Boat Memories

Banging in through the door snowy and cold; tearing off snow crusted boots and mittens; I would run into the living room. The smooth maple rocker was occupied with my thin gray haired Nana Pearl formerly known as Daisy Hire. She gathered me up on her lap and into her arms. The only part I didn’t like was when she took my red frosty hands and put them into her shirt under her arms to warm them. Weird I thought, but then she would begin the stories.

The painting was ensconced about the mantle and the rocker was angled so the painting was in full view. “See that port hole there? Behind that porthole is a tiny room with bunks like hammocks”. ……. And the stories would begin. ….

“You know there are rope ladders to get up. I could scramble up the ladders so fast but land lubbers couldn’t” - we laugh.

“When I wanted to swim, they would tie an old empty keg to my back and lower me over the side. An instant life preserver. A bit heavy but once in the water – we would float and roll. “

The story I remember the most was about the Island Boy. Its veracity is in question these 60 years later, but a great story that I never forgot.

Curled up on her lap she would say.” My father would travel all around the world in his ship. He would go to islands to bring things to them and to trade for things to bring to England. One time, they stopped at an island that was full of tribal people who hadn’t seen the big ships and the white men very much. They stayed on the island making friends and trading. They didn’t speak English so they had to use their hands and point and smile and act it out. The natives had big spears and shields and knives.
When it was time to go, they had made friends. The Chief brought his son to my father. Communicating with hands my father understood that the chief’s son was a gift. My father knew that not to accept the gift is an enormous insult and could cause them to use those spears on him. So he took the boy. I remember, (my Nana would say with intensity), the boy was scared. He was shown a place with a hammock and a straw mattress in that porthole. When we came in to get him for breakfast, he had taken the straw out of the mattress and piled it in the corner to sleep on. He was very sad. He talked but didn’t make sense to us. We tried playing with him but he was sad and lonely and stayed curled on his straw.
When he got to England, he did eventually learn English and became a lot happier but still wanted to go home.

Later when my father was traveling back to those islands, he took the boy back to his father and told the chief that the boy could now speak English and would be more helpful there on the island with him to trade with the other ships that were beginning to come to the island.

Now – it doesn’t really matter if the story is true or not. I was a Nana story. It was an adventure on the mysterious boat over the mantle. It gave my family a few minutes away from my incessant chatter as I sat curled up, warm and quiet.