Jersey Sails: From La Corbière to Cape Florida
Genie, 09/26/2020
(Short-story submitted to the [24th Annual] 2020 Zoetrope: All-Story Short Fiction Competition)
Put together a bay, a barrier reef, stretches of white sand, luscious vegetation, protected species and a lighthouse, and pirate stories start to abound. Honestly, who wasn’t an indigenous pirate of sorts in the Village of Key Biscayne? The majority of “Key Rats” (as Key Biscayners informally call themselves) had always taken pride in having very heterogeneous backgrounds and on being endowed with an innate seafaring force, and Jordana’s own family history didn’t fall far from this paradigm, considering they were Italians from Rome, albeit with an Abruzzese heritage, who had lived in over four continents before settling on the Key during Jordana’s early twenties. More than a Key Rat, she was a full-fledged third-culture kid.
Being now in her mid-forties and living with her widowed father, Jordana had heard, overheard, eavesdropped on and collected so many other tales of fellow local pirates, that she sometimes pondered whether she should group them in a volume. Not only did she thrive on historical details, but writing was truly her forte, so what was holding her back? Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she always felt the next story was going to be better… until the afternoon of August 17, 1992.
That August Monday, like all others after returning from work, Jordana picked-up her mail and engaged in another ritualistic habit of hers, that of chit-chatting with the front-door neighbor Uma, an elderly, retired politics college professor and widow from India who, with equal customary precision, would walk her rust Dobermann at 6:00pm sharp, not without first saying hello and providing the daily recap of salient gossip at the Harbor Drive waterfront condo where they both lived and from where the gorgeous Vizcaya could be admired across Biscayne Bay. Yet that afternoon, instead of watching one of Uma’s many colorful and glitzy dupattas and sarees blowing in the island breeze as was usually the case immediately after saying “see you tomorrow”, Uma invited Jordana for tea. It turns out she had walked the dog earlier, to dodge the sporadic thunderstorm of the day, a typically South Floridian late-summer meteorological phenomenon, much like the notorious London drizzle in winter.
Soon enough, as the beautiful Hindo-Islamic wood-carved door -a family heirloom which she had brought to America all the way from her native Jaipur when she got married- of Uma’s apartment closed behind them, the storm continued brewing and thunders started rolling. Jordana didn’t take much heed of the noises in the sky, because having tea at Uma’s was always a very relaxing and otherworldly experience, in particular after the fumes of incense and the aromas of her signature masala chai concoction steeping in boiling water would make shapes and shadows that sparkled across the “sheesh mahal”, or hall of mirrors… because that is exactly what Uma’s dining-room looked like, being as it was, plastered in multicolored Rajasthani marble intarsia and ornate thikri glasswork. However, the enchantment would soon break, because the retired politics professor also loved to have the TV on while sipping her tea.
“Breaking News: We interrupt this newscast to give you a detailed update of tropical storm Andrew’s trajectory,” the reporter said. “The tropical storm has now become a Category 3 hurricane and it might make landfall in Miami later this week…”
“This is insane. Are you hearing this, beti?” Uma exclaimed as she hastily stirred her chai, making alarming clanging sounds.
“Yes, I’m listening... What a drag, to have to go through evacuation again! Oh well… let us keep our fingers crossed and hope it makes a last-minute eastward turn, that way we don’t have to deal with it!” Jordana was always very hopeful, because having lived on the Key longer, not only had she already been through strong hurricanes, but she was also well aware of the possibility that even when landfall was imminent, the maleficent twisters could turn around and recede into the ocean.
The two women continued sipping their tea and chatting. Suddenly, it was dinner time, so Jordana thanked her hostess and left for her apartment. She had started opening and scanning through her mail while Uma was preparing the tea a couple of hours earlier, however a quirky golden, mildly distressed envelope had caught her eye, as both the stationery and the handwriting did not look familiar at first glance. The gulab jamun and tamarind chutney golgappas that Uma had served with chai had left her full, so she simply skipped dinner, slipped quickly into her pajamas and drew the mail from her purse, picking the mysterious bulky missive from the stack.
The postmark was less than a week old, but the location itself had completely blurred from the letter, making it hard to determine its actual provenance. What is more, the envelope lacked the names of both the recipient and the sender. Given Jordana’s fondness of the art of letter-writing and her eternal quest for original stationeries, she could only surmise that this singular quality of paper was rather old and out of production; still, this realization did not help much either.
Hence, giving in to her curiosity, she opened the letter, only to find a telegraphic, ten-line message in what seemed to be an old French Patois with a Gaelic twang or a Creole dialect of yore… who knows! This fact alone unleashed a myriad theories and resolutions in her head, because among the many Key Rats and island pirates, Haitian and other French-Antilles’ descendants were not uncommon. Tracking the true intended reader of the letter would not have been so challenging after all. Nonetheless, the contents of the envelope did not stop there, for accompanying the letter were ten black-and-white pictures of maritime settings that could have been taken anywhere on America’s Northeastern or Western Coasts, if it weren’t for the tenth picture, depicting a medieval hilltop castle, perched on the sea, surrounded by houses of what could easily have been -in view of the fuzziness- French Breton, Spanish Cantabrian, Galician, or Southern English fishing-village architecture.
Might this be the “story of stories” Jordana was awaiting in order to finally consolidate her volume of local pirate tales? Jordana was too tired to brainstorm that night. She went to sleep, resolving to drop by the quiet village library the next day after work, to start delving into the population archives while hoping to unearth some clues.
She would have to wait another week, sadly! The very next morning, as she glided through the Rickenbacker Causeway on her convertible red FIAT 500, the radio announcers made it clear that Hurricane Andrew, now a Category 4, was at the doors of the Panhandle. It was gaining more strength by the hour and was expected to enter precisely through Key Biscayne. Jordana was well-prepared for the chaos that was about to ensue. She still did her best to go to work with a positive outlook, shuffling the black-and-white pictures in her head, when it suddenly dawned on her that she HAD indeed seen the medieval castle before, but where?
In the days that followed, Jordana duly prepped the house for Hurricane Andrew, which by August 23rd had become a Category 5. She and her father would normally evacuate to the North, in Palm Beach. But this year, her father had been vacationing in Rome for the last two months and was not due to return before mid-September, leaving Jordana to brave the storm at Chavela’s -a long-term family friend who, like may in the Magic City, had exiled from Cuba- house in Coral Gables.
The wind monster ravaged South Florida the night between August 24 and 25. Despite the expected curfew after such an emergency, Jordana returned home to Key Biscayne the morning of the 25th. As also expected, the island had literally become, yet again, a boat anchorage. All of Crandon Boulevard was a massive water puddle and the boats had been lifted from the side-canals and seashore, flying and landing onto the streets. She turned right onto Harbor Drive, even more scared of what she would find. Paradoxically enough, her apartment building bordered on the Key Biscayne Yacht Club.
Once home, she opened the door leading to the shared patio of the condo, where the pool was located. To the right, she could see the heaps of boats in the Yacht Club’s marina, one on top of the other. For some miraculous reason, no boat had crossed over to the pool, as had happened two years prior. Many club members and boat owners had rushed to the club and Jordana could overhear their chatter across the surrounding turquoise wooden lattice. She got even closer as the multiple conversations started to get more dramatic.
The club manager was holding a huge roll in his hand. It was a spare red sail that had flown off one of the many crammed vessels. With the aid of two other men, he decided to unroll it. It had no tag or distinguishing marks, so perhaps unrolling it might have revealed a symbol, a drawing or pattern that could help determine whose it was.
“Hey Bob, just hold it tight on that end, please,” said the manager to one of the two other men.
“Wait a minute, it looks like there’s a drawing. Wait, it’s some kind of shield, or at least it looks like it,” said the third man.
As the three men kept unrolling, Jordana watched and listened intently. When the sail was completely open, a gust of wind lifted it momentarily allowing her a short glimpse of the so-called shield.
“Hey, it’s not a shield. It’s a coat of arms, or so it seems. This sail belongs to Colin Peirson!” cried Bob.
To which Paul, the manager echoed “oh, well! Let us roll it back and put it in the storage. I will have to compile a list of all the damaged boats, in any case. I will call everyone, one by one, so eventually he’ll put it back where it belongs.”
Jordana was uncertain whether it was a coat of arms or not. However, within the central shield were depicted the contours of the same castle; yes, that castle; the castle she had seen on one of the ten black-and-white pictures of the mysterious letter. She finally recalled that at some point during her first years in Key Biscayne, she had noticed the sail, fully blowing in the wind, in a bygone summer afternoon island regatta. Even back then, the castle had taken hold of her strong photographic memory, though with the passing of time, it had become one of the many beautiful but faded remembrances. Anyhow, atop the castle, waved a flag, which surely was the logo of the British Army, with the famous lion passant on the crest of St. Edward’s crown. Having quite a few military aficionados in the family, Jordana had no doubts, not to mention that when her dear mother was alive, they had frequently attended the spring military pilgrimages in Lourdes, where aside from reaffirming one’s faith, one could admire the distinct symbols and regalia of international military corps.
Instead of staying in the patio and cleaning up, she stuck to her pre-hurricane plans and rushed to the library. The library was not exactly what one would call well-stocked, however the population archives, its collection of various encyclopedias, particularly the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and the microfiche section had always helped her during her college studies. Without further ado, she searched “Colin Peirson” and “British Army.”
She did remain skeptical during the process and thought to be off-track, because there was still the interrogative as to why the letter was in that hitherto unknown (to her) French-like language. And boy, was she off-track! As Jordana frenetically and enthusiastically read through her selected sources, her mind finally gained some clarity as she started reading about the Battle of Jersey between the English and the French during the American Revolutionary War.
“Goodness, how obvious!” she reckoned to herself. “This is no French Patois or Creole dialect,” she mused. Sure enough, it took her a further hour of information scavenging to arrive to the conclusion that the language of the letter was Jèrriais, or Jersey French. As for “Colin Peirson”, might he be a descendant of the hero of the Battle of Jersey, Major Peirson? On a side note, Jordana was also rather proud of her observational skills, for thinking that the architecture on the pictures might’ve been French Breton or Southern English, among others, wasn’t too far-fetched deep down!
While she admired John Singleton Copley’s impacting painting of the eponymous battle in one of the diverse sources consulted, Jordana’s head spinned as various historical scenarios played out in her head. There was only one thing left to do… she had to find Colin Peirson! The population archives of Key Biscayne indicated that, except for a six-month sojourn at the Le Phare condo on 798 Crandon Boulevard, he had always lived, ever since his arrival to South Florida, in the Southwest Point of the Mashta Island enclave.
The next day, Jordana decided to pay a visit to Mr. Peirson. As soon as she reached the address, she noticed she had unknowingly passed countless times in front of Mr. Peirson’s estate, for it was a palatial setting. Mr. Peirson’s house was not just the only house in the Southwest Point of Mashta Island, but it was also the only building in high Victorian style on Key Biscayne, a detail that clashed with the trademark Mackle and Cape Cod homes that populated the island from the 1960s onwards. Needless to say, Jordana had always wondered who lived in that fairy-tale, multi-colored house, of which the main particularities -aside from the Juliette balcony and the screened porch- were the steep turret flanking the southwestern corner of the building, covered in wooden scalloped shingles, and its topmost window made of intricately etched and stained glass, further framed by a carved dormer, depicting whimsical floral motifs. Jordana’s curiosity was particularly tickled by the hypothetical view from the turret. Who knows if Mr. Peirson would greet her, let alone invite her in to discuss the letter and possibly allow her to visit the turret?
Jordana made her way through the verdant, cobbled pathway leading to the door. She could hear all kinds of strange noises, something which reminded her Key Biscayne was basically two thirds parkland. It was not infrequent to be ambushed by iguanas, cranes, possums, raccoons… and asps, on occasion. Fortunately for her, this time she was only escorted by fluttering monarch butterflies and dragonflies.
Jordana knocked three times, when at last an elderly and jovial silver-haired gentleman opened the door. Matter-of-factly, he must’ve been rather handsome back in the day, as he was reminiscent of Paul Newman.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Peirson,” Jordana said.
“You found him. May I ask who you are and to what I owe this visit?” he replied.
“I believe I have something that belongs to you. For some reason, this letter was mailed to my house. I am sorry I had to open it, but as you may notice from the envelope, there is no discernible indication that it might have been yours. After a few coincidences and investigations, I finally found you,” Jordana explained.
“I’d love hear all about it. Do come in. I have just finished my breakfast,” Mr. Peirson said.
As Mr. Peirson locked the door behind them and guided Jordana to the living room, he drew the photographs from the envelope. With another gesture, he indicated the sofa, inviting her to sit down. He hastily looked at the pictures, two, three times. Jordana could see his piercing green eyes getting teary. As she explained what an ordeal it had been to track him down, all he could do was look at the pictures and sob, until he finally pulled himself together, dried his eyes and uttered “Wait here. I’ll be right back!”
Mr. Peirson shook a little, so before heading to what seemed to be his study, he picked up his cane. Once there, Jordana could hear him toiling with books and boxes. He was taking too long, so she got up from her armchair and walked to the threshold of the study door. As she stood peeking, she asked him if he needed any help. He gladly accepted. With his cane, he indicated what was apparently an oversized wooden music-box on the parquet floor.
“Can you please pick it up and open it?” he asked.
As she picked the box up and started lifting the lid, she took a quick look around the room and noticed that along the walls hung oversized posters of the ten pictures. What is more, the box itself contained a copy of the ten pictures too!
In the two minutes that it took Mr. Peirson to go sit at his desk, Jordana, still with the open box in hand, quickly analyzed for a second time her surroundings. The study was a rather dark place, seemingly of another era, so much so that the only things that shone were an old gramophone close to the door and a giant mother-of-pearl Jacobean shell. She hadn’t noticed either entering the study, but now she was thinking that perhaps she and Mr. Peirson might have something in common to talk about. If anything, they could break the ice further talking about Santiago de Compostela, a destination she had wanted to visit forever! Despite entertaining this thought, just as she was about to ask him about St. James’s Way -and possibly, his pilgrimage to Santiago- he took an old record from the first drawer of his desk: “Here dear, would you care to put this record on?”
He assumed Jordana would know how to activate the gramophone. Not that she really knew… but she did, nevertheless. She recalled some scenes of silent movies she had seen with her grandmother as a child and very nonchalantly loaded the record. The unmistakable and softly tremulous voice of Edith Piaf started resounding in the room: “quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose…” Before the Little Sparrow of France could bellow the following verses, Mr. Peirson had reached for the box containing the photographs that Jordana had left on his desk prior to loading the gramophone.
“I never thought I would tell anyone this story, let alone a stranger, but I feel I can trust you. Then again, you did go out of your way to find me, so you deserve to know. Say, dear, shall we go to the turret? We can admire the view and enjoy the breeze as we talk. Oh, and we can take the record upstairs. I have another gramophone up there. You seem to enjoy the wartime French chansonniers, don’t you? This record is a compilation of various artists. The next song is ‘La Mer’, by Charles Trenet.”
Jordana was really hoping he’d come up with the idea himself and got her wish of visiting the turret. Her inquiring mind was trying to guess where the staircase leading to the turret would be, as according to her sense of orientation and her mental planimetry of the house, she was pretty sure that the study was exactly perpendicular to the turret, so they were basically right below it.
As she tried to solve this puzzle too, she noticed yet another detail that had escaped her thus far. Behind Mr. Peirson’s desk hung a giant Flemish Gobelins tapestry depicting the ancient Greek myth of Daphne and Apollo. The coincidences, or signs, that her encounter with Mr. Peirson was meant to be increased by the second; being from Rome, her favorite statue had always been none other than the “Daphne and Apollo” by Gian Lorenzo Bernini kept at the Galleria Borghese! Anyhow, while she connected the dots and started daydreaming, Mr. Peirson had already vanished, only to pop out again after less than two minutes from behind the tapestry: “Well, dear, are you coming upstairs or not?”
“But of course!”, she exclaimed to herself. How could she have not imagined sooner that the door was behind the tapestry? Oh well!
Mr. Peirson had guessed correctly. Jordana loved the French chansonniers. In fact, she adored Charles Trenet, probably more than she did Piaf. She definitely did not want to miss the opportunity to partake of nostalgically wonderful European stories of the past while admiring the sea with great background music. Without wasting one second more, Jordana immediately grabbed the record, following him through the door and onto the coiled staircase of one-hundred-and-fifty steps. In normal circumstances, this would have been a tiresome exercise for Jordana, but the old man had made it altogether more bearable and somewhat inspirational by sharing anecdotes of how he had bought the plot of land where the house stood and how he had designed it.
“Ah… there it is, my dear! I give you the Cape Florida Lighthouse!” He exclaimed this with great pride and satisfaction as they both climbed the last step; clearly, both the turret and the view it provided were his labors of love. The beauty of Cape Florida was heightened by the radiant morning itself. One could see the white yachts, one by one, entering the water channels in procession and docking at No Name Harbor for the customary brunch at Boater’s Grill. The hurricane that had just passed had merely left some wrack along the shores; still and all, the water was so clear the yachts looked like aggregations of buoyant white manatees, the shadow of which was reflected further by the schools of glimmering swordfish swimming beneath them.
He resumed, “look again at these ten pictures. See this one? This was the view from my house back in Jersey. I grew up on a windswept clifftop, on the southwestern part of the island. We had a house, very much like this one, situated along a narrow alley crowning Le Mont du Petit Port. During the spring and well into the summer, I would climb our own steep turret and admire Beauport Beach on one side, Petit Port on the other side, and the lighthouse at La Corbière in between! Such delightful memories! As you can see, not only am I in the southwestern part of Key Biscayne, but every time I stare into the golden horizon and at the Cape Florida Lighthouse, my mind steadily flies back to those blissful days…”
“So, you took these all these pictures as a child?”, Jordana asked.
“I took these pictures, but not as a child; although, in hindsight, I was perhaps a child. In any case, it wasn’t until my seventeenth birthday that my favorite uncle, a diplomat at the American Embassy in Washington D.C., gave me a camera! It was December 1939, two years before the Attack on Pearl Harbor.”
“I see. It must’ve been excruciating, especially considering what happened over the next few years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the Germans occupy the Channel Islands sometime during the summer of 1940?”, Jordana asked.
“So they did, my dear! So they did! The date was June 30, 1940!” As he said it, he couldn’t hide his malaise, briefly sighing and gasping for air. He then added, “and that is why I decided to continue our ancestral family business. For generations, we had been sailmakers. Logically, during the Occupation, the business was confiscated, so apart from sails, we also had to provide sacks or camping tents. Anyhow… whenever I had some spare time, I would dash out with my camera and immortalize beauty.”
“Did you have a choice? I mean, could you choose what to do?”, Jordana asked.
“Well, you must’ve noted I have to walk with a cane,” he replied.
“I did detect, but given the gist of our conversation, I had rather assumed that you might have been wounded in battle,” Jordana said.
“True, it could have been an option. But my shaking is a result of an injury. When I was fifteen, I had a bad fall while exploring the Minkies at low tide.”
“What are the Minkies?”, Jordana asked.
“Les Minquiers. Here they are,” he said, as he pulled out yet another photograph from the stack of ten. “We call them the Minkies. They’re a group islands off the coast of Jersey. Actually, islands and rocks. During the low tide, the rocks emerge. With two other friends, we would sneak out with a paddleboat every other Saturday during the summer of ’37. We loved exploring and walking on the rocks. One day I fell and fractured my ankle. Despite various medical therapies, I never fully recovered. That’s why I could never participate in active combat if enlisted in the army, nor could I drive properly. Therefore, I could only become a doctor, a cook, a photographer or follow into my father’s footsteps. I was no doctor and I most definitely couldn’t cook. Still can’t… “, he said, chuckling. “By the way, I realized I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like some freshly baked scones? I’ll tell Maria to bring some upstairs.”
“Thank you, but don’t worry! I had breakfast before coming. I’d much prefer hearing more about the pictures,” Jordana replied. In the midst of this light moment, she decided it was a good time to bring up the castle. Before she could even start second-guessing herself, she boldly popped the question: “What castle is that? Having seen it on your sail at the yacht club, I imagine it must have a deeper significance than the rest of the pictures…”
“Oh, c’est lé Vièr Châté, ma chère!” he exclaimed, mixing French and Jèrriais. “It’s Mont Orgueil, the Old Castle; Mount Pride; Haughty Mount… it’s Gorey Castle! And yes,” he paused for a moment and finished the phrase, “if you should know, it is near and dear to my heart!”
“But just a second Mr. Peirson, I don’t see any battle or war scenes in these pictures. I don’t see any soldiers either,” Jordana pointed out, with a quizzical look.
“Ah, well, you see, that’s exactly the point, my dear girl! As I said earlier, I pledged to myself to immortalize beauty. Now, Paul was a nurse apprentice at the Military Hospital. On occasion, he would accompany me and watch my back, and suggest views. Naturally, I gave him some copies as well,” he said. “Anyhow, Gorey Castle was the last picture I ever shot in Jersey. It was also the last time I saw Jersey, as Paul and I had decided to escape that very night. Except he ended up in Portugal and I ended up here, reinventing myself as a full-time professional photographer! He married a girl from Sintra and established himself as a high-school biology teacher, near the Promonotorium Magnum...”
“Who is Paul and where is the Promontorium Magnum?” Jordana asked. “I used to be pretty good at geography, but I never heard of such place in Portugal…,” Jordana said.
Mr. Peirson giggled, lifted his eyebrows in a mischievous way and replied: “really, and have you heard of the Rock of Lisbon? Oh, and Paul was my closest friend since childhood.”
Again, Jordana was feeling surprised and slightly embarrassed she hadn’t heard of either place. It was not like her to be unprepared in certain matters, but Mr. Peirson giggled again and broke the silence, revealing the enigma: “I’m pulling your leg, dear. He lived near Cabo da Roca. Leonor, his lovely wife, was the daughter of the lighthouse keeper.”
At this juncture, Jordana was undecided. Should she ask more about the letter and its contents, or should she ask how he and Paul escaped? She opted for the former. “I hate to pry, but is the letter from Paul?”
“Sort of,” Mr. Peirson said. “We spoke and wrote regularly, but sadly he passed away a year ago. I had intended to go to his funeral, but at the last minute Leonor told me to wait, as he didn’t really want to be buried; she said there would be a second funeral, in line with his last wishes.”
“So sorry to hear that. So his wife speaks Jèrriais? She wrote the letter?” Jordana continued. “And what is a second funeral, if I may? Is that some kind of surviving Norman tradition in Jersey?”
“Paul wrote two letters shortly before dying. One for his family and the other one for me. Leonor knew the contents, but she misplaced it. For a long time, she could not find it. I did tell her to forget about it and that it would eventually resurface, but she was adamant in making sure that I physically received it before we could proceed. Anyhow… he wanted to be cremated on the anniversary of our escape date, and his ashes scattered in the ten places portrayed in my photographs. Undoubtedly, he wanted me to be there!”
“What an intense story!” Jordana exclaimed. Although she had been fairly audacious up until that point, her instinctive, overarching discretion took over, suggesting it was time to end the conversation right then and there. Then again, they could pick it up some other time, upon Mr. Peirson’s return and only if he wanted. “Well, I think perhaps, it’s best for me to go, now. I’ll leave you to your thoughts. I’m sure you want to start preparing for your trip back home. I wish you a wonderful journey and safe travels! Is this the first time you’re returning to Jersey after all these years?”
“No. I had been back in the late seventies, for my mother’s funeral. But a lot will have changed, yet again,” he said.
“Right, I know you’re going to a funeral, but perhaps you may retrace your photographs, this time in color,” Jordana timidly uttered. “Good-bye for now. Until we meet again,” she said.
Before she could get up from her chair, he quickly said “I think you can take those pictures with your own eyes. How about you come along as my assistant?”