We’re in the car on the way to Bompie’s: me, Cody, Brian, Uncle Mo, Uncle Stew, and Uncle Dock. Uncle Dock found someone to start repair work on The Wanderer while we all drive on to Bompie’s. This was after a huge fight. Now everyone’s touchy and crabby and hardly speaking. Uncle Dock is really disappointed that we can’t sail The Wanderer around the Irish coast because he wanted to stop at a friend’s house in one of the coastal towns. Finally, he got the other uncles to agree that we could drive that way and stop there briefly.
“But we’re not staying!” Uncle Stew said.
“We’re not spending a week there or anything,” Uncle Mo said.
We couldn’t get the phones in the inn to work last night, so we still haven’t called home. It makes me jittery. Where is everyone? I hope we can call from Uncle Dock’s friend’s house.
We’re crammed in like sardines in this car, and it’s hard to write because Brian keeps looking over my shoulder, trying to see what I’m writing. Uncle Stew is driving, and we’ll be lucky to get there alive. We’re careening around narrow roads, and he keeps forgetting to drive on the left side. We’ve already nearly wiped out a flock of sheep and a couple of farmers.
Everything is so beautiful: green, green land and cliffs overlooking the sea. Were we really tossing about on that sea just a few days ago? I wish everyone wasn’t in such a bad mood so that we could stop and wander through some of these little towns, but the uncles look mighty determined. They have their sights set now on a quick stop at Uncle Dock’s friend’s and then getting on to Bompie.
I’m feeling pushed and pulled: I long to see Bompie, but I’m also terrified of seeing Bompie.