Tales of Uncle Ernest (Continued)

Chapter 5  Tales of Uncle Ernest

At last Uncle Ernest knelt heavily beside me, chuckling softly under his breath, apparently from his bantering with Birdie, and continued his account of his sea journey. “I had no idea in the world where I was, Moose, but of course I had the sun for direction so I paddled west for nothing better to do. By golly, after a while, when I looked over my left shoulder, I saw something large floating in the water.

“When I paddled up to it I saw three sorry looking, water soaked guys, hanging for dear life to a log. The first one to come aboard must have had a strong will to survive, because he rushed ahead of the other two frantically. The other two flopped aboard and I helped them dry off with a fish rag I had in my pocket.

“Chuck, the first aboard, said that the three of them had been old school buddies—had done a lot of drinking together—and that their ship, the H.M.S. Bagel, a majestic Jewish steamer, had foundered on its voyage through the Bermuda Triangle on its way from the Galapagos Islands to England. Chuck said that he had persuaded his two buddies, Sid and Carl, to sail to the Galapagos Islands with him to keep him company.

“I got the impression that Chuck was some kind of important person because he said that he had written a book called The Beginning of the Spacies, a science fiction story or something of the sort, but to tell you the truth I thought he was some kind of kook, because every so often he would raise his fist and yell, ‘Only the fit will survive.’ Moose, he was overdosed on salt and sun.

“Well, pretty soon, as we drifted along, Carl, the somber guy with the bushy black mustache, started dominating the conversation, and then the three of them started arguing viciously. Apparently, Moose, the three of them were all pretentious scoundrels who had written books, and when I found out that the books didn’t even have pictures in them, I sort of lost interest. It was just my luck that I would drift into three worthless boobs who wrote dry nonsense instead of the fellows who wrote Popeye or Superman, stories that had some impact on us regular people.

“Anyway, each one insisted that he had written the best book. Carl was the most arrogant, saying that his Das Capital was the best. For hours he ranted and yelled about such things as ‘the masses,’ ‘dialectical materialism,’ ‘the proletariat,’ and ‘the bourgeoisie.’ Moose, I didn’t understand a word he was saying, and I hesitate to tell you this, but when the others were asleep I clubbed him overboard with my paddle and I don’t think he lasted very long out there.

“The third guy, Sid, a small wimpy one with a white beard wasn’t a whole lot better. He insisted that his book called The Eddie Pus Complexion or some such thing (he was a Frenchman and couldn’t talk worth a dang) would solve all of the world’s problems. I knew he was an idiot because he said that I had a drinking problem, (I had a jug of that wine aboard that I took a swig from now and then) and that it was caused by a forgotten sexual psychic trauma that I had had in early life. He wanted to hypnotize me, maybe, to straighten me out. Well, I’m a pretty dumb guy, but even I could tell garbage when I heard it, so I booted him overboard too; let him counsel the fish, lecture in their schools.

“The last fellow left aboard, Chuck, was not a bad guy, really, and I think he was secretly glad that the other two bad eggs were gone. Chuck was a scientist and had been studying the animals around Ecuador. I couldn’t understand most of the stuff he talked about but it seemed sensible at the time. He didn’t put his ideas across very well, but I think he believed that all living things, over a long, long period of time, could somehow change into other, different living things. At any rate, I needed somebody to talk to and help paddle the canoe so I kept him aboard.”

As Uncle Ernest uncrossed his legs and rose awkwardly from the grass, his knees cracking with the effort, I turned to watch him trudge in to refill his glass and gab with Birdie, and I thought about what an exciting life Uncle Ernest had led. But I was only seven; my time would come. I peered out at the canal and noticed that it had reached high tide, for the water was almost touching the cross boards on the crumbling granary. The stillness on the proud canal was eerie. The contrast of light and dark images spread out against the silent waters made me feel a little strange.

And then, Nina, from my right side, out of the Basin, a small rowboat slid into view. It was powered by an old, old man whose rowing skills were so good that I could hear only a slight, dull thump of the oars rolling in their oarlocks. The skiff was small and the man, whose face was dark and wrinkled, was rowing in the forward-facing method, the ancient method, which I had never seen before or since.

His strokes were effortless. As he passed in front of me, the oars feathered the still water, hardly breaking the surface as man and boat, centaur at sea, glided past at a surprising pace. After it passed, its gauzy wake was barely visible on the water, a brief remnant of an essence that once was with us. Soon small, silent ripples made their way to the sandy beach, nudging ever so gently the thin strands of sea grass next to the piling.

[To be continued Friday, 12/30/11]