The Other Live Aboard

I first came to know him in the middle of the night, scampering in the walls. I thought I was dreaming; Mark said I was imagining things. But I couldn’t shake the feelings that we weren’t alone.

He leaves clues after a long night. Like last night. Before going to bed, we turned down the diesel furnace. This morning when we turned it back on, it didn’t work. Fuel pump is intact, everything is the same – but no go. On Saturday, Mark vacuumed up an inch of standing water in the bilge under the bow. We thought maybe it was sewage that had overflown. This morning, it’s back, but not quite so brown, so not sewage. Where’s it coming from? What could have caused these mysterious disturbances?

Fate and chance are too obvious, poltergeist too adolescent. No, we have deduced that it’s the gremlin. We joke that he’s half rabbit, half rat, ostracized by both communities, and at risk of being eaten by the coyote who lives in the trees along the south loop river bank. He’s come to live on Mazurka for safety, lurking about in the darkness of the engine room, and because it amuses him. He’s a trickster – what can he do? Is it his fault he’s surrounded by wires, just waiting to be crossed? Is it his fault the generator is so complex that every night he can tinker with just one more piece, thus eluding the captain from ever figuring out the “real” problem?

We thought maybe the cats would kick him out, but he seems to have struck a deal with them – they pretend to know nothing of his existence, and look the other way when something goes awry. And, as much as I love my cats, I know they’re not smart enough for these top-notch jobs – they’re amused just watching the snow slide down the shrinkwrap.

He’s a bit of a klepto, too, probably due to his feelings of insecurity and lack of stable social network. Somewhere on board he is hoarding flashlights, wrenches, critical O-rings and bolts, and bushels of pens, batteries, hats, and lighters of all variety (he seems overly fond of fire, which sometimes worries me). You’d think in a small space like a boat it would be impossible to hide anything for long – you would be mistaken.

I refuse to appease him by setting out snacks. St. Anthony can handle our pleas for lost items, and I stopped putting out cookies for Santa long ago.

Even if I could get my hands on his jaunty little self, which I know prances around with pride while we struggle and swear at his handiwork, even if I could get ahold of his rabbit foot or his rat tail, I wouldn’t kick him out. I feel for the guy. These shores are tough – between the River City canine community, who spend all day cooped up in Jetson-like apartments and are just itching to sink their teeth into a pokey little gremlin, and the hissing geese who, when they start nesting in about a month, are likely to beat him to death with their wings if he comes within twelve feet of their eggs, well, there’s too many enemies. Not to mention his own kind – the city rats and the country rabbits – who scorn him ‘cause he looks different. I can relate to straddling those two worlds – the urban and the rural – and those of us who don’t fit in neither world gotta stick together.

Just as long as he keeps his paws off the shrinkwrap.