I read somewhere, probably in a National Geographic magazine, that you can tell a lot about people by what they enshrine. I suppose every place has its temples. In my hometown, the church is at the center of everything: pot-lucks, baptisms, weddings, auctions, bingo. At my old school the baseball diamond was our shrine. The folks from town would fill the bleachers and pray for victory. As players, we were well versed in the scripture of baseball lore and knew all the patron saints: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Ty Cobb, and Joe DiMaggio.
The moment I set foot in the stone boathouse, I knew this was Morton Hill Academy’s shrine. According to Headmaster Conrady, the Nook, as it was called, was the oldest building on campus. Inside were sturdy wooden beams, lobster traps, coiled ropes, and a colorful array of oars. The scents of lemon wax, polish, and apple cider vinegar were as powerful as any incense I’d smelled. But it was the boats themselves, gleaming and elevated like altars, that were the focal point.
I held my breath, waiting for the heavens to open and angels to begin singing as I walked almost in procession to a single boat called the Maine. It was in the center and seemed to hold the place of highest honor. I reached out my hand, thinking if I could just rub it like a genie’s lamp, I could have my wish granted. My fingers touched the rich grain, and I considered my wish. That should have been easy, right? Everybody’s got a special wish. I thought harder. Of course, I could have wished that Mom wasn’t dead. I could have wished that my dad wasn’t in the navy. I could have clicked my heels together three times and wished myself back to Kansas. But I knew none of those wishes would come true.
Letting out a sigh of defeat, I realized I didn’t even know what to wish for. I looked down at the Sweetie Pie with scorn. Her tired frame and half-split oars seemed to reflect my own shabby state. I was too stubborn to ask the other boys for help, so I’d had to hoist and tug and even drag her back to the boathouse myself.
I pressed my hand to the rich wood of the Maine and let out a breath. It was a little wish, and I knew it didn’t count for much in the great scheme of things. But it was all I could muster.
I wish I had a better boat.
Then I heard a noise and drew back my hand. There was a rustling sound in the corner. I peeked around another boat, and there was Early Auden. What was he? Some kind of second-rate genie? His back was to me, but he spoke as if he were looking at me.
“You row crooked.” He reached into a canister of wax and pulled out a glob. “You’re left-handed, and you pull harder on that side. That makes you go crooked.”
“Is that so?” I asked, the spell of the boathouse broken. I went to look for the Sweetie Pie’s stall or rack or whatever fancy name they might call it, since they had a different word for everything. It would probably be in an out-of-the-way spot that wouldn’t be a source of embarrassment to the other boats. Sure enough, there was an open rack next to the workbench where Early Auden was kneading some honey into the wax.
“Your body is stiff and your shoulders are too tight. You’re working against the boat instead of with it.”
“Uh-huh.” I hoisted one end of the Sweetie Pie before Early helped me with the other end. He wasn’t very strong, so it was still an ordeal to lift the boat onto its rack.
“And you slouch.”
“Great.” I slammed the boat in place. “Maybe next time you should just hop on and give me your instructions the whole way.”
“Okay,” Early answered. “But we’ll wait a few days. Tomorrow you’ll be too sore. You’ll still walk funny, but here, this will help.” He scooped dollops of the wax and vinegar and honey concoction into a jar.
“What?” I said. “No, I didn’t mean—”
“Put your arms out. Like this.” He spread my arms out to the sides in a T, then took a tape measure from a drawer and began measuring. My arm span, height, and legs. “You’re tall. And your sculls are too short.”
He handed me a pair of shiny wooden oars with brightly painted paddles.
Right. Sculls equals oars. Got it. But at that point I didn’t care.
“You need longer sculls so you can have a wider rowing span.”
“Look,” I said, “I appreciate it, but … I didn’t mean I really wanted … What I’m trying to say is, I don’t need your help.”
Early smiled. “That’s what he said.”
“What who said?”
“Pi. Remember that part I told you, when he set out on his voyage? Remember that, Jackie?”
It hit me like a wave of ice-cold water, and I found myself holding my breath. My mom was the only one who called me Jackie.
“Remember, he wanted to set out. To be the first navigator. But it wasn’t easy for him at first either.”
My jaw tightened. “Yeah, I remember. But I don’t want to hear another story about numbers right now. And my name is Jack.”
“Jack Baker. I know you. You’re from Kansas. Do they not have boats in Kansas?”
“Of course we have boats in Kansas. Only we use them to fish, not just row around in circles. Besides, the boat I got stuck with is lopsided, rickety, leaky, and ugly. And it has a stupid name. What kind of name is the Sweetie Pie? I’m surprised it doesn’t have a pair of red lips smacked on the side.”
I took a breath after my rant.
Then Early said, “If you don’t like it, take it apart and make it right.”
I kept my back to him. I didn’t want his help. I didn’t want his advice. What did he know, anyway? He was just an odd kid who nobody listened to.
Still, I remembered my mom’s words about the soap box derby car that I’d left out in the rain. The same words Early had used. If you don’t like it, take it apart and make it right.
Then I turned around, but Early was gone. Only the jar of waxy goop remained. My muscles were already starting to tighten up, but I didn’t need Early’s help, so I headed back to the dorm to get ready for class, leaving the jar in its place.
I woke up the next morning and could barely get out of bed. The muscles in my arms, shoulders, back, and legs ached as if I’d just walked the Appalachian Trail, then swum the English Channel, then gotten hit by a bus. It even hurt to open my eyes. But I did, and that’s when I saw the jar of honey-colored ointment on my desk.
I sat up and tender-footed my way across the cold tile floor and reached for the jar. Opening it would be another matter. My hands had been clenched so tight on the mismatched oars of the Sweetie Pie throughout my zigzag course of the day before that now they felt the way my grandpa Henry’s gnarled, arthritic hands looked like they must feel. But I made them clamp on the lid and twist.
The smell was shifty. It wafted up first as honey, then snuck up on me with a stiff vinegar-and-menthol punch. I quickly put the lid back on to keep the odor at bay. After a painful and fairly awkward trip to the bathroom, I went back to my room and thought about whether or not to use Early’s ointment. Reasons for using it: Early said I’d still walk funny, but it would make me feel better. And the smell would keep vampires away. Reasons against: I’d stink to high heaven, and the smell would keep everyone else away.
But after the pool incident and then my latest embarrassment in trying to row the Sweetie Pie, I didn’t figure I’d have too many guys wanting me to join their table at lunch anyway. So I stuck my fingers in the goop jar and applied it to my sore spots, which pretty much covered my whole body. Then I put on my khaki pants and blue oxford shirt and walked out of my dorm room to brave the sniffs and snorts of the students of Morton Hill Academy.
Semper Fi.