he didn’t want her along, after all.
Or, was he being considerate of her? That was what his voice wanted to convey—that he didn’t want to be so selfish as to take her away from what she wanted to do. If that truly was his message, if he was being kind, then perhaps she could respond with a kindness, should convince him that what she had to do wasn’t very important, that she would gladly put it aside to help him.
But maybe he had changed his mind. If so, she didn’t want to force herself on him.
Was this what the beginnings of friendships were like? If so, then maintaining a friendship looked like a full-time job.It was probably worth it, though. The least she could do was learn the tricks and rituals and give it a chance to grow.
And no matter how confusing she found this morning’s conversation with Jo, the important thing was that they were being civil to one another. That demonstrated that both of them were willing to try.
Paloma uncleated the bow line and held the bow of the boat away from the dock while Jo and Indio climbed aboard. Then she held the bow from swinging in the tide while Jo tried to start the outboard motor. He pulled the starter cord, and the wheels and gears inside the housing made a purring sound like a feeding cat. He pulled again, and the purring sounded more anxious, then stopped abruptly. Jo cursed the motor and banged on the housing with his fist. Then, with a sigh, he removed the housing and began to tinker with the insides of the motor.
Before, Paloma had watched Jo’s rages against the motor with amusement. Now, for the first time, she felt sympathy for him. He knew motors as well as she knew fish—was at home with them, could understand them and talk to them and cajole them into cooperating. But while Paloma’s friends flourished in the Sea of Cortez, Jo’s friends, the motors, withered and died. This was as hostile an environment as any on earth to an internal-combustion engine. Salt corroded its innards, the sun burned out gaskets and hoses, sand clogged filters and destroyed lubricants.
And there were no expert mechanics, no replacement parts. When a motor broke, you either fixed it yourself, rebuilt the ailing part, or dismantled and cannibalized it for parts to fix some other motor. Paloma remembered seeing Jo spend endless hours with a knife and a piece of truck tire—the tire had been a fender that fell off the boat from La Paz.He had carved and created from the thick rubber a tiny impeller for the outboard motor’s water pump.
No wonder Jo wanted to go away to school. He had a gift that was little more than useless here. There were a couple of outboard motors for him to work on, but nothing of size or scope or genuine challenge. He had no way of developing his gift, of honing his skills, of letting his talent earn him money and appreciation. He was like a wonderfully gifted surgeon with no one to practice on.
He took something off the motor, cleaned it, blew on it, screwed it back in and replaced the housing. Then he caressed the motor, said something threatening to it, turned the choke up high, and yanked on the cord. The motor gagged and protested its way to life with a belch of blue-gray smoke.
On other mornings, she would have tossed the bow line loose into the boat, leaving Indio to unsnarl it from the fishing gear. Today she coiled the line carefully and knelt on the dock and handed it to Indio and pushed the bow of the boat around the end of the dock into open water.
Jo headed east, and soon he and Indio and the boat were black silhouettes against the pumpkin sun. Jo waved, Paloma waved back. Then Jo appeared to speak to Indio, and Indio waved, too, which Paloma found curious.
Paloma went back to the house to fetch some food and a jar of fresh water. Today, for no good reason except to avoid an argument, she let her mother wrap a slice of salted cabrío and a tortilla in a piece of paper for her to take along with her mango.
Then she returned to the
Or, was he being considerate of her? That was what his voice wanted to convey—that he didn’t want to be so selfish as to take her away from what she wanted to do. If that truly was his message, if he was being kind, then perhaps she could respond with a kindness, should convince him that what she had to do wasn’t very important, that she would gladly put it aside to help him.
But maybe he had changed his mind. If so, she didn’t want to force herself on him.
Was this what the beginnings of friendships were like? If so, then maintaining a friendship looked like a full-time job.It was probably worth it, though. The least she could do was learn the tricks and rituals and give it a chance to grow.
And no matter how confusing she found this morning’s conversation with Jo, the important thing was that they were being civil to one another. That demonstrated that both of them were willing to try.
Paloma uncleated the bow line and held the bow of the boat away from the dock while Jo and Indio climbed aboard. Then she held the bow from swinging in the tide while Jo tried to start the outboard motor. He pulled the starter cord, and the wheels and gears inside the housing made a purring sound like a feeding cat. He pulled again, and the purring sounded more anxious, then stopped abruptly. Jo cursed the motor and banged on the housing with his fist. Then, with a sigh, he removed the housing and began to tinker with the insides of the motor.
Before, Paloma had watched Jo’s rages against the motor with amusement. Now, for the first time, she felt sympathy for him. He knew motors as well as she knew fish—was at home with them, could understand them and talk to them and cajole them into cooperating. But while Paloma’s friends flourished in the Sea of Cortez, Jo’s friends, the motors, withered and died. This was as hostile an environment as any on earth to an internal-combustion engine. Salt corroded its innards, the sun burned out gaskets and hoses, sand clogged filters and destroyed lubricants.
And there were no expert mechanics, no replacement parts. When a motor broke, you either fixed it yourself, rebuilt the ailing part, or dismantled and cannibalized it for parts to fix some other motor. Paloma remembered seeing Jo spend endless hours with a knife and a piece of truck tire—the tire had been a fender that fell off the boat from La Paz.He had carved and created from the thick rubber a tiny impeller for the outboard motor’s water pump.
No wonder Jo wanted to go away to school. He had a gift that was little more than useless here. There were a couple of outboard motors for him to work on, but nothing of size or scope or genuine challenge. He had no way of developing his gift, of honing his skills, of letting his talent earn him money and appreciation. He was like a wonderfully gifted surgeon with no one to practice on.
He took something off the motor, cleaned it, blew on it, screwed it back in and replaced the housing. Then he caressed the motor, said something threatening to it, turned the choke up high, and yanked on the cord. The motor gagged and protested its way to life with a belch of blue-gray smoke.
On other mornings, she would have tossed the bow line loose into the boat, leaving Indio to unsnarl it from the fishing gear. Today she coiled the line carefully and knelt on the dock and handed it to Indio and pushed the bow of the boat around the end of the dock into open water.
Jo headed east, and soon he and Indio and the boat were black silhouettes against the pumpkin sun. Jo waved, Paloma waved back. Then Jo appeared to speak to Indio, and Indio waved, too, which Paloma found curious.
Paloma went back to the house to fetch some food and a jar of fresh water. Today, for no good reason except to avoid an argument, she let her mother wrap a slice of salted cabrío and a tortilla in a piece of paper for her to take along with her mango.
Then she returned to the