A Pocketful of Passage

1. Aboard the Winyah

I remember that long-ago summer on Passage Island as if it were yesterday. It began, as every summer did, with a midnight boat trip from Duluth, Minnesota. April was always damp and ice cold in the North Country, but I was warm as toast, like a small moth in a snug cocoon. Mama wrapped us in gray woolen blankets to keep off the chilling drafts that crept through the porthole in our cabin. She tucked Jo, Sonny, and me into one narrow berth with Aboard the Winyah 1 01฀Campbell฀text.indd฀฀฀1 12/8/06฀฀฀1:53:36฀PM wooden sides so that we wouldn’t roll onto the floor when the old boat pitched and rolled on giant swells. It was 1942. I was nine and the oldest. Johanna, or Jo, was seven, and Sonny was two. Wedged together and weighed down by the heavy blankets, I could barely move. I couldn’t scratch or wiggle, but I didn’t care. I was much too excited. While Jo and Sonny snored, I listened, wide awake, to the drone of the Winyah’s engines. She shuddered when she climbed up and over each six-foot wave. Each time she slid down into the trough, my stomach felt like it was riding up and down in an elevator, over and over again. In the next cabin I heard someone upchuck into a bucket. I giggled, proud that I never got seasick. To be completely honest, I loved that all-night roller coaster ride. It took us to my daddy and our summer home at the lighthouse on Passage Island. Daddy and the other keepers always returned to their stations in early April while the freighters still sat quiet and empty at their winter docks. When the head keeper, Mr. Lane, and Daddy returned to Passage, the harbors and bays were clogged with ice. Two feet of snow blanketed the island. They used pickaxes to hack away the ice that covered the doors to the tower and the fog signal as well as the little tram, a small railroad cart that ran from the dock up to the buildings. Then they cleaned the lamp in the tower, oiled the clockwork that caused the light to flash, and put the fog signal in working order. Within two days, the PasA Pocketful of Passage 2 01฀Campbell฀text.indd฀฀฀2 12/8/06฀฀฀1:53:37฀PM sage Light was lit. Each night it pierced the black sky with a bright white beam. The northernmost American beacon on the Great Lakes was ready for the shipping season and the slow parade of vessels that sought safe passage along Isle Royale’s rocky shore. It was also time for my mother, who everyone called Billie, and us to join my father. I woke to the blast of the Winyah’s whistle. We had arrived at Washington Harbor, a fishing camp at the western tip of Isle Royale. Jo and I kicked and kicked until the blankets gave way, and we burst from our cocoons. Sonny preferred to play peek-a-boo under the blankets. We’d slept in our flannel shirts and denim overalls, so I was ready and anxious to see the island. “Breakfast first.” Mama’s calm but firm voice pulled me back from the door. She reached into her big canvas bag for a dented thermos and a bundle wrapped in wax paper. She poured mugs of chocolaty Ovaltine and unwrapped homemade biscuits spread with butter. Everyone knew my mama made the best southern biscuits. Once a fisherman swapped a whole lake trout for a pan of her biscuits. I ate two biscuits and wiped away my chocolate moustache with Mama’s hankie. “Let’s go, Jo!” I puffed as I pulled on my snowsuit, boots, and mittens. Jo licked the butter off her lips. She bit into her second biscuit and shook her head. “I’m still hungry. Besides it’s really cold out there. I’m gonna stay here and play with Sonny.” Aboard the Winyah 3 01฀Campbell฀text.indd฀฀฀3 12/8/06฀฀฀1:53:37฀PM A Pocketful of Passage 4 “You’re sure?” I asked. “Yup.” “OK, but I’m goin’.” I always wanted to be outside and couldn’t wait to go on deck. It was a milky morning. Frosty haze drifted over the white ice along the shore. Pearl gray...