I went down on the main deck near the mizzenmast and began greasing my body. I took off my overalls, and gave my body a glorious shine that would rival any I saw on the island, and started the dance. I pounded on a rain barrel for a tom-tom. Every sailor on deck beat it just as I got going. They had seen Father’s head appearing out of the companionway, but I hadn’t. The next thing I knew Father grabbed me but my body was so slippery he couldn’t keep a hold on me.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.
“Just dancing the way the girls danced for us on Atafu,” I answered, and I ran aft and locked myself in the flag locker.
Father followed me, but couldn’t unlock the door. “I’ll knock hell out of you when I lay hands on you,” he promised. I had no intention of ever coming out of that flag locker. Hours later I heard the dinner-bell ring. I was greasy and hot and hungry, but I thought better than to venture out. At dusk I heard a low whistle outside the porthole. I looked out and saw a piece of bread dangling there on a piece of string. The Jap cook had taken my side, and smuggled me some supper. The next morning I unlocked the door and looked around for Father. He was busy on his chart. I stood by him wrapped up in a flag. I thought I might as well get the licking over with so he could go on with his work. However, he didn’t even speak. He reached up to his book shelf and took down an illustrated copy of Dante’s Inferno, and opened it to the illustrations of women burning in fire in hell. I was cured. I would never be a dancer!
20
A Love Story—which is an end and not a beginning
“Them’s Portuguese Men-o-war, Skipper,” explained Stitches when I asked him what the floating, transparent little blue things were that I saw glistening in the sunlight on the surface of the sea.
“Yep, them little tri-cornered sails on them looks like old Portuguese ships of war, that’s where they gets their name.”