Chapter 30
“There he is,” somebody shouted. Like a wave, everybody pushed closer to the edge of the wharf.
There were a lot of people cramming themselves onto that tired old wharf.
I could see my dad out there waving his arms, trying to hold them back.
The truth was, nobody had been sure they’d see Fogopogo today, foggy or not. He had only put in an appearance once or twice a week. A lot of people were worried about what the visitors might think if the monster didn’t show up. I think that’s why they had gone to so much effort to put on a show that would be worth it even if the Fogopogo hadn’t appeared.
But here he was.
It was weird and exciting seeing Fogopogo out there.
I had never seen the monster from this angle before. I was used to seeing him from the inside.
It was a little like hearing a recording of my own voice and thinking, “Gosh, do I really sound like a squeaky, high-pitched, steamrollered mouse?”
That’s sort of how I felt right now.
Now, standing beside my mom and the prime minister of Canada watching the sea monster that me and Warren and Dulsie and Granddad Angus had built, without the stink of the nine-hundred-year-old moose hide and the creaking of the pedal-paddles and the reek of the mopped paint, it looked a whole lot different than what I was used to.
“Now that’s really cool,” the prime minister said.
And then he whistled in genuine appreciation.
I almost broke out laughing.
How many people in the world can actually say that they’ve heard the prime minister of Canada say “cool” before?
I bet no one.
Nobody says “cool” these days but Dad and me, and even then Granddad Angus always laughed at us for it.
But that sorry old sea monster sure did look cool. In fact, it looked super-cool. Super-ultra-deep-fried-grilled-cheesy-cool to the maximum-squared-eternity-cool times cool.
It looked freaking near amazing.
Somehow Granddad Angus had created a cloud of smoke around it. It didn’t look like woodsmoke to me, which was good, because starting a fire in a dory is a surefire way to sink yourself. It looked more like a weird kind of mist, like it was seeping out of Fogopogo’s belly. And then all at once, Fogopogo’s nostrils lit up like the trail of sparks from a skate sharpener. I heard people saying “ooh” and “ahh,” like they were looking at a display of Canada Day fireworks going off.
“Well now,” I heard the prime minister say to my mom, “that sure is something.”
Warren kept gawking, his mouth hanging open. I was worried a fly was going to land in it. But he was grinning while he gawked. He was grinning like somebody had turned on a time machine and sent him back to when he was five years old and at his very first Santa Claus parade. And Molly was grinning right along with him.
Everything was super-duper-uber-cool.
People kept pushing and cramming excitedly onto the wharf.
SNAP!
Suddenly, a supporting timber broke loose and the wharf sort of tilted and leaned and then began to slide down towards the harbour.
I saw Dad waving his arms—half in panic, half in an attempt to keep order—as the crowd slowly slid towards him. Some people fell right in, while others managed to hang on by their fingernails. The whole wharf just sort of hung there for a minute, rocking in the tide, dangling like a broken trap door.
Everything was on a tilt and the old wood was slick with the salt spray. It didn’t help that the morning mist had coated everything with a soft, wet, slickery dew.
A CBC cameraperson skidded and fell backwards with the weight of his camera and slid like an enormous curling stone, giving television viewers an amazing twenty-three second panoramic view of the Deeper Harbour sky before he hit the water, frantically working the buckles of his camera straps.
A hot dog cart rolled down into the harbour, wieners and buns flying in every direction. The seagulls were going to have themselves a fine old feast. The cart knocked at least a half a dozen tourists into the Atlantic.
People were yelling and screaming.
I wasn’t sure if I should scream too or just break out laughing. It was scary and funny and goofy all at the same time. I stared in amazement as the dancing fishermen, oars sticking out in all directions, snowplowed another dozen or so festival-goers into the waiting harbour water.
Things got crowded and confusing.
I lost sight of Dad.
I heard Mom yelling Dad’s name.
I didn’t stop to think. My feet said run and I went with it. I wasn’t certain if I was running towards Granddad Angus, towards my Dad, or towards whatever lay there in front of me.
I leaped off of the podium, nearly breaking my leg as I sprawled butt-first onto the concrete.
I’m not saying it was pretty.
I rolled three times and stood up.
Mom was still yelling Dad’s name.
The last dragon dancer tipped off of the wharf and landed with a splash.
I couldn’t see where Dad was from my angle.
I ran for the wharf, my legs pumping hard, and all the while Fogopogo moved slowly towards the shore.