2
OF COURSE, things rarely happen as we expect they will. I wasn’t demoted. Instead, Robby Haskins was elevated beyond Commodore, to the newly created rank of Commodore of the First Water. (I had, as I mentioned in my demotion speech, become a Commodore by accident, when Mr. Summers confused Robby Haskins’s sizes with mine and ordered a Commodore’s uniform to fit me. Haskins, a short, fat boy, called by some of my schoolmates Blubby Fatskins, had at first tried to get into the uniform that had been made to fit me, but some of the Tars had begun to snicker, and he had quickly abandoned the attempt. Instead, he put on the uniform of a Swabby, the lowest rank; in fact, he put on the Swabby’s uniform that would have been mine if Mr. Summers hadn’t confused our sizes.) Although I thought that creating a higher rank was a neat solution to a difficult problem, and although I was grateful to Mr. Summers for allowing me to keep my rank, I was surprised to find that I was disappointed at missing the opportunity to show that I could take a demotion like a man and eat whatever fate could dish out. I should have realized that the Tars would provide other opportunities.
After Robby’s advancement had been applauded and we had drunk the cream soda and eaten the cupcakes, Mr. Summers called for quiet, had us sit cross-legged on the gym floor, in a rough circle around him, and outlined his vision for the Young Tars.
“Lads,” he said, “today we have begun a great journey, the voyage of the Tars.”
Excitement rippled through the group; this sounded like fun.
“Now, you might be asking yourselves,” he continued, “‘Where are we going on this journey?’ Well, the answer to that question is, ‘It doesn’t matter.’”
There were some puzzled looks; I wore one of them.
“Look at it this way,” he said. “We’ve just left port. We’re somewhere at sea. We’re surrounded by fog, and we can’t see where we’re going. We can’t even see where we’ve been. I say, ‘Great!’ You may think, ‘That’s a crazy thing to say,’ but hear me out. If we can’t see where we’ve been, then we’re not shackled by tradition, are we? No, we’re not. If we can’t see where we’re going, then we’re not limited by the blinders of narrow purpose, are we? No. Well then, what the heck is our destination? Our destination, lads, is the horizon, and the horizon is all around us, so we can’t miss it! On the other hand, the horizon is unattainable, so it doesn’t really matter whether we get there! And that’s my point,” he said.
We all perked up at this, hoping for a break in the fog.
“We’re going to make this voyage together, over the bounding main, through fog and storms, and wherever we go we’re going there together—wherever the winds of fate may blow us!”
He swept his hand outward, in the approximate direction of the row of windows above the bleachers behind me. Most of the Tars followed his gesture with their eyes, hoping, I think, that they might spot something on our horizon. Some twisted around to look in the direction toward which he had gesticulated. A few stood and peered that way.
“Together,” said Mr. Summers. “Together. We’re going ‘Onward, ever onward,’ because that’s our motto. It’s the journey that counts, lads, not the destination, and we’re embarking on that journey together.”
I’m sure that none of us had any real idea what Mr. Summers was talking about, but he certainly made it sound exciting. The idea of a boat trip began to form in my mind, all the Tars on deck, peering into the fog, trying to figure out where we were. This idea was not a metaphor as I understood it; it was quite literal. This seemed to me to be what Mr. Summers was getting at, that the Tars would eventually have a boat, probably quite a large sailing vessel, a schooner, say, on which we would make many an exciting voyage.
“Are you with me?” asked Mr. Summers suddenly.
“Yes, sir!” I shouted at once. My enthusiasm for the ocean voyage that I’d seen through the fog had me primed, and the words shot from me before the others had opened their mouths. Their yesses and you-bets and yeahs were hearty enough, but my “Yes, sir!” was by far the strongest endorsement, and I think the others envied me my quickness.
Mr. Summers was clearly pleased and moved. He swallowed hard and blinked a couple of times. When he spoke again, there was a catch in his voice. “Thanks, lads,” he said. “I’m glad to know you’re with me. Together we can really enjoy the trip.”
He bowed his head, and a reverential silence fell over the assembled Tars. We were, I thought then, mutually awestruck by an ill-defined sense of some kind of mission. After a long moment, Mr. Summers lifted his head, took a deep breath, and brought his hands together sharply.
“Well!” he said. “Let’s get down to work. On a ship, everyone has a job, you know, and I’ve got a job for every one of you, and I want you to know that every job is important. Every job. I mean that. Every Young Tar has a job, and every job is important. As far as I’m concerned, the jobs that all you Tars have to do are equal, whether you’re at the top of the heap, like Commodore of the First Water Haskins, or you’re at the bottom of the heap, like Swabby Heywood.”
Robby Haskins beamed. Bones Heywood, the skinniest boy in the fifth grade, a pale boy with freckles, looked into his lap.
WHEN Mr. Summers began assigning jobs, the fog that hid the Tars’ course began to lift a little. Most of what we were to do involved keeping the school shipshape and our schoolmates in line. Despite what Mr. Summers had said, there were differences among the jobs. Robby Haskins’s job boiled down to keeping his hair combed and standing up straight when he was in uniform, but the Swabbies, Baymen, and Seamen had jobs that actually involved work: cleaning erasers and washing blackboards, picking up papers on the school grounds, washing Mr. Summers’s car, and so on.
I was one of the Tars assigned the task of attempting to keep order among the boys and girls who rode buses to and from school. They were to enter and leave the buses in a safe manner, without jumping. They were to walk to or from the bus, not run. They were not to shout. They were not to make rude remarks about the teachers or the administration. They were not to ridicule the bus driver, and they were not to sneer at the Tar who was monitoring them.
“If anyone breaches these basic rules of good conduct,” said Mr. Summers, “I want to know about it. I want names. I want details. I want to know the time and place of the transgression. I want the names of witnesses. I want each of you to carry a small notebook—”
I was already carrying a small notebook, the one in which I had written my easy-come-easy-go speech, so I perked up at this remark, recognizing an opportunity to distinguish myself. I whipped out the notebook and waved it at Mr. Summers.
In Topical Guide 210, Mark Dorset considers Expectations: Dangers of; Distinction or Status: Desire for; and Fortune Cookie Wisdom from this episode.
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