that of an ocean liner. In the distance, without my glasses, the islands
are indistinct shapes of gray and brown.
I give Billie a shove toward Rich, and she “swims” between her uncle and myself — a wriggly fish with no fear. Her mouth fills
with seawater. She swallows it and she seems surprised by the taste. She begs Rich for a ride on his back, and when they swim
near to me, Billie slides off and clutches me around my neck. Rich’s leg is momentarily slippery against my own, and I grab
onto his shoulder to keep from going under.
“Careful, Billie,” I say, loosening her grip around my neck. “I don’t have a life jacket on like you. You’ll sink me.”
From the bowsprit, Thomas watches us. He has a glass in his hand. I see him turn away and smile. He says something I cannot
hear — it must be to Adaline.
When I let go of Rich, he dives deep into the water. He comes up about thirty feet away from me and begins to swim hard, his
arms beating a rhythm to his kick. Billie and I paddle around each other until I see that she is tiring. Thomas reaches down,
and between us we are able to get Billie easily back into the boat. As I anticipated, however, I am not strong enough to haul
myself up and over, and there is an embarrassing and awkward pulling on arms and legs before I am able finally to flop into
the cockpit. Billie wraps herself in a towel and sits, shivering, next to Adaline. When I stand up and put my glasses on,
I see that Rich has swum all the way to Smuttynose and is sitting on the beach.
The Isles of Shoals derives its name not from the shoals surrounding the islands, but rather from the Old English word for
school.
As in schools of fish.
During the American Revolution, the Isles of Shoals were evacuated. Because the Shoalers had been trading with the British,
the colonial leaders of New Hampshire and Maine ordered all residents off the islands. On January 5, 1776, eighty houses were
dismantled, shipped to the mainland, and reconstructed all along the coast, from Massachusetts to Maine. A number of these
houses are still standing.
“Loss. Abandonment. Castration. Chauvinism…”
“But think of Tom Moore, the charm.”
“Melancholy. It’s all melancholic,” says Thomas. “Kavanaugh, Frost, MacNeice.”
“You’re forgetting Yeats. The celebration of the human imagination, the magician.”
“Donnelly. Hyde Donnelly. Do you know him?
Gray light thieving, mother’s grief I Steals by hedgerows
—”
“You’re indicting an entire race,” Adaline says lightly.
Thomas takes a long sip of scotch.
A thick, peasanty scent of fish and garlic spreads and settles over the cockpit where Adaline and Thomas and I are sitting.
Rich is holding a plate of mussels he has just steamed.
“I picked them,” Billie says, weaving through Rich’s legs. She is trying to retain her pride in the mussels, though I sense
she has been somewhat defeated in her attempts actually to like them. Just moments ago, going below to fetch the papers I
took from the Athenaeum, I saw the partly chewed remains of a mussel stuffed inside a crumpled napkin. Billie has on clothes
she particularly likes — a blue T-shirt with Pocahontas on the front and matching shorts — and I know she regards this small
gathering as something of a party. As does Thomas. Billie has brought a sandwich bag of Cheerios, so that she can nibble with
us. She comes and snuggles beside me, screwing her head up and inside my arm. Thomas and Adaline sit across from me. Within
seconds, I know, Billie will ask me for a Coke.
“
Sons are leaving,
” says Thomas.
Rich sets the mussels on a makeshift table in the center of the cockpit, perches himself on the cabin roof, and dangles his
legs over the opening. The air around us seems cleansed. Smuttynose is sharply etched and brushed with a thin wash of gold
from a low sun. From the sloop, the gulls above the island are dark check marks in the blue dust. I am
are indistinct shapes of gray and brown.
I give Billie a shove toward Rich, and she “swims” between her uncle and myself — a wriggly fish with no fear. Her mouth fills
with seawater. She swallows it and she seems surprised by the taste. She begs Rich for a ride on his back, and when they swim
near to me, Billie slides off and clutches me around my neck. Rich’s leg is momentarily slippery against my own, and I grab
onto his shoulder to keep from going under.
“Careful, Billie,” I say, loosening her grip around my neck. “I don’t have a life jacket on like you. You’ll sink me.”
From the bowsprit, Thomas watches us. He has a glass in his hand. I see him turn away and smile. He says something I cannot
hear — it must be to Adaline.
When I let go of Rich, he dives deep into the water. He comes up about thirty feet away from me and begins to swim hard, his
arms beating a rhythm to his kick. Billie and I paddle around each other until I see that she is tiring. Thomas reaches down,
and between us we are able to get Billie easily back into the boat. As I anticipated, however, I am not strong enough to haul
myself up and over, and there is an embarrassing and awkward pulling on arms and legs before I am able finally to flop into
the cockpit. Billie wraps herself in a towel and sits, shivering, next to Adaline. When I stand up and put my glasses on,
I see that Rich has swum all the way to Smuttynose and is sitting on the beach.
The Isles of Shoals derives its name not from the shoals surrounding the islands, but rather from the Old English word for
school.
As in schools of fish.
During the American Revolution, the Isles of Shoals were evacuated. Because the Shoalers had been trading with the British,
the colonial leaders of New Hampshire and Maine ordered all residents off the islands. On January 5, 1776, eighty houses were
dismantled, shipped to the mainland, and reconstructed all along the coast, from Massachusetts to Maine. A number of these
houses are still standing.
“Loss. Abandonment. Castration. Chauvinism…”
“But think of Tom Moore, the charm.”
“Melancholy. It’s all melancholic,” says Thomas. “Kavanaugh, Frost, MacNeice.”
“You’re forgetting Yeats. The celebration of the human imagination, the magician.”
“Donnelly. Hyde Donnelly. Do you know him?
Gray light thieving, mother’s grief I Steals by hedgerows
—”
“You’re indicting an entire race,” Adaline says lightly.
Thomas takes a long sip of scotch.
A thick, peasanty scent of fish and garlic spreads and settles over the cockpit where Adaline and Thomas and I are sitting.
Rich is holding a plate of mussels he has just steamed.
“I picked them,” Billie says, weaving through Rich’s legs. She is trying to retain her pride in the mussels, though I sense
she has been somewhat defeated in her attempts actually to like them. Just moments ago, going below to fetch the papers I
took from the Athenaeum, I saw the partly chewed remains of a mussel stuffed inside a crumpled napkin. Billie has on clothes
she particularly likes — a blue T-shirt with Pocahontas on the front and matching shorts — and I know she regards this small
gathering as something of a party. As does Thomas. Billie has brought a sandwich bag of Cheerios, so that she can nibble with
us. She comes and snuggles beside me, screwing her head up and inside my arm. Thomas and Adaline sit across from me. Within
seconds, I know, Billie will ask me for a Coke.
“
Sons are leaving,
” says Thomas.
Rich sets the mussels on a makeshift table in the center of the cockpit, perches himself on the cabin roof, and dangles his
legs over the opening. The air around us seems cleansed. Smuttynose is sharply etched and brushed with a thin wash of gold
from a low sun. From the sloop, the gulls above the island are dark check marks in the blue dust. I am
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