See Introduction: Roscoe Fish Stories, January 2024
- Episode 1: Roscoe Fish Goes "Boying"! January 2024
- Episode 2: How Roscoe Fish Got His Name, February 2024
- Episode 3: The Journey Downriver, March 2024
- Episode 4: The Perilous Escape, March 2024
- Episode 5: Boying, The Lost Bait Can
- Episode 6: BoyingPosts - Of Storms and Shoals
- Episode 7: The Fish Grove, Part 1
- Episode 7: The Fish Grove, Part 2
- Episode 7: The Fish Grove, Part 3
- Episode 8: The Invasion of the River Rats
Cliff Cottage
After the encounter with the river rats, Roscoe took it upon himself to check in on their lodge from time to time. One sunny morning, after breakfast at the Frost Diner, he swam upriver towards the bay in front of Cliff Cottage, where the river rats’ dwelling nestled in the cattails. Usually the rats went about their business, gathering succulent stems and seaweed and the occasional crayfish, but not bothering the pike, bass, or big, lumbering carp who sheltered in the weed beds of the bay.
Cliff Cottage was a former farm set on a rocky point on the Canadian side of the River. During the Ice Age, an underwater ledge had been pushed up out of the deep Canadian channel to form the cliffs that towered over the 4-acre farm and also protected it from wind and weather. The bay that fronted the property was one of the widest between Rockport and the Thousand Island Bridge, upriver. White water lilies, with their undulating, circular pads and long underwater stems, drifted in a secluded back cove beneath the cliffs. This was the home to many frogs and turtles, some of whom collected supplies for the Frost Diner.
Cliff Cottage was another ideal boying spot for Roscoe. In fact, Christopher’s cousin’s family spent their summers in the white Victorian farmhouse. The great grandparents had bought the property at the turn of the twentieth century. They sat in their green-painted rocking chairs on the farmhouse porch, watching the children play on the lawn and dock, watching the tour boats motor by, or just watching the weather travel up the River. The L-shaped dock off the front lawn had a ladder on one side for swimming and a large, flat rock on the other for wading. A long, double-ended wooden boat, called a St Lawrence skiff, tied to a cleat inside the dock, bobbed gently as the wake rolled in from the big boats passing through the Canadian channel.
Two small sister islands lay about 100 meters off the front dock of Cliff Cottage. These islands were known as Little 99 and Big 99, although no one remembered where the counting of the Thousand Islands began and ended. On the navigation charts, Big 99 had a French name -– Beaulieu -– that translated to “beautiful place.” Little 99, all pink and grey rock, looked like the humped back of a dozing whale. Because no trees grew there, it wasn’t an official island at all. Between the 99s and the mainland, the bay shrank to a narrow passage, known as a gut, which jutted inland to a sandy beach.
Anyone who could swim the narrow passage from the dock to Little 99 without a life jacket could go out in a boat alone. The children spent countless hours – one rowing a punt or skiff alongside a struggling swimmer, trying to reach Little 99. To Roscoe’s continual wonder, the children jumped in the water and splashed around just as they did at Pine Island. The 99s became the children’s playground.
Floating an Idea
One hot summer afternoon, Roscoe was swimming towards the gap between Little 99 and Big 99, headed for the cool sand of the beach at Cliff Cottage. He always got a thrill racing up from the icy cold depths of the wide Canadian channel and surging into the sweet shallows warmed by the rocky bottom between the islands. Basking in the sunlight for a moment, he would plunge down again into the gut’s shady weed beds and end up at the beach. But this afternoon, just as he swam upward towards the sunlight, he heard a loud splash, and then another and another. Skidding back to the shade of Big 99 for cover, he made out an unusual sight: Two boys’ feet balanced on the ledge, and two small hands dipped down into the water and yanked at a rock. The rock came up and immediately landed alongside another rock between the islands. The rocks began to pile up, making a wall of sorts. Roscoe tread water and watched from a safe distance.
“We know there’s buried treasure out here on Little 99,” one boy was explaining to the third boy who was sunbathing on top of the island’s rocky hump. “There is loose dirt in that hole – over there, near the moss garden.” He pointed towards a crevice in the rock, “the one we built last week, you know – Moss Haven. There must be treasure over there.” The other boy looked in the direction of the patch of velvety green moss.
“We need to keep the pirates from landing here,” the first boy frowned. He pointed to the new wall he was making. “This breakwater between the islands will mark the passageway to the beach. It will fool the pirates into thinking that the treasure is buried somewhere on the lawn.” “Let’s make it look like a medieval draw bridge,” said the third boy, now acting like the boss, “with two big pillars on each side.”
“Let’s make it look like Boldt’s Castle,” cried the fourth boy, who had climbed onto the small diving board that his father had set on the island’s midsection. He bounced once and plunged into the water, holding his feet to his chest in a cannonball jump that in its tremendous splash scattered all the small fry that were hovering around the island.
“What’s Boldt’s Castle?” asked the boy still sunning on his towel. He was the first guest of the summer. Guests always asked a lot of questions.
The boy who jumped surfaced, shaking his head so that a shower of water droplets spun off his curly hair, and exclaimed, “We have to take you there! It’s a whole island in the shape of a heart over near Alex Bay. This man named Boldt built a huge castle in the center of the island -– it has turrets and a power house and a clock tower!”
The boy swam over to where the wall was beginning to take shape and dove down, pulling up bigger and bigger rocks to fill in the sides. Soon the rocks began to poke out above the surface of the shallows between the islands. All four boys worked together, the two below hefting rocks up to the two above, who set them in place. The sun was hot, but the wake of passing boats sent swells that crested over their backs and cooled them. Roscoe was fascinated by this new boy game.
After about an hour, the boys clambered up onto Little 99 and lay down on the warm rock to rest. Roscoe waited a moment and then went out to inspect. The wall topped the surface of the water, and extended from island to island, except for a gap in the center. It already looked liked a real breakwater protecting the entry to a harbor. Ready for a nap himself, Roscoe left the boys, and scooted through the new, much tighter opening between the 99s. Then he headed across the gut to the sandy beach. He nestled into a cool hole beneath the rock wall that enclosed the dock and dozed off.
Quite soon, however, he was jolted awake by a dark shadow above his head. It wasn’t a cloud, he thought, because the sky was cloudless. And it wasn’t a floating log, because it was big and rectangular. Wide awake now, he darted under the dock. From this safe hiding place, he got a closer look. The rectangle was made up of wooden planks lashed tightly together. If anything, it looked like a roof he had once found floating down the River during a flood. At that time, the River had risen so high that it filled up the top of a house near shore, and the roof had broken off and bobbed away by itself on the current. Similarly, this roof-like thing overhead rose and fell in the gentle swells, with water sometimes lapping over the top.
Roscoe recognized two of the boys balancing on the slippery surface of the roof as the ones who had been out at Little 99. A third child, a fair-haired little girl, sat on top of a folded life preserver, her freshly pressed white dress tucked up under her so that it would not get wet. All the children were barefoot, except for the tall boy in the center, who, surprisingly, was wearing knee socks and ankle-high lace-up boots.
Roscoe guessed that the boys had made this roof for gliding silently on the water to fool their prey. The platform was rigged with a small square sail tied to the top of two vertical poles and fastened with wires to eye-hooks on the decking.
“Heave-ho,” shouted one boy as he shoved the leaky roof off the big flat rock by the dock, using an oar that was twice his size. Another boy was leaning into the planks, pushing with all his might. Although the roof was unsteady, and close to sinking with the weight of the two boys and the little girl, the other boys were wading out with it, getting ready to jump on board.
As he looked up, Roscoe noticed that storm clouds were brewing on the horizon across the river. But the boys on shore were not paying attention to the weather. They had pushed off and clambered aboard, and the roof had set sail. “Move to the corners,” the tallest boy directed the others. “Watch out, it’s slippery!”
One boy used the oar to steer, while another steadied the sail. The roof slowly skimmed forward into the calm water. The breakwater they had built that afternoon between the 99s had helped prevent the big wake from boats in the Canadian channel from crashing into shore. But, with the weight of all five children, the roof’s planks barely cleared the water’s surface.
Roscoe followed at a safe distance, eager to see what would happen. All of a sudden, a gust of wind billowed out the sail. The roof lurched and pitched forward, its front edge plowing under the water. All four boys lost their footing on the slippery planks and plunged into the water. But, without their weight, the roof rose up and righted itself. The little girl in the white dress sat still, holding tightly to her secure perch on the life preserver. “Hooray,” the boys raised their arms from the water, applauding the girl. “Good job! Keep going!” they yelled. “Pull up the sail,” one boy shouted.
The girl did as she was told and leaned forward to right the sail. It caught the wind and billowed out. The roof surged upriver. Swimming hard, the boys tried to catch up, but the raft now was moving too fast. They fell behind and watched the roof take off towards the main channel. All four boys turned and swam back to the dock. “Help, help!” they sputtered. What seemed like a dandy adventure had gone very wrong.
Roscoe darted after the roof in a panic. A faster swimmer than the boys in all their soggy clothes, he caught up with it and noticed a loose line tied to a cleat on the back that had fallen overboard and was sinking down towards him. Roscoe took the line in his mouth, bit down and tugged on it with all his might, but the roof’s weight and speed were too much for his slight body. The raft dragged him along towards the channel.
As he was struggling to hold on, and wondering what to do next, suddenly, Roscoe felt the line go slack. The roof had come to a jarring halt, stopped by the rock wall between the 99s. The little girl was thrown forwards, but she caught the side of the sail, and clung to it, one foot dangling in the water. Pulling herself to her knees, her white dress now soaking wet, she glanced back at the dock where the boys were scrambling up the ladder and screaming for help. She remained silent.
On shore, the boys’ cries were heard by the caretaker/boatman Will Slate, an experienced guardian of generations of children. Will’s heritage was Scots/Cherokee, and he was never out of earshot of trouble. He rushed out of his workshop under the cliffs, and when he saw the raft/roof adrift and the boys splashing in the river, he dropped his hammer and pipe and ran down to the dock. Will jumped onto the sleek runabout named Peggy (the grandmother’s nickname) that was always tied to the front dock and started the engine. The oldest boy, who was the fastest swimmer and had already climbed up the ladder and shed his boots, ran over to cast off the lines. The motor coughed once and Will steered the Peggy towards Little 99. As he crossed the gut, he saw that the raft had nudged into the new breakwater and stopped, upright, in the lee of the bigger island. He also saw that the little girl, whom he had taught all about the river, was staying calm. Will pulled the Peggy gently alongside the roof and idled the motor. “Hold tight, Margaret,” he said to the little girl. She nodded.
He worried that the whole raft might tip over if a big wake came in, and he knew the little girl would have trouble trying to swim in that frilly dress. But she sat quietly on her life preserver while he leaned over to pull down the sail. Roscoe let go of the line that he had clamped in his mouth just as Will reached over to pull it up. Will quickly fastened the line to a cleat on the Peggy’s stern. Then he backed the boat around and eased the raft off the rock wall. With the raft in tow, and Margaret still aboard as “queen,” he headed back to shore. Will let the raft go as he landed at the dock, and it slipped onto the flat rock where it had begun its journey. All the boys waded out to help Margaret come ashore, cheering her for her bravery.
Seeing the roof safely moored and the little girl rescued, Roscoe flipped around and slid through the middle of the breakwater back into the Canadian channel. He shook his head at the perils and hazards of boying. What would they think of next, he wondered? As usual, he turned towards the Frost Diner, excited to quench his thirst with a slime shake and tell Rose the story of the floating roof.
By Sarah Bodine
Sarah Bodine is a writer, editor, designer and book artist. She spent the summers of her childhood at her great-grandfather’s house, known as Cliff Cottage, on the Ontario side of the St Lawrence River near Rockport. The three Keats children were her cousins, and she often ran an outboard across the Canadian channel to spend the night on Pine Island. John Keats, fondly known as JK, made Roscoe Fish the main character in his bedtime stories, which were loved by all the children. To this day, the next island generation is forever looking for Roscoe under the boats in the slip.
Those of us who read JK's (John Keats, "Of Time and an Island," 1974) books will smile and thank them for the opportunity to read more - even if in the imagination of Sarah and her cousins. This is one of the shortest episode - but just the thought of building a raft and taking off for parts unknown will make you smile - be sure to go back and read all of Roscoe's excursions, too.]
Posted in: Volume 19, Issue 7, July 2024, Fiction
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