Walking the Bay Floor

Bethie stared sullenly at the planks of the little boat, not seeing anything. She should’ve been soaking in every moment possible; it could well be the very last time she’d be out on the Bay. She’d lived most of her 15 years in a little town which wasn’t exactly on the Bay but on one of its tributaries. Still, folk spoke of themselves as living on the Bay.

And then there were the stories O’Jonah told.

An ancient waterman, he could readily be found on or near a boat, sitting comfortably as he related tales of adventuresome souls who dove down thru the shallow waters to plant their feet on its floor. Everyone one of them came up with their destiny in hand.

“Walkin’ the Bay floor is a fine way to find what you need,” he’d conclude, tapping his chest and nodding wisely.

Bethie knew he was just waiting for her to ask if the stories were really true. From the sidelong smile and sparkle in his eyes, she knew he’d never give a straight answer. She didn’t really think the stories were exactly true. At her young age, she understood the value of tall tales in stirring the imagination and building a mindset willing to take on challenges and clear obstacles.

But what kind of person could picture themselves doing tall tale-like things? A courageous person? Reckless? Adventurous? What kind of person would she be if she were those things? Except being reckless – she didn’t think there was a positive to that quality. But, to see possibilities and go forward with the right mix of caution and courage…

Bethie wouldn’t at all mind being that kind of a person – a person willing to take on challenges with deliberation, ready to be amazed at whatever there was to be discovered.

Maybe that’s what the chest tapping meant – a person finding inside of them whatever they needed to face life.

True or not, she loved to hear the stories. They fit right in with the fantastical ones she’d read sitting by the water’s edge; tales of people living beneath the waves in the many sunken lands below the unassuming waves. Lulled by the endless waves, she daydreamed of walking along the Bay’s floor to see what she could find.

The Bay looked endless; she imagined it was as deep as it was wide. But it was, in fact, one of the shallowest bodies of water that ever met the ocean. How long would it take to dive down to the bottom? She looked it up.

Once she discovered the library and Mamie’s encyclopedias, she never ran out of things to look up. There were so many answers that she needed so she could make sense of an increasingly senseless world. So many things didn’t make sense; like eight days ago when Agatha sat down to shell peas and never got up again.

Agatha Tunnell was her great-aunt; she’d come to her as a frightened 5-year old after the big commotion that took her mama away. Bethie didn’t clearly remember what the commotion had been about, just that it was noisy and there were blinding lights. Or maybe that’s what she imagined it’d been like.

Bethie knew that, although Agatha took her in because it was what family ought to do, she would’ve done it anyways simply because she loved her. Now she was gone and Bethie faced exile from the house, the waters, the place she’d come to love.

Ms. Winters, the social worker, was sympathetic in a harried sort of way as she inexorably pushed towards removing Bethie from the Bay town.

“But I can do for myself! I’m old enough. You heard what everyone – the pastor, my teacher, everyone – said! I don’t need to be in foster care; that’s one less person you wouldn’t have to be responsible for!” Bethie had argued fiercely (but respectably). But –

“You’re not 16 yet, too young for emancipation,” was Ms. Winter’s answer.

Head filled with stories of America’s past when resilient and resourceful orphans carved out lives for themselves, Bethie pursed her lips to keep more pointless – but true – arguments to herself. But inside she seethed with righteous anger. To be denied because of being a few months short of a date on a calendar was outrageous.

Her bid for self-determination was so quickly shot down, it made her wonder if it was a case of what Agatha used to say coming true.

“’Too many books are wearisome to the soul,’” she’d say as if quoting Scripture.

“How many is too many if there’s so much to learn?”

There was never a reply to her question beyond the one time she got a smack because her tone of voice bordered on being sassy. But now she wondered if she felt so outraged and weary because all that she’d read had set her up to expect more.

The day after Agatha died, a terrible storm blew into the Bay, effectively confining everyone to their homes. Bethie had been taken to stay with the neighbors, the Parstons. She wasn’t allowed to return to Mamie’s sturdy house until after the funeral.

The house already felt like it’d been long abandoned although it was just a week. Shrugging off the feeling, she lost no time in firing up the desktop computer. She needed to understand what Ms. Winters meant about emancipation. Maybe the law had an exception for someone almost 16 and she could stay in Mamie’s – her - house.

Reading about becoming an emancipated minor made her hopeful. For the first time in days, a smile pushed some of the weariness from her face as she eagerly read the information.

But the adults she thought she could rely on to back up her intent quietly and regretfully sided with Ms. Winters. Mr. Parston spoke about property taxes in arrears and unmet safety standards. “The cost of either would be beyond the ability of a young person to even begin to pay, Bethie.”

“So if I had 500,000 dollars to pay taxes and fix the house?”

“But you don’t have 50 dollars,” Ms. Winters said as if speaking to someone slow of comprehension. Or someone who’d spent so much time with her nose in a book that the realities of life were foreign to her.

So this was her final morning to wake with the shushing of the waves and the cry of seabirds. There was no telling where her exile would take her.

I’ll be back some day. She didn’t have the heart to say the words aloud because she was certain that, when she left the Bay, the next powerful storm to blow in would take the house. It would lay in pieces across the Bay floor and on out to the Atlantic. Maybe one day a floorboard would wash up on the shores of Portugal.

Perhaps because he regretted siding with Ms. Winters, or simply because he was a kind person, Mr. Parston asked if Bethie’s final trip into town be by boat instead of the roundabout road. “Give her a chance to say goodbye, be out on the Bay one last time,” he urged.

Beyond her momentary astonishment and joy at being allowed the boat, Bethie remained in a sullen mood. Sitting in Mr. Parston’s boat, she stared blindly past Ms. Winters who looked on edge. Being in such a small craft on such a large body of water, even though there were others nearby, clearly made her nervous.

Bethie didn’t want the thrum of the engine or the way they skimmed across the water to soothe her. She wanted to be fully alert to savor everything so she’d never forget the least little detail. Gradually though, she yielded, felt the calm that the waves, breeze, and sun always brought descend upon her.

She heard again O’Jonah’s voice and thought, I should at least be able to take a walk on my last day here. She smiled at the thought; but no sane person chose to go overboard on a moving boat.

But when the engine sputtered to a stop, she took that as her cue.

“Why’ve we stopped?” Ms. Winters asked in a high-pitched voice, face etched in panic.

As Mr. Parstons reassured her, Bethie slowly slid her feet from her shoes.

“Goin’ for a quick walk,” she said clearly but not overly loud.

She knew she was heard because the social worker glanced up at her, momentarily distracted from working her phone. Bethie looked over her shoulder at Mr. Parston and saw he was preoccupied with figuring out the cause of the engine’s seizure.

She took a deep breath and blew it out, then drew in a deeper breath and held it as she slipped over the side and swam without hesitation straight down. The greyish blue water was cold, but not intolerable, and she was good at holding her breath and diving.

Ten seconds to the bottom, 30 seconds to look around on my walk, and 15 seconds to return to the boat. She trusted that at least Mr. Parston wouldn’t panic in such a short time. If all she’d read was true, she’d have a walk to remember. If O’Jonah’s stories were true, she’d have much more.

Suddenly, the floor was right beneath her. Milling her arms, she reoriented herself and let her feet settle into the sand. She slowly turned, taking it all in – the beige sand giving way to grassy swaths, small fish and crabs going about their dailies.

She felt a flash of disappointment at the amount of human evidence – bottles, plastic containers, even battered crates lay scattered among the grass. Never mind that, we’ve got a walk to take!

The floor looked as if someone had been at it with a large broom. Some of the grass was flattened by sand. Of course, Mamie’s storm must’ve stirred things up good down here.

Using her arms to counterbalance her body’s tendency to float, Bethie carefully started walking. But the sand was – lumpy. She looked closer.

Not coral, not trash… Something that had been underwater a long time, long enough…

If she hadn’t already been holding her breath, she would certainly be doing so as her eye traced a trail of the unusual lumps and noted what could only be a carved piece of wood peeping up from the sand. The storm had stirred the Bay floor enough to uncover what may’ve been hidden for 300 years. Hope blossomed in her as the words law of salvage sounded through her head.

Mindful of her time, she bent to carefully scoop up some of the encrusted discs and shoved them down her shirt, trusting her shirt tail would stay securely tucked into her pants.

Pushing off, Bethie worked her arms and legs smoothly, savoring the feel of the water, knowing she had breath to spare. She swam for the surface, with a smile as bright as the sun that lit the way like a beacon.

She’d walked the Bay floor and found what she needed. Whatever came next, she’d be alright.