Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

A Turn of the Tide

Wardie didn’t mean to fall asleep in the bottom of the skiff, but seeing that old fashioned boat all alone, just plain sitting there with its prow nudging the edge of the beach like it was tired or something... well, he had to get in it... and with the gentle tidal action pushing it farther up the beach, he had to ride it just a little way, as any young boy would.

It was a great little boat, well kept, but well used, too, and he wondered what could have worn the seat down the way it was, or put the grooves in the gunnel. He grinned when he remembered the word for the boat’s railing. Tied to a short, stout post that jutted up through the small bow decking was a piece of rope, the end frayed where it hung over the side. It wasn’t like the lines they used on boats around the marina at all. This was real rope, soft with age and fuzzy its whole length with tiny strands of fiber that seemed to sparkle in the sun.

When the incoming tide lapped at the side of the boat he rocked with it, then looked down to see what was rolling under his feet. Oh, he knew what these were, all right. Oars. And on either side of him two sturdy pegs fitted into the gunnel, oarlocks, the way they made them in the old days.

He took a quick look up and down the beach, a quiet little cove where he’d go looking for shells, but nobody was around at all. He grinned again pulled out the oars, set them in place and made believe he was a pirate rowing in from his ship to hide his golden treasure in a shoreline cave.

And what a day it was! Warm, a light mist off on the horizon, salt air tingling his nose, and he was captain of his own ship. Wardie couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He slid off the seat and nestled down on the bottom, his back against the port side. Now the curved planking seemed to tower above him, and for all the world he was out on the deep blue sea dreaming of the greatest adventures of all.

That’s when he fell asleep.

The skiff floated at the edge of the ocean, the shadow of the sand dunes shading it, then hovering a moment as if tasting the change of tide, gently swung around in the fresh offshore breeze, and bobbed away from land until it was only a small speck in a vast sea, and even that vanished when it drifted into the grey mist.

Pedro was scared. He was almost fully grown, and never had he known fear at all until now. Growing up on the Island of Cuba had not been easy, but he took the beatings and the harsh drudgery of work the gaunt farmer gave him because he knew that someday he’d escape from this terrible person who treated him like a slave.

But running away had been difficult too. He had realized the farmer, his relatives and the soldiers too would be looking for him, and if they ever caught him, his life would be worse than ever. For months, now, he had been building his boat by the stream that wormed its way East until it spilled into the gulf. He knew nothing about building boats, but he knew what floated, and week by week he had been collecting empty five gallon cans, tying them together under lengths of saplings until he had a raft that would support him and whatever he brought with him.

All he needed now was the right tide and favorable winds that would take him away from Cuba and blow him to a new land of freedom where he could find his real family. His water jug was filled, a tin packed with yams was ready and his father’s last gift, a pocketknife, was hung around his neck on a leather thong.

He got his tide and his wind. He sailed away in the middle of the night and when the sun came up he was headed North and Cuba was only a smudge on the horizon. Right then he wasn’t scared at all. But Pedro’s knowledge of the sea was scant. From the hillside where he had lived the waves seemed small, the breeze light. One day out everything had changed.

Cotton rope that had seemed so strong wore through and two of his cans drifted off. The raft had a tilt in it now and the saplings were coming loose. The second day the fear was eating at him because all he had left were four cans loosely joined by rapidly fraying rope and loose pieces of young trees. He had dragged himself on top of the pile, holding them together with his arms and legs. Every hour he grew weaker, knowing he couldn’t hold on much longer.

The big fear came when he saw the first fin drift by.

Sharks!

Within minutes there were two more circling the remains of his boat. They didn’t attack. They just waited, seeming to know as he did that it was only a matter of time before the raft collapsed and he’d be an easy meal for them, helpless in the water.

A dash of salt spray woke Wardie up. At first he hadn’t realized that he had slept, but when he raised himself up he knew immediately what had happened. The tide had swept him out to sea! He was alone, totally alone in a boat that looked smaller the longer he looked at it. He was only a little sailor in a little boat alone on a great big ocean and he didn’t even know which way the shoreline was. A heavy mist hung around him and the sun was like a dim bulb in the sky overhead. He wanted to cry, but there was nobody to hear him so he bit his lip instead. He would have given anything, even his new bike, to hear the sound of just one friendly voice.

The rope was nearly gone now. Only Pedro’s weight on the few pieces of sapling held the cans together. The top of one had come loose and half the can had filled with seawater before he could tighten it. The sea mist was cold and he shivered, rattling the cans he lay on. One of the sharks moved in closer and he felt its rough skin brush his foot.

Fear was like fire in his throat. The shark moved in again, another following it and he lifted his dangling legs out of the water and yelled, “Get away from me!” His voice was hoarse and weak, muffled by the fog.

Wardie raised his head. He had heard something! But what, and where? Again, he heard a faint sound and thought it came from dead ahead. His oars were still in place and he squirmed up on the seat, remembering his father had taught him in his rubber boat on the bay. Grasping the oars firmly, he began to row.

The thing looming up in front of him almost scared Pedro to death. Sharks were bad enough, but a sea monster... and it was coming right at him! He let out a yell of pure fright when huge arms seemed to lift ready to grab him, then the yell turned to one of pure joy when he saw Wardie looking at him. He made a grab for the boat as it nudged his raft, pulled himself inside the skiff as the shark made a last, futile grab for his legs and crumpled to the bottom, exhausted.

But no two people were ever more happy to see each other than Wardie or Pedro.

An hour’s rest was all Pedro needed, and luckily, he knew where to row from the sun’s position. Hours seemed to pass before they broke from the fog... and there was the beach directly ahead, the small water tower marking the very key where the skiff had drifted up to start with!

When the boat ground to a stop on the sand, Pedro leaped out with a laugh, said something in Spanish, then turned back and hugged his little friend. Neither could understand what then other said, but Pedro seemed to think Wardie came out to rescue him all by himself. He grinned again, took his father’s pocketknife from around his neck, draped it on Wardie, hugged him again and ran off.

So much had happened in one turn of the tide. Wardie couldn’t believe it. He had to tell somebody and he took off toward his own house. When he reached the dune line he looked back... and there was the little skiff drifting off again.

Who would ever believe him now? He looked down at his knife on the leather thong around his neck. He could show them that... but no, he could have found that anyplace.

So he walked home with the sun about to go down behind him. The first person he saw was his mother who said, “Where have you been all day? Do you know what time it is? I’ve been worried sick.”

Wardie looked at her and shrugged. “Why, mom? What could have happened to me on the beach?”