In honor of NaBloMoPo month, I took a few days off from writing here, or anywhere else, to think about the many blog posts that have fallen by the wayside, unremembered, unloved. (See Spark and Foam, September 2004 � present.)

I enjoyed these quiet moments, only the sound of the Keelhauler�s chart plotter rolling across great navigational charts he�d spread out on the dining table, and the swooshing sound of his pencil tracing lines across the paper. (See illustration)

ILLUSTRATION



He�s been studying for his captain�s license, which requires a lot of test-taking and line-drawing. He enlisted me as teacher�s aide, and, dutifully, I corrected his practice tests with a purple marker, recording each grade with an expressive smiley-face and a �Great job!� or �You�re the king!� External approval is so important at his age (37).

The Keelhauler encouraged me to take the practice chart-plotting test myself, which I did, with a minimum of grumbling. By odd coincidence, the chart he was using depicted the waters off Rhode Island where I spent summers growing up. My grandparents had a beach house where, every summer, our parents would drop off my brother and me. Our six cousins would also be there, for what had to be the most irritating time imaginable for my grandparents. When the sun shone, we�d walk the hundred yards to the beach and spend all day in the waves, or looking for beach glass. My grandparents would futz with the garden, or mix Manhattans and sit on the porch smoking More cigarettes before Wheel of Fortune came on. When it rained, we�d argue over games of cribbage and mope around the house, begging to be allowed to light a fire. Our grandfather, wreathed in cigarette smoke, would watch Dialing for Dollars from his armchair and holler at us to pipe down. When our volume level drowned out Jeopardy, my grandmother would put look up from her crewel work and suggest, �Why don�t you kids swim to Block Island?�

Across the sound sat Block Island, a shadowy silhouette on the grey water. None of us had ever been there, although there was a ferry from nearby Point Judith that ran out to the island. None of us were old enough to drive, so getting to the ferry was unlikely, and however far away the island was, it was too far for us to swim, so we never went. At any rate, my grandmother never intended for us to try to swim there��Why don�t you kids swim to Block Island?� was her way of telling us to pipe down.

I thought about those summers at the beach as I rolled the plotter over the wavy lines and numbers of the chart, trying to determine the answer to a question that was approximately this, with major latitude taken in phrasing and accuracy:

From your vessel, you take a reading from a hand-held plotter, which reads a bearing of 60� to Point Judith light, 298� to Block Island light, and 310� to the Cerberus Shoals Lighted Gong Buoy No. 9. What is your position?

I was instantly sucked in by the name Cerberus Shoals Lighted Gong Buoy No. 9. I mean, once you hear that you�re close to that, who cares about Block Island? Swing the ship around to a course of 310� and go take a look at that buoy! It has lights and a gong�there�s probably a tiki bar, too. And maybe a three-headed dog acting as doorman. And a neon sign blinking Run aground at Cerberus Shoals!

I was able to get back on track with much encouragement from the Keelhauler, and once I determined my position (correctly, on the second try) I found it amusing to point out places I�d been. �That�s where I almost drowned,� I said, putting a finger on the water just off Green Hill Beach, �in� fifteen feet of water.�

It has been a long time since I visited that particular beach. My grandparents have died, and left the house to my uncle. The cousins no longer gather there to argue over cribbage or action figures and whisper at night among the bunk beds upstairs. Looking at the chart and seeing all those familiar places in tiny scale, the long stretches of sand reduced to a thumbs-breadth, I thought about the fact that I never visited Block Island, and how far away it seemed. Now, living 3,000 miles distant, those summers relegated to memory and a blue-and-white nautical chart, the island seems like a stone�s throw away. Perception is a faulty thing.

According to my calculations, Block Island is approximately eight nautical miles off the coast of Rhode Island.

Star of the day. . .Richard Thompson