macaroni and cheese.

It was a great haul, but when the time came to get back aboard the ship and take up anchor, I think we were all a little heartbroken. Oliver, especially, kept staring out at the place where he'd done most of his snorkeling, looking wistful.

But in the end—and to my surprise—it was Millie who was the most reluctant to leave the beach. I've never known her to be sentimental, but she filled her pockets with sand as we crossed to the water, and even brought a couple of Virgil's wilted bouquets with her. Before we all climbed into the rowboat, she was the one who stood on the shore the longest, staring back at the trees where we'd picnicked, the breeze blowing her hair back. Finally, reluctantly, she climbed in with the rest of us.

*  *  *

Now here we are, with the mainland far in the distance and San Cristobal behind us. Captain Bill says we'll be sailing along Chile's shores for at least two weeks.

He's been giving us a colorful history of our route: South America, he says, is the wealthiest continent in the world, partly thanks to the giants that guard its shores and treasures. It's got cities made entirely of gold, the Fountain of Youth that keeps its inhabitants young for years (though not forever), a big technology hub in Argentina, and it's completely impenetrable from the outside except through a very strict customs process. Tourists are allowed to visit, but visas are very expensive, and sometimes even though the voyage is long, people from Chile, say, or Brazil, go to New York to shop because it's so much cheaper, and because they love the Gap and Levi's.

In other news, I've grown three inches since we left Cliffden (another inch since Sam and I checked)! Mom measured me on a whim after lunch.

“You're stretching like a string bean,” she said, wrapped in a wooly blanket on the quarterdeck. She's been sketching a ball of twine and a fishing pole. She says she used to draw a lot more. When she's drawing, her face softens, like she forgets everything she has ever worried about.

If I haven't
made it clear already, Captain Bill and she have become great friends. She likes to stand at the ship's wheel in the morning, listening to his stories about everything from how he got his scars (a tsunami left him stranded on a rock, mermaid attack, etc.) to his descriptions of the beauties of the Sea of Cortez. And he's always asking after her comfort: Is she getting enough to eat? Does she like the meals? Is she cold? They even laugh together over dinner, while my dad is usually puzzling out the wind speed and direction in his notebook.

Millie's strange good mood has continued. Sometimes I find her just smiling to herself about nothing, and when I ask her why (usually I expect her to tell me to get lost), she says something like, “the ocean is so pretty,” or that she's just “enjoying the feeling of the sun on my face.” The thought has crossed my mind that she's fallen in love with Virgil, but then I look at Virgil again and I know that can't possibly be.

Okay, I've moved indoors and borrowed Captain Bill's radio (which is fuzzier than ever, though every few seconds I get enough salsa music to make it worth it). A fog has rolled in, so thick that we can barely see the
bow of our own ship. We've all tucked ourselves into our warm and dry cabins for the evening. Outside my portal, I can see a sliver of moonlight cutting a thin slice through the mist.

Being out here on the ocean makes me miss the busy, bustling world sometimes—even the parts I didn't like. It never occurred to me before, but there could have easily been a world with no buses, no horns honking, no red lights, no shopping carts, no gum stuck to the bottom of benches downtown. For that matter I guess there also could have been no sun, no trees, and no ocean. None of those things had to exist, I guess. It makes me feel lucky that they do.

*  *  *

Something's just happened and I don't know what to make of it.

I just got up to go for a walk to see if the fog had thinned at all. Walking along the quarter galleries, I was picturing myself as a ghost and imagining how spooky I must look in the thick mist, and I'd just decided to walk to Millie's porthole window to scare her, when I caught sight of her silhouette headed toward the back of the ship. She was moving in a stealthy way, walking softly on the pads of her feet, so I followed her as silently
as possible. Once she reached the stern, she leaned over the railing into the fog and stood there for a while, as if she was whispering into it. I froze for a while, watching her, and then tried to creep forward to see if I could hear better, but a plank beneath me creaked, and she turned and saw me. I don't think it was just the fog that made her face look as white as an eggshell.

She stared at for me a moment, startled. She looked afraid—but maybe not of me.

I could just make out the shape of something floating away in the thick air, away from the ship.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Millie looked over her shoulder at the departing shape, then turned back to me. Her face became distant and careless, like a curtain had been closed. She smoothed her curls back over one shoulder. “I was just looking at the waves behind the ship.” She brushed past me.

But I knew what the shape had been. Because I'd seen her do the same thing before, of course, that night in the desert.

It's been almost a week
since I wrote last. There hasn't been much to tell until tonight. Over the past several days Captain Bill has easily navigated us around two more whirlpools, a nest of sea serpents (I didn't see any actual serpents—just a big patch of bubbling, churning water the captain pointed out), and a giant squid that Virgil spotted from miles away. We've almost gotten used to those kinds of hazards.

But now, in two or three days, we'll round the lowest tip of South America—Cape Horn. Captain Bill says that just past it, about twenty miles southwest, is the Land's End Trading Post—the southernmost trading post on earth. (Apparently, hundreds of ships converge there to link up to each other and trade and sell, since it's
the farthest any of them are willing to sail.) And then, beyond that . . .