The Mosquito Coast

by Paul Theroux

Give me the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Have a Coke, watch television, go on welfare, get free money. Turn to crime. Crime pays in this country—muggers become pillars of the community. They’ll all end up mugging and purse snatching.”

“Then you’ll have to do it,” he said, “because doing it is the only way of not being afraid of it. Or would you rather join those Holy Rollers and forget the whole thing?”

It was Father’s policy that no one should be idle. “If you see me sit down, you can do the same,” he said.

I knew from past experience that Father was never more mocking than when he was discussing something serious. If someone was fearful, Father joked. If the person tried to be funny, Father quoted the Bible or said, “Haven’t you heard there’s a war coming?”

And I was glad Father had bullied me into going inside. He was making me a man.

Later, through the bamboo wall, I heard Mother consoling Father. At first I thought she was speaking to April or Clover, her voice was so soft. But she was talking about the ice, and the boat, and his hard work. It was all brilliant, she said. She was proud of him, and nothing else mattered.

No one seems to understand how the modern world got this way—no one except me, and I understand it because I had a hand in making it.

I’ve already proved I can make ice out of nothing but pipefittings and chemical compounds and a little kindling wood. That took brains. But listen, any dumbbell can dig a hole.

Jerry had begun to cry. He had knelt down to tighten one of his sandals and, crouching there, put his head against his knee and sobbed quietly. I pitied Jerry. All he had asked was where we were going to sleep, but Father went on mocking him with this speech about the Holiday Inn and have a nice hot shower bath and good long rest.

He was a generous man and he had a spectacular vegetable garden, thanks to me,

“Listen to me,” Father said. “It’s not a question of what you want. It’s what I want. I’m captain of this ship, and those are my orders. Anyone who disobeys them goes ashore. Your lives are in my hands. I’ll maroon you—all of you.”

It was a dog’s life. I was glad Jerry had said the things he had. Why hadn’t I told Father what I thought of him? A dog’s life—because we didn’t count, because he was always right, always the explainer, and most of all because he ordered us to do these difficult things. He didn’t want to see us succeed, he wanted to laugh at our failure. And not even a gun dog could find a small propeller at the bottom of this river.

He chuckled—I knew he would—and said, “Children are no use at all in a crisis. Which is ironic, because children are the cause of most crises. I mean, I can look after myself! I don’t need food, I don’t need sleep—I don’t suffer. I’m happy!”

Mother had said that if he was right, we were the luckiest people in the world. If he was wrong, we were making a terrible mistake. But she obeyed him. She was afraid, too.