by Larry Low
By the time the sun made its presence known, Jorge Esposo had already polished off two poached eggs on toast, along with a bowl of his mother’s home canned apricots. While loading up a slice of whole wheat toast with Mom’s strawberry jam, making this a breakfast to be remembered, he couldn't fail to notice Grouse Mountain sparkling in the early morning sun. As he got up from the breakfast table, he had a glimpse of the sun cresting the peak of Mount Baker until it was shrouded in cloud.
As Jorge backed the car out of the carport, clouds had begun to roll in. The moment the car was loaded rain was promised on the mountain tops. Soon Grouse and Baker were lost to sight. A 747 lifting off from Vancouver International heading east was half-shrouded in cloud as it completed its turn and began to track south heading for who knows where. Jorge reflected that was exactly where he was going. Who knows where? On second thought, and he had been having second thoughts all morning, he would be travelling at a much slower pace.
By the time Jorge had manhandled his duffel bag out of the trunk of the rusty Ford, the sky had darkened considerably. The glowering sky almost matched the growing darkness of his mood. Jorge was given a long almost desperate hug by his mother. As she said goodbye to her eldest child, she didn’t try to hide her tears.
“I’ll hardly know you when you get back but I’ll be counting the days.”
Jorge scooped up his duffel bag and swung it onto his shoulder. For a moment, he almost staggered. He began to shuffle along Steveston’s Number One Pier. He did not look back. He knew if he did, he would burst into tears. It would not be an auspicious start to the voyage for him to show up with a tear-stained face. For the first time since the assessment had been made, he was beginning to regret his impetuous decision. From a host of candidates, who would have thought that he would be the one chosen? He had asked himself that question over and over.
At the end of the pier, he turned to take a box from his mother.
“Two dozen peach bran muffins,” she said. “And two loaves of home-baked bread “
Thankful that she had not tried to kiss him again, dockside, he waved to his mother one last time. Jorge suddenly felt small and alone. It was almost like the time he was four and had gotten himself lost at the PNE. A plump lady had bought him a cotton candy and had miraculously found his mother for him, almost before he had time to become frightened.
“Come aboard, Matey. Seaman first class, Stevens,” a weather-beaten stocky character said. “Welcome aboard the Europa, all three hundred and three ton of her, a three-masted Barque, lying 132 feet along the waterline.” Stevens stopped to take a breath.
“And all the sail you’ll ever wish to handle. You’ve got to be Jorge Esposo.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jorge said warming immediately.
“I’ll show you where to stow your gear. Follow me. Mind your step, mind you. I’ll go below first and you can lower your gear to me. What’s in the bag? Smells like home cooking to me.”
“That’s what it is,” Jorge said proudly.
“Good for you,” Stevens said. “Come. I’ll take you to the galley and you can meet our cook.”
Once that was done, Seaman First Class Stevens said, “This is your bunk and that is your locker. The heads are up ahead. I suggest you stow your gear. Make your locker look shipshape, mind you. Report back on deck in ten minutes. Welcome aboard!”
Head? thought Jorge. He got out his nautical glossary. Very necessary sort of place, he smiled to himself. He had a lot to learn. Wouldn’t even have been able to find the bathroom by myself he told himself.
By the time, Jorge had clambered up the ladder, the Europa had drifted away from the dock and was powering down Cannery Channel. Once they had cleared the channel, the captain gave the order to raise sail. As soon as engine sounds died, the sounds of the sea were evident. The rigging creaked. A powerful swish was heard as the sails filled and the ship gathered speed. Gulls wheeled overhead. The sun appeared to be saying good-bye as clouds gathered.
“Look Alive, Lads,” Seaman first class Stevens shouted. “Grab that sheet and pull your hearts out.”
That must include me, Jorge realized almost too late. Fortunately he had his wits about him and realized that when Stevens meant rope, he said sheet. What a dumb idea, Jorge had barely enough time to consider the terminology before Stevens yelled at him a second time.
“Run forward and grab the jib.”
Forward must mean towards the sharp end, he was certain.
He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. As the sails filled with an early morning breeze, the ship steadied and then heeled over slightly but suddenly. Luckily he was able to grab the bowsprit rail and steady himself. This is going to take some getting used to, he told himself.
In spite of the warmth of his pea jacket, he began to shiver as a freshening breezen spite of the warmth of his pea jacket, he began to shiver. Jorge looked back. A 747, which had taken off from Vancouver International and was on climb out on its way to Hawaii, from the look of it, sped silently overhead a mild rumble perceptible above the sounds of the sea. There was another bellow. This time it was from the captain.
“All hands report to the Quarterdeck!”
“A bit of a motley crew,” the captain said. “Never mind lads and lasses, we’ll make sailors out of you yet. You landlubbers have been assigned mentors, experienced seamen who’ll teach you the ropes.”
“Any questions?”