THE SANTA CATARINA
SHORT STORY
The Santa Catarina
Grandfather always used to tell her stories of his time at sea. He claimed he was a fisherman, simply looking for the biggest catch, but deep down, Talia knew he was looking for more.
Stories of how, as a young boy in Venice, he would spend his days and nights on the water, steering around to nearby islands, and in between, how he would drop the anchor of his fishing boat and watch as the thick metal chain spun further away from him and closer to all the secrets he longed to uncover, occasionally pressing his finger against it to feel the sharp burn and reviving himself back into the world- until it jolted the boat when it reached its resting place meters and meters in the depths. How he would float, hovering above the surface, staring at the stars, whistles confused with those of vanished sailors, wondering what would happen if he followed it. What would he see if he tied himself to that metal hook? Would he have talked to the captains who roamed the ocean floor? or met the pirates who still sleep on the sea bed? The treasures of the missing Santa Catarina would plague his every thought, and now they do the same to Talia.
No one knew what was out there, what he saw, or who he encountered. But she had to trust him. Why didn't she? Growing up, everyone disregarded him, thought he was the madman who still believed that treasures existed. Who told him about the Santa Catarina? Whose words or lies did he trust so deeply that he would venture out with the moon as his only companion? If he could trust someone so deeply, why couldn't she? Sometimes she wondered- if she really wanted to spend her life trying to find this treasure he spoke about. His stories seemed so poetic, so real, but she always questioned what was real. She never told anyone what she would spend her time daydreaming about; she simply said she was finding the stars in the blue sky.
Talia, how can you see stars during the day? Are you high?
"They are always there; you just have to have patience and keep looking until you can see them."
That seemed like a good answer to her; how could she tell them more? This was their secret.
After dinner, Talia would race to pull on her pajamas as fast as she could and run into her grandfather's room. She would rather sit with him in his room, away from the noise and gossip from all the people at school. Her grandfather was her best friend. The only one who would take her on journeys that her 'friends' could only dream about.
He only ever showed his maps and letters to her. When he did, he would pull them from his 'box.' This enigma that she thought contained some of the most magnificent secrets of the Atlantic Ocean. He would never give her the originals, and although that never bothered her, she knew he probably hid them somewhere for safekeeping. She vowed that she would never share them and said goodnight with a pinky promise, but at times, she wondered what 'they' really were. Were they simply figments of his imagination whispered to him by the ghosts he found at sea- while he sat and gazed at the stars, swaying alone in no man's land- no one in sight. Or was this real? Was the Santa Catarina's treasure real?
When she was seven, she found the box of home videos. She had forced her father to play them for her but always wondered why he found it so painful to watch and remember her mother. She loved watching her mother, imagining getting to know her, seeing herself in her. Looking at her the think brown hair and eyes that they shared and watching her father smile with a sense of happiness that he just didn't have anymore. She watched the videos where her father would dance with her on his toes and pass her on to her mother as she sang, spinning her around- almost angered that she had to watch a video to remember the moments. Why didn't her mother stay? With her.
When she was twelve, the first time her grandfather called her May instead of Talia, she knew his memories, just like his hopes of finding her, were slowly drifting away. Further from them both. He would always tell her the stories with such a sense of yearning. But, his eyes began to look milky like all the fire in them was being distinguished day by day. Then, one day, the only time Talia ever saw something re-light the spark just enough to make the hairs on her hands stand. Something enough to give her a little glimpse of the man he once was.
'Who did the treasure belong to anyways'
Grandfather looked at her.
'Us- but that’s our secret.’
Talia giggled. ‘I wish’
That day, she broke her promise; She needed to know if it what he said was real, and so she questioned her father, but she never showed him the maps or letters. And that night, as he whispered goodnight, she simply asked him, 'Is the Santa Catarina real?'. Silence. He closed the door -harder than any of them were used to.
That night, she could hear the arguments; she heard her father tell him not to ruin her life and plague her with his lies. 'Not another one,' her father said, then silence, not a word from Grandfather. In a way, she thought this meant he was disappointed that she had broken a promise, and so she lay still in her bed, curled up. Guilty that she ever doubted him.
​
Talia had watched the movies, but she knew those were figments of someone's imagination, drops of their creativity to create new worlds and journey them, but were they? She pondered the very thought of what sparked that curiosity: what wrote those lines? Reading of directors who dreamed of their Oscar-winning films and penned them down the next morning. Is this what happened with all those films? Did they start from scratch? Were their stories like hers? Balancing very heavily on truth or lies, maybe these were the ones who were smart enough to know fact from fiction. On the other hand, her grandfather, who was one of them, delusional enough to believe that their dream was a signal, that something was waiting to be found and he was the chosen one.
Sometimes as she would look for the stars, she would sit and wonder, what would happen, if she did it. If she left. If she followed the tangled tales that through the years, had become so real to her. She decided she would have a fake name, maybe ‘Alex’, just like her grandfather, Alexander. To make some money, she would beg local fishers to help them, washing dishes, babysitting, cleaning- anything. If they offered her a chance to go out at sea with them- that would have been ideal; she could see their worlds, read their maps, and learn their secrets; most of all, she wanted to find out what they knew about the Santa Catarina- and she promised herself she would do everything to keep them away from it. She would spend at the most two weeks with each, so she didn’t get attached- she couldn’t get attached anymore- not to anyone at least. And one day, far in the future, she would return home to see her father again. Treasure or no treasure.
The day before grandfather died, she sat with him in his room, as she normally used to do. That time was a little different. He was too stubborn to stay at the hospital and wanted to be home. If that could have been on the 'Mayflower', it would have. Talia sat by him, listening to him breathe, watching him slowly rub his hands against the maps that had led him his whole life. He never answered this question, but maybe now he would- this was his last chance.
"Where is the Mayflower now?" Talia asked.
Grandfather looked down. Silent.
Talia looked at him as he held her hand tighter.
'Why did you say the Santa Catarina belonged to us?'
'It did- we must- bring her back.'
Talia could see the struggle in his eyes as he tried to mouth a word, any word.
'It's okay; you just rest. I will find her- I promise.'
And he was gone. Talia didn’t scream or cry, or call her father. She just sat there, still holding his hand, which for the first time, wasn’t holding hers back.
After he died, she was lost. What was she doing here when there was so much she had to find out there? She had just graduated high school and was all set to go to college. It was the same one her mother and father met at, but she couldn't do it. What would she learn in there that she wouldn't learn out there?
One night in August, when she had just turned eighteen, weeks before she was set to go to college. She sat in her room, bare walls almost as if it was a transitional space waiting for her to leave, ready for the next guest. She gazed out from the bay window that looked over the hills, at sea, and she watched the tiny light of the lighthouse spin round and round, guiding people home. Wondering when it was her turn for it to guide her home. Wondering where to begin her journey and continue her grandfathers. She was interrupted.
​
"She took them," he said.
Talia spun her head around to see her father standing at the door; in his hand was a small book; he handed it over to her.
"The maps to the Santa Catarina.”
Talia had seen many of those books; according to her grandfather, they were what pirates and sailors used to write their finds inside. Who they saw, who they killed, who they robbed, and sometimes, if you were very lucky. Where they hid it. Talia ran her fingers through the leather cover to the little etch in the corner with the letters MM. She froze with her fingers at a standstill over the initials. The hairs on her hand stood up too, as if they had been waiting too.
This book was different. This one had something more; she opened the pages- they were empty, and as she flipped slowly through, looking, and yearning for something, anything- she finally reached the last page.
She's out there. I have to find her. One day, I hope you both come find me.
45.4408° N, 12.3155° E - May.
She felt her world jolt as if the book reached its hand out to her and pulled her in, and all she saw was her mother. She always knew there was something else, something that consumed her every thought, longing for her to come find them. Something she wanted to find more than the treasure. Her. She had to go.
Talia had spent her whole life dreaming of her mother, asking questions that had no answers, struggling day by day to get through life, not knowing who or where the woman who formed every bone in her body was. Why she left? She looked at the door. Talia felt her throat close up; because the same man who once held her in her arms and wept when her mother ‘died’—now held the piece that could lead Talia to her.
She was alive.
But why, after all these years, would he show her now? Talia felt betrayed, but perhaps it was the same feeling her father felt when her mother left him and their family. To go find this treasure. Talia had always questioned if her grandfather's stories were figments of his imagination, but now she realized they had to be real. Real enough for her mother to leave her entire life behind- to leave her behind, to find it.
In that moment, Talia looked different, the look of a girl who realized that the piece of her that she had lost could now somehow be found. She spent her whole life feeling sorry for herself, a girl whose mother died when she was two. Now, she didn't even know whether it would have just been better to believe her mother was taken from her rather than choose to leave her.
As much as Talia could have hated her mother for leaving her, she did the same thing, and now she knew why. She had to go find her.
Her father was still standing at the door- and what he told her that day- changed everything- she could barely remember what she would eat for lunch by dinner time, but for the first time she remembered everything, the breaths, the tears, the words.
“He was right-”
“Who?”
“It belonged to your mother's family, generations, and generations ago. In 1806, your mother's ancestors were sailing from Italy- Venice to Virginia when they were boarded by pirates near the Strait of Gibraltar. Instead of letting the pirates steal not only his most prized possessions but his honor. Thomas Brunswick, your great great great-”
“I get it-”
“He ran the ship into the rocks. He held his wife's hand and drowned them all- his friends, the crew and the pirates, now at all the bottom of the sea. The only three people who survived were his children- they clung to the rocks- and tried to swim to shore- only one survived, and he only ever tried to tell his children where the treasure was, and since then that secret has been passed down-”
Talia finally got the answer she wanted, but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction of giving it to her. Silence.
“Who told you-”
“Your mother. She would tell me these stories every night. I thought she was crazy; I would tell her that- every night- but she believed it was still out there.”
“If they knew where it was, how come they haven’t found it?”
“The whole sea is filled with rocks; how do you find one of millions- drawn by a thirteen-year-old- who had just watched his family die- that’s what your grandfather would sail around looking for”
“What are the coordinates?
“Venice. Where your grandfather’s boat was docked”
“The Mayflower?”
“Yes, but that was only her starting point”
Talia had a million questions, but one that had waited sixteen years to be answered-
“So, where is she now, where is mum?”
Her father smiled, but for the first time today, he didn’t have the full answer.
“Talia, your mother, she promised me, she would come back, but she didn’t. I went to find her, but I couldn’t. She’s still somewhere out there- and I guess it’s your turn to go find her”
​
​
Since she left, at times was consumed by the guilt that she was the reason her father would lose another to this treasure that now she was sure existed. It had to be real. Real enough for her mother to leave her entire life behind- to leave her behind, to find it. And now Talia did the same thing. Maybe they could have even done this together.
Sometimes, she wondered why her father gave up, trying to find her mother; was it because he was left to look after her, to watch her take her first steps, watch her laugh or cry, and carry her when she broke her arm in third grade, or maybe it was becuase if you keep looking for something, at some point, you figure it's gone, right? She wished her life at home with him would have been all she needed, but it wasn't. As much as Talia could have hated her mother for leaving her, she did the same thing, and now she knew why.
Talia followed the coordinates; they led her far from home, Maine, to Venice, alone and so far from home for the first time. She promised to send her father texts every so often to say she was okay, and she did that.
But as time went by, the promises were slowly broken; she was so consumed in finding that she forgot what she was losing.
In Venice, she walked through the famous alley grandfather had told her about. The one he drew out on the back of her homework when she was in fourth grade- it was real; it was more than just a drawing or a story. She walked through it, brushing her fingers against the wall engraved with thousands of love stories, tales of passion and loss, names of those forgotten and missed, of weary travelers and those passing by looking for something else. Until she found in the corner an inch from the metal plaque and an inch from the ground the words she longed to find: "Quaere et invenies" in the same handwriting she had tattooed on her left arm 'seek, and you shall find,' signed with grandfathers famous 'SC,' and right next to that, fresh and almost overlapping, 'MM.' The MM that somehow always guided her. They had been here, and then so was she.
​
She imagined herself walking through the alleyways, following her mother and her, following her own father. Over the canals he had once voyaged through, those secrets now covered up with pale brick. Walking through the empty cobblestoned streets, and even though there was no one in sight, she didn't feel alone. They didn't, and neither would she. She followed the maps her grandfather had left her, relieved to see that they really were. She walked and wondered, following the dashed lines, scribbles, and the drawings of the scars on the walls that would guide her. Until she reached the thin alley that took her straight to the sea. She walked faster and faster until she ran, grazing her shoulders on the rough, splintered stones on the sides. Until she reached the opening with the yellow house and next to it- the same little white boat, with the blue roof tied to the single wooden pole, swaying with the waves just as she had imagined it to be, yet more scarred and tired. Waiting to be set free. And on it's side, the words she longed to read- 'Mayflower'. Inspired by the famous ship that also named her mother. The name, then almost wiped away with only faint traces left behind. But it was there, she was looking at it.
Talia edged towards it. She saw the rusted bolted lock being rattled by the surges. Slowly, she pulled out a stone from the crumbling alley walls and, with all her power, hatred, excitement, and longing, pounded at it until the lock broke off, flying into the sea and sinking. She stared at the door as if everything she ever looked for was behind it, heart thumping.
And now, Talia stands in the boat- the one she dreamed about her whole life. She walks in. Into the room lit with the sunlight, disturbed by the waves, and only inhabited by dust. Moving through speckled-covered maps that seemed all too familiar, past the photographs, and the Polaroids, that were almost as if she were looking at herself that scattered the floors, counters, benches. She always wondered where the originals were and now, all around her, she had her answer. She moves through the piles of sealed letters that were never sent to her father. Heart pumping faster and faster. Moving through generations of handwritings pinned up on the walls that each told their own tale about journeying to the Santa Catarina. Generations of longing. She moves through the boat slowly, inching closer to answering all her questions, wondering if, after all these years, she would still be here.
But it had been years since anyone had been here. And now it was clear to her that no one was coming back. She was still out there- waiting to be found.
And now, as she finally brushers her hand over the wooden wheel, embellished with scars of storms and winds, of passion and rage, of longing and fervor. The same wheel one her grandfather spun tales through and the same one her mother would swivel one last time. It was her turn now.
Her turn to begin to tell her own stories, those whispered to her by the ghosts she found at sea- while she sat and gazed at the stars, swaying alone in no man's land- no one in sight. Stories of how she would spend her days and nights on the water, steering around to nearby islands, and in between, how she would drop the anchor of her fishing boat and watch as the thick metal chain spun further away from her and closer to all the secrets she longed to uncover, occasionally pressing her finger against it to feel the sharp burn and reviving herself back into the world- until it jolted the boat when it reached its resting place meters and meters in the depths. How she would float, hovering above the surface, staring at the stars, whistles confused with those of vanished sailors, wondering what would happen if she followed it. What would she see if she tied herself to that metal hook? Would she have talked to the sailors who roamed the ocean floor? or met the pirates who still sleep on the sea bed?
She would sail, still searching for the Santa Catarina, still searching for her.