Chapter Twelve

I was so cold and exhausted just then that I didn’t want to move. I knew we were still in deep trouble. The wind was wailing and the boat was getting battered. Tamara and I were huddled together, which made me think if I was going to die soon, this wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. I pressed Tamara tightly against me.

A kick in the ribs brought me back to reality. Harold’s boot had connected with my sense of priorities. “Get up here, Greg, you lazy bum,” he snarled. “I need your help if we are going to make it.”

I left Tamara and tried to get my footing beside Harold.

“We can’t go ashore,” Harold told me. “Not for miles in either direction. We don’t even have enough fuel to fight this swell all the way back to Deep Cove. Our only chance is to get out to deeper water and go with it, downwind. Ride it out, full tilt.”

“I lied about the desert,” I confessed. “She’s taking water below.”

“I know you did. You’re like your mother—a bad liar.”

“I’ll go check on the pump.”

“Good idea.”

I opened the cabin door. The hum of the bilge pump was music to my ears. The water was still coming in through the seams, but it was only about two feet deep.

“We’re okay,” I told Harold.

“That’s what you think,” he countered, pointing to the maze of frothing waves pounding on exposed rocks straight ahead.

“Get up on top and help me steer us out of here.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

There were only three major obstacles in our way, but each low island of submerged rock looked deadlier than the one before. Harold tried to use the deeper water of an approaching wave to sneak over top of the first shelf of rock. That put us dead on course for number two. Harold was forced to come about and crawl up the face of the sea demon at full throttle. I held my breath as we reached the peak of the huge swell. The engine sputtered. I thought for a second we’d slide backwards down into the trough right on top of rock number two. But the wave passed beneath us without breaking and Harold pulled back around.

I screamed out, “Hard right!” Harold responded and we barely skirted the third shoal. We had our back to the wind and waves, and even though the storm raged all around, we were suddenly okay. Harold was in control. We were away from the rocks and in deep water.

“You can only fight a storm like this for so long,” Harold said as I climbed back down. “Then you have to learn to ride it out. Harrington Cove is up there somewhere. Deep water the whole way.”

A few minutes ago, everything had seemed like chaos. Now we were going west, with the wind. I could see there was an awesome order to the sea and the storm. A minute ago they were trying to rip us apart. Now we were skidding along at an amazing speed—engine, waves, wind all working for us.

The sky cut loose with a cold pelting rain. I helped Tamara and her family down into the cabin. Tamara’s father still had a troubled look about him. “It’s okay now,” I told him.

He took his finger and traced across my arm where he had first sliced me with his knife. “Sorry,” he said.

“Forget it,” I told him. “It was an honest mistake.”

We rounded a low headland and Harold eased the boat into Harrington Cove. Finally we were protected from the worst of the storm. When we got to the wharf, we tied up the battered boat and Harold went looking for his cousin, Russell. Russell took us home, got us some dry clothes, a couple of gallons of tea and chowder, and then drove us around to Deep Cove. He never once asked about Tamara and her family.

After all that we’d been through, it seemed strange to be home, safe and sound, long before my mother came back from St. John’s.

Then a strange car pulled up.

“Should we hide?” Tamara asked.

“No,” I said.

But when the door opened and my mom walked in with the guy from immigration, I had second thoughts.

“Don’t anyone move,” the man said, dropping his briefcase and holding out his hands, “until I have a chance to explain. My name is Wilkins. I’m with the Department of Immigration.”

I looked at my mom like she was some kind of traitor. I went and sat down beside Tamara.

Wilkins took off his coat and sat on a wooden chair. He started to open his briefcase as he began to speak, but my mother stopped him.

“There have been others,” she said, speaking directly to Tamara. “The government is aware of who you are. No one wants to send you back.”

She sat silently as Tamara translated to be sure her parents understood.

Wilkins shuffled some papers in his briefcase. “I can’t officially say that you have refugee status, but if you are who you say you are, we already know your situation. We can do the first step of processing you in St. John’s tomorrow. Then we will put you on a plane to Toronto. There you can join other people from your country who can sponsor you. You need a sponsor to look out for your financial needs.”

Tamara translated again. But I could tell she didn’t like what she was saying. They seemed to be arguing. Something was still wrong.

Then Tamara spoke up. She seemed very nervous now. “We want to stay here.”

“In Deep Cove?” The man seemed flabbergasted.

“In Deep Cove,” she repeated. Her father nodded.

“We have standard procedures …” Wilkins began. Before he could get another word out, the door flew open. In walked Harold, who had obviously been listening at the door.

“The hell with standard procedures,” he told Wilkins. “If they want to stay, let “em stay.”

Wilkins looked up, a bit startled by this wild-haired old rum smuggler. “Who are you?” he asked.

“It don’t matter who I am,” he said.

“No, it certainly doesn’t.” Mr. Immigration turned back to my mother as if she would support him. “What I’m offering these people is a chance to move to a city where there is opportunity. Where they can be with others from their country. And, of course, there is also a matter of financial support.”

“I don’t understand,” my mother said.

“Money,” Wilkins said, rubbing his thumb and index finger together. “If these people want to stay, they need sponsors. People who will provide money and support while they get on their feet. We can connect them with such organizations in Toronto.” He said it as if we’d all understand right away. The bottom line was money.

“We can sponsor them,” I said, looking at my mother. “We can support them.” But I knew that my mom was just about broke. We’d spent most of the money we had on the house. Dad’s life insurance was barely enough to live on.

Wilkins looked around at our humble surroundings. “I don’t think that is possible,” he said, almost laughing. “I think you are all being unreasonable. Our studies indicate that a large urban center is the best place for Asian immigrants.

“What would you have if you stayed here?” he asked of Tamara. She translated.

Her father got up and walked up to the man. For a second I thought he was going to pull out his knife again. Instead, he said, “Friends. We have friends here.” His English was perfectly clear.

“Look outside,” Harold said. We all got up to look.

The drenching rain had finally stopped. The wind was easing. The gravel road up to our place was crowded with people. Everyone in Deep Cove must have been out there on the road. As we looked, they all began to swing flashlights so that lights danced off the dark night sky.

Wilkins didn’t quite know what to make of this. He folded his papers back into his briefcase. “I think I’ll just head on back to the city. You’ll have a chance to reconsider this. Perhaps things will look different to you in a day or so.”

“Thank you,” Tamara said, this time looking at me. “But I think we will always feel the same.” Wilkins shrugged and closed the door behind him. He had to ask people to move aside so he could get to his car and drive away.

Ten months have gone by since then. We survived a long, hard winter. There was a house to be fixed up for the new family of Deep Cove. Everyone in town pitched in to make it livable. It turned out Ravi had a way with wood and he proved to be a very good carpenter. With the leftover lumber he has started to make furniture. There has even been some interest in his delicate chairs and tables from the mainland.

Today I am getting my Laser ready for the first sail of the season. Tamara will be coming along. It’s warm for a change and the sun is out. My boat always makes me think of my father. The pain never really goes away. You just learn to live with it.

But when I spot Tamara, making her way down to the boat launch, the pain starts to fade. My father always told me to trust my instincts. And that is what I did when I first came upon Tamara and her family on the open ocean. I knew what I had to do. I think that decision was a gift from my father.

It’s a lot like sailing. There is no such thing as a straight path to a destination. You have to tack—back and forth—working the wind for all it’s worth. And watching Tamara walk towards me, I already feel like I’m flying over the waves, leaning far over the side. The sail is full, stretched tight. And all I have to do is hang on tight and remember what my father taught me—never fight against the wind. Find its strength and make it work for you.