Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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were busy on deck. She had waited until the sails were raised, the motor silenced, the fenders put away, the docking lines coiled and hung below, and a steady northwest course set. When this chaos of a dozen tasks on deck calmed down, Luba left the cabin to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the scenery of the Pacific coast. Her chestnut-brown hair was flecked with bronze and gold. Dark eyes sparkled from under her bangs as she stretched her legs in search of that last chance for a tan. She looked more like Yarko’s older sister than his mother.
“Less than two weeks to go before school,” she added with a hint of satisfaction well understood by all mothers. “Then I’ll finally have some rest.”
From the darkness of the cabin a voice protested this ominous forecast. Mark, Yarko’s eighteen-year-old brother, climbed out of the cabin’s opening, his mouth still bearing the reddish evidence of a feast of barbecue chips.
“You look like a clown,” teased Yarko, with a sarcasm that was sure to elicit a response.
“And you’re an asshole,” came the predictable response. “I’ll kick your ass in the water.”
Mark always had the last word. Although younger, he was taller and no less muscled, so this was no empty threat. But Yarko ignored Mark’s challenge. There would be no crisis, as the brothers loved each other in a way only brothers can.
* * *
The sailboat was called Tryzub, Ukrainian for trident, the heraldic symbol of the Ukrainian coat of arms. A blue-and-yellow flag fluttered on the starboard shroud. In this way, Yarko’s father maintained the memory of a country he had actually never seen. It was August 24, 2002 – the eleventh anniversary of the proclamation of Ukrainian independence. The trip was the family’s way of celebrating.
The Tryzub sailed past anchored freighters, tacking twice before finally aligning her course with the evergreen shores of the Sunshine Coast. The metropolis of Greater Vancouver, with a population of nearly two million, lay but a few miles behind, but the steep pine-covered shore of Bowen Island off the starboard bow betrayed no sign of mankind’s presence at this distance. That was the remarkable nature of this place. Despite its growing population, Vancouver had not scarred the primordial beauty of its surroundings. The rugged shorelines were covered in evergreen forest. Distant peaks glistened white against the azure sky. The Georgia Strait, which divides Vancouver Island from the mainland of British Columbia, provided sheltered waters for small craft to explore its various islands. Setting a course northward, Yarko had the westerly wind on his port beam.
The Tryzub held this comfortable course all day, until the setting sun threatened to slip behind the mountains of Vancouver Island. Deprived of its energy source, the wind died to a whisper. For a brief moment, the orange sun to port scattered a path of fiery flecks on the waters leading towards distant Schooner Cove on Vancouver Island. Yarko squinted, scanning for other watercraft, or the barges and log booms that were a constant hazard in these waters. None could be seen. Before them rose the dark mass of Lemberg Point on South Thormanby Island. Yarko knew, from countless lessons in Ukrainian history, that Lemberg was the Austrian name for the Ukrainian city Lviv, the City of Lions. Yarko’s grandparents had emigrated from Lviv during the Second World War.
The boat’s destination was a bay just to the west of Lemberg Point. Mirko dropped the leg of the outboard back into the water and started the motor. Yarko now steered a westerly course while his dad busied himself lowering the sails. Mark went below to find a jacket. It was getting chilly.
* * *
“Could I go to Europe, Dad?” Yarko asked. He was dreaming of the beaches of the French Riviera, the limitless autobahns of Germany, and the vestiges of imperial splendour in Vienna. “Not now, I mean, like, next year. Next summer. I can make enough money to cover both school and the trip.”
His father thought for a moment before answering, casting a long glance at the shoreline. “I understand. I think I just might agree to that. You’re certainly at that age when you need to explore the world, to spread your wings. However, you should also go to Ukraine, for at least a week.”
“Damn it, Dad! I don’t want to go to Ukraine. There’s nothing there for me. And my Ukrainian isn’t all that good. I’d rather go to Austria, then to Germany or France.”
“Not quite true, Yarko. There is a reason for you to go. For one, by going there you’ll improve your Ukrainian.” After a long pause, he continued. “Just go to Lviv, where our family comes from. You’ll love it there.”
“How’s that going to be fun? Damn it, Dad, it’s like going for a full week of fucking Ukrainian school right after finishing my semester.” Yarko was boiling over from all the subtle pressure a young Ukrainian feels all his life. Learn the language, sing the songs, read the books, find a Ukrainian girl, and so on. He could find no room for Ukraine in his fantasy vacation. He was sensing that his father would try to bargain with him. That unsubtle pressure was likely to last to the next summer.
Mirko rose to the bait. “Watch your language, Yarko.” Then he stopped. There’s no room for argument on a small sailing craft.
Behind another tree-covered point of land was the entrance to a narrow bay. The sun had set and dark shadows already hid the details of the shore as they entered the bay. Mark had the task of dropping the anchor off the bow. Yarko revved the motor in reverse to set the anchor. The bow swung around to point at the spot where the anchor had found grip. The boat stopped. Yarko shut off the outboard, then walked forward to check the anchor line. Dark grey clouds, outlined in purple and pink, covered the western sky. Mark dropped through the cabin opening to join his mother below decks. Luba had set about cooking a warm meal on the alcohol stove. Yarko and his dad stayed on deck, hanging fenders and rechecking the anchor to ensure that it held secure and that the boat was not drifting.
“Dinner is served,” Luba called.
“Coming,” Yarko replied as he walked back to the cockpit. He followed his father through the opening and down the two steps to the cabin. Chopped-up sausages in pasta with sauce with shredded cheese tasted like a gourmet meal after a day of sailing.
“Mom,” Yarko began after taking a gulp of pop, “I was telling Dad that I plan to go to Europe next summer – you know, Germany, Austria, maybe France.”
“Sounds nice,” said Luba. “Are you sure you’ll be able to afford it?”
“No problem. I’ll have enough. It’s not that bad if one buys the Eurorail pass.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“But Dad wants me to visit Ukraine.” Yarko knew exactly where to look for an ally.
“No way!” exclaimed Luba. “What for? It’s way too dangerous. They are killing reporters and politicians all the time. No way. I’m not going to spend sleepless nights worrying about you.”
“Come on,” said Mirko. “You’re overreacting. It’s nowhere near that bad. And what’s more, Yarko is not a politician or reporter.”
“So they’ll rob him and leave him naked in the street like they did to what’s-his-name.”
“Sounds like a helluva way to meet girls …” Mirko grumbled to himself, fully realizing that he was already outvoted and outgunned, and all further arguments would be futile.
Yarko was stuffing his face with more pasta and sausages, knowing that he wouldn’t need to add anything more to the discussion. He did not participate very much in further dinner conversation. The subject matter had been changed to the scenery and experiences of the day’s sailing. A day of sun and wind had taken a lot out of them, so the family crawled into their sleeping bags quite early.
But Yarko couldn’t sleep. He stepped out on deck. His mind was a hive of conflicting thoughts and feelings. He needed to be alone. He stood by the mast and watched as clouds alternately covered and uncovered the moon. He stood there feeling waves of anger and guilt. He was still angered by memories of the force-feeding of Ukrainian school, Ukrainian soccer, Ukrainian boy scouts, and Ukrainian church. He had resented taking language