Exuberant

Chapter One

MY name is Edward Collins. The name, it seems, suggests that I am English—But I am, in fact, born of a Massachusetts city, right on the East coast. The wonderful place I call home is one which exudes the most excellence of prosperous luxury, bustling with a constant flow of new goods and lively entertainment, a small town where everyone is a neighbor; and thus it is an exact sibling to the Collins mansion! A housing of none besides myself, my father, and my mother—and several unrelated servants who are loyally obeying day-to-day labors requested to them by a family of the most respected and powerful politicians in the state. We have a ballroom, a theater, and four levels of corridors and rooms for various purposes, their walls decorated with our favorite paintings and decorative candle lighting. All aside, our mansion was just as gorgeous on the outside as it was the inside; our stately gardens—all 12 of them, flowers, fruits, vegetables and more—surrounded a lush green field of grass, a bird's pond, a small wooden bridge arched over a small, sparkling creek; and an enormous oak tree, whispering and rustling its leaves in the breeze. The yard is my favorite—I'm rather outdoorsy.

I've hardly described any of my life to you at all, but perhaps you're already jealous of my wealthy standing (don't be...). The story I'm about to unfold has little to do with my wealth, but at the same time, has everything to do with it. You soon will find for yourself what I mean by this.

Six years ago, it was 1837, and I was 15 years old. Despite my parents' wish for me to follow in their footsteps as a politician, I had very little interest in such meaningless studies. What truly fascinated me was not the laws of government, but rather the laws of gravity, architecture, framework, nature, biology— I had such affection for it all that I spent whatever free time in the mansion I had exploring ideas and inventions. I'd always wanted to be an inventor, but there was something else, another interest, always grabbing at the back of my mind... It felt wrong at the time, because I had been taught that sailing and fishing and exploring was, as my parents put it, "dirty, low-class, and for the unintelligent," but I couldn't help feeling that pull of nautical structure and exotic adventure! From the windows of the mansion I would constantly see the bustle on the port; cargo being carried on and off, the hauling in of boats, the soaring seagulls, crewmen cheering, the gentle yet impatient rocking of the ships as they wait to be sailed out into the open ocean— How I wished to be part of it! 

My grandfather, Edmund, who lives in Ramsgate, England, is a part of it. He was a chief mate of an exploration ship all his life, which I imagine must have been the most exciting life possible back in a time where there was still little land and sea explored. I've never met Edmund, but I'd seen pictures of him and we write to each other as often as we can. Despite my posh parents' disapproval of life at sea, they always told me he was a good man. I believe I have a fairly close relationship with my grandfather, who can't write a letter without teaching me something new about sailing or telling me another story.

It seemed that with every day that passed in my childhood, my life became duller and duller yet the port got busier and busier, livelier and more inviting; I could no longer stand sitting in private school and learning about Martin Van Buren's presidential election, or economics, or being given violin lessons at home by my personal instructor. So, it was one warm fall evening, after supper, when I decided to sneak away for a walk down to the port to get a closer look at those gorgeous ships.

Not more than a few seconds did I get, after running to the port, to gaze up at a big ship in awe before someone came behind me, clapped me on the back and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, nearly toppling me over by his excessive affection.

"I knew that you would be down here today, Edward!" said my friend, grinning. He removed his cap and nestled it onto my own head playfully.

"And so you came looking for me?" I inquired, leaning back onto the pier rail, and gave the cap back to him, amused by his comical-as-always character. It wasn't unusual for him—a fisherman's son—to linger in this area, but he normally let us meet by chance rather than seeking me out. 

He moved next to me to lean on the rail in the same manner. "Yes, I have something to tell you. I think it may be something exciting for you."

Curious now, I stared at him. "What is it?"

My friend pointed ahead of us, farther north of the port where more boats and ships were docked in the distance. "See that big ship? Bigger than this one. I heard that it'll be departing in a week to explore the previously undiscovered island that the other man—the one in the newspapers yesterday—never reached before his boat sunk."

Indeed, I'd heard the story that a fisherman and his small crew had come across a new island, but in a dreadful accident, their boat had sunken too far from shore, inevitably drowning every man on it.

"Well, that is very exciting!" I exclaimed, then added, "The departing ship, not the sunken boat." Although, I was a bit confused as to why he had come to me so eagerly with this information.

He was looking at me expectantly. "Well, haven't you an idea?"

"An idea?"

"Edward, you love adventure! This is your big chance to go exploring— to have a true adventure!" He threw his hands up to the sky as if wishing to take off in flight.

"Oh!" I gasped, now feeling I had been a bit brainless. "A true adventure..." I repeated, pondering and imagining. This was very well an excellent opportunity for me, and I recalled that I had a week-long break from school coming up. The idea of myself boarding that ship, though, what with my parents and my qualifications and all, seemed doubtful. "How could I do it?" I asked.

"Easy," he snorted, "you're rich! They take limited passengers. Just pay and get on. Better hurry before the spots fill, though."

"I see. Yes, yes, I could do that! But, you know, my parents would kill me."

A sea gull interrupted us, fluttering down onto a stack of wooden crates, and cawed loudly. My friend smiled. "You see," he said, "the mischievous, stealthy gull." He leaned in. "He says you should keep it a secret from your parents— tell them you're gone doing something else. A camping trip, a church event, or a thing of the sort." He dug a conveniently stored biscuit out of the pocket of his brown breeches and tossed some crumbs to the bird, which snapped them up in his beak with gluttony.

"I'm awful at lying."

"Then, if you're afraid of being stopped... leave without notice, and then, write them a letter explaining what you're supposedly doing. If it's for good cause—something they'd want you to do—they can't punish you. That way, even if they wanted you back, you wouldn't be able. You'd already be gone, sailing the mysteries of the ocean!"

"You're a genius!" said I loudly, suddenly riled with excitement, and the gull startled and flew away.

As soon as I could, I would prepare to go on a journey as a responsible adult and sail like a gull. My opportunity had finally come.