Paul Theroux - The Mosquito Coast

"He doesn't want to ask the captain," Father said. "How about you kids? You want to go up there and hear what he has to say?"

Clover said, "I want to ask you."

"That's my girl."

Mother came down the deck in her yellow slicker, holding the rail. She said, "One of the men just told me there's a storm coming. You'd better get inside — it's already rough." She looked at me. "Charlie, you're covered in grease!"

"He was climbing the shrouds — on my orders. He came down on the captain's orders."

Mother looked helplessly at Father, and with real agony. I thought she was going to cry.

"Don't you turn on me, Mother."

"Get them inside," she said.

Father said, "The problem isn't the storm — it's the ship. I imagine he sealed that bulkhead after it filled up. Couldn't pump it out. What's the weight of a gallon of water, April?"

"Eight point three three seven pounds," April squeaked.

Clover made a pouting face. "I was going to say that."

"What with the weight of a full bulkhead, and a heavy sea, some of the cargo has shifted. If the port-side pump's crapped out, he can't counterbalance by filling or emptying the ballast tanks. It's basically a pump problem. So we've got a list of about twenty degrees. See the deck? It's all uphill. You could ski down it." Father looked at me. "Some captain he is — can't keep his ship on an even keel!"

The Spellgoods were on their knees near the winch platform that had become their open-air church. They wore pointed rainhats, and the row of them looked like a picket fence.

"Come over here, brothers and sisters!" Rev. Spellgood cried. His wet hair was glued in a strip across his nose. "Pray with us awhile. Pray for the waters to subside."

"This is nothing," Father said. "It's going to get a lot worse. This far south? Probably a hurricane — probably already got a name, like Mable or Jimmy."

"Pray for the hurricane, then," Rev. Spellgood said. "Prayer is the answer."

Father honked at him. He told him to do something practical. He said the ship was listing twenty degrees and yawing.

"Prayer is practical! Prayer is an air-mail stamp on your love letter to Jesus!"

But Father went on honking and pushed us through the cabin door. He said, "Gurney's a frightened man. His Blue-Jeans Bible's got a rip in the seat of its pants. He doesn't know what's happening, so he's praying like it's going out of style. I know what's happening — bulkhead full, cargo shifted, list to port, a yaw. That's a solvable problem, if you have the know-how. Nothing to pray about. But I'm not in charge here — you heard the man. I'm a paying passenger, and I intend to play gin rummy until they ring the dinner bell, unless that's busted, too!"

He seemed very pleased, having figured out what was wrong with the ship. In the hours before suppertime, he was the only member of the family who did not look green. He even suggested a game of Ping-Pong, but the table was slanted so badly it was impossible.

At dinner that night, after the hymn of grace ("God who gave us Jeedoof's weal, Thank we for this preshuss meal" — I knew it by heart now), Rev. Spellgood made a speech. He stood up crookedly, like a man with a backache, because of the slant of the room. Though he faced his family and spoke to them, what he said was loud, and I knew he wanted everyone to hear.

This is what he said. There was once a storm at sea, and the passengers on a ship in that fearful storm were seasick so bad the stew was half knocked out of them. They were rolling on the floor like pigs, screaming and crying. All day long the storm raged and they thought Mister Death was paying them a call. Then one of these sick people saw a small kiddo who wasn't seasick and he asked the kiddo, "Kiddo, why ain't you sick, when everyone else is puking their guts out and the sea's so terrible awful?" The kiddo ups and says simply and innocently "My father is the captain " That kiddo believed; that kiddo trusted, that kiddo was different from all the oukers and spewers The others were rolling around in misery moaning and doubting and sick as dogs while this kiddo was happy as a cricket. That kiddo had a valuable thing in his heart. He had faith "My father's the captain "

That was the Christian way, Spellgood said, but his words got lumped up. He looked green and held on to his chair and pretty soon he took himself off, I think to guff. By this time, the soup had slopped out of everyone's bowl, and the dining room was silent, except for the clatter-clink of china.

"It's a nice story," Father said. "But you're green around the gills, Charlie, so I guess you don't trust that captain — ah, look who's here."

It was Captain Smalls. He looked irritated, as if he had come through the wrong door, and he did not sit down. Rev. Spellgood sneaked in after him and looked sorrowfully at his food.

The captain made a little speech. We might have noticed the weather had changed. But we would ride it out and he hoped no one would be fool enough to go out on deck, let alone climb the rigging. Here, he put his fish eyes on Father. Yes, he said, the storm was moving northeast and we were sailing southwest along the storm's path. If we moved quick enough, we'd pass through it before it got too strong. If we were slow, we'd be smack inside it. Bad weather wasn't anything unusual, but sensible precautions should be taken, like staying off the rigging and not doing damn-fool things on deck. And all glass bottles and objects should be stowed. He finished by saying, "As you know, I have no more control over the weather than a fish."

We surprised him by laughing hard, because after saying that he put on his fishiest face and gaped his mouth like a haddock.

Mr. Bummick told him he would put his loose bottles away. He explained that they were just hair bottles and jelly jars and tonics.

"And I'll empty mine," Father said. "But meanwhile what about the ship? You can control that, can't you?"

All eyes in the dining room moved from Father to the captain.

The captain said, "I am controlling the ship, Mr. Fox."

Now the attention was on Father. He turned to us and said, "I need a round object."

His hand went to Jerry's face. Manipulating casually, Father pretended to squeeze a Ping-Pong ball from Jerry's mouth. The Spellgood children were amazed, and Mr. Bummick's whole tongue drooped out in astonishment. But we had seen Father's party magic before — the card tricks, the disappearing ring, the way he won at Up Jenkins. Father, forbidding all entertainments, had had to become all entertainers.

"Thank you, Jerry," he said. "But I was going to say, Captain, how do you explain this?"

He placed the plastic ball on the table. Off it went, pock-pock-pock, between the soup bowls and across the surface, and pucka-pucka-pucka, onto the floor, and pippity-pippity-pip-pip-pip through the captain's legs, and pook against the wall near the Bummicks, where it stuck.

"Someone could break his back if he slipped on that," the captain said. "Be crippled for life."

"That Ping-Pong ball's out of harm's way, and it's staying there. Why? Because your ship is listing twenty degrees or more. Is the bulkhead full of water? Has the cargo shifted? Faulty pump? Having trouble filling your ballast tanks to counterbalance the uneven weight? I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud. But if you're controlling the ship, why isn't she on an even keel? We've been walking uphill all afternoon, and if anyone breaks his back, Captain, it's not going to be that Ping-Pong ball — no, it's going to be because he went ass-over-teakettle on your slanted decks, and I'd like to know the legal position if I end up paralyzed on account of your seamanship."

The captain looked at the other tables, instead of ours. "She'll even out," he said. "I've got two men working on it."