Shipping News, The - E. Annie Proulx [106]
“Dad,” said Bunny near tears. “I did it twice and you didn’t watch. And Aunt didn’t either.”
“I watched,” said Sunshine. “But I didn’t see anything.”
“I wonder if you need glasses,” said the aunt.
“I’m sorry, Bunny girl. Show me one more time. I’m watching like a hawk.”
“So am I,” said the aunt.
The child pulled a loop of string taut, coiled and arranged it [242] around her fingers in overlapping circles, thumbs and forefingers in the four corner loops.
“Now watch the sun,” she said. “The sun is the hole in the middle and the rest is the clouds. Watch what happens.” Slowly she drew the loops taut, slowly the center circle grew smaller and at last disappeared.
“It’s a cat’s cradle,” said Bunny. “I know another one, too. Skipper Alfred knows hundreds and hundreds.”
“That’s extraordinary,” said Quoyle. “Did Skipper Alfred give you that string?” He took the smooth line, counted seven tiny hard knots and, joining the ends, one clumsy overhand. “Did you tie these knots?” His voice light.
“I tied that one.” The overhand. “I found it this morning in the car, Dad, on the back of your seat.”
31
Sometimes You Just Lose It
“A sailor has little opportunity at sea to replace an article that
is lost overboard, so knotted lanyards are attached to everything
movable that is carried aloft: marlingspikes and lids, paint cans
and slush buckets, pencils, eyeglasses, hats, snuffboxes,
jackknives, tobacco and monkey pouches, amulets, bosuns’
whistles, watches, binoculars, pipes and keys are all made fast
around the neck, shoulder, or wrist, or else are attached to a
buttonhole, belt, or suspender.”
THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS
“ON NOVEMBER 21 the Galactic Blizzard, a Ro-Ro railcar-ferry with twin rudders and twin controllable pitch propellers left St. John’s en route to Montreal,” wrote Quoyle, still cold from his dawn excursion to the damaged ship.
Though ice was forming along the shore it was a fine day. The sky was blue, the sea was calm and visibility was unlimited. An hour after leaving St. John’s harbor, the ship struck the south cliff of Strain Bag Island head-on. The collision awakened the officer of the watch who had dozed off. “Sometimes you just lose it,” he told Coast Guard investigators.
Tert Card slammed through the door. “I’m shinnicked with cold,” he shouted, blowing on his chapped hands, backing his great rear up to the gas heater, “this degree of cold so early in the season takes the heart out of you for the place. Trying to drive along the cliffs this morning with the snow off the ice and the wipers froze up and the car slipping sideways I thought ‘It’s only November. How can this be?’ Started thinking about the traffic statistics. Last January there was hundreds of motor vehicle accidents in Newfoundland. Death, personal injury, property damage. In just one month. That’s how the need begins, on a cold day like this coming along the cliff. First it’s just a little question to yourself. Then you say something out loud. Then you clip out the coupons in the travel magazines. The brochures come. You put them on the dashboard so you can look at a palm tree while you go over the edge. In February only one thing keeps you going—the air flight ticket to Florida on your dresser. If you make it to March, boy, you’ll make it to heaven. You get on the plane in Misky Bay, there’s so much ice on the wings and the wind from hell you doubt the plane can make it, but it does, and when it glides down and lands, when they throws open the door, my son, I want to tell you the smell of hot summer and suntan oil and exhaust fumes make you cry with pleasure. A sweet place they got down there with the oranges.” He sucked in a breath, exhaled a snotty gust thinking of sleek yellow water like a liqueur. Addressed Quoyle. “Now, buddy,