Catch the Wind: My Journey with Caroline

A few minutes pass before Mom mentions she has something for me, and my hopes jump. She and Dad promised I could get my ears pierced for my next birthday, so maybe she’s picked out earrings early.

Instead, something round and metal presses into my hand, a dial marked N, NE, E, SE, S, SW, W, NW, sealed under glass. I recognize it from a Girl Scout hike last spring: a compass. Confused, I ask why she’d bother giving me one when GPS already exists.

Mom explains that the compass is old. Her own father handed it down when he shipped out. It traces all the way back to the first relative in our family who served in the navy, during the War of 1812. We’ve never even covered that war in school, and honestly, I’d have preferred the earrings.

Mom tells me sailors in our family have always relied on it to navigate. She hopes it’ll remind me to stay steady while she’s away, and to remember our family’s tradition of service. What I actually hear is that she chose the navy over staying home with us. Her voice wavers as she adds that this compass has guided plenty of our family safely home before.

I tell Mom that if she needs it to get home, she should keep it. But she folds my fingers around it, kisses the top of my head, and heads back toward the house. Being left alone is almost a relief. I don’t want to think about her leaving, and I want even less to do with this compass.

Stretched out at the edge of the bank, I stare at my reflection in the pond, eyes still red from crying. The compass in my hand is dented and dull, its glass fogged over. Part of me wants to hurl it into the water, though I can’t quite make myself do it. No matter how I turn it, the needle keeps swinging north, right now aimed straight at my chest, as if it’s pointing at the ache of Mom leaving.

A hummingbird hovers close to my ear, and I freeze. Then my reflection ripples as though something disturbed the water, dizziness washing over me. Eyes squeezed shut, compass still clutched tight, I wait out the spinning. When I look again, the face staring back wears an old-fashioned bonnet where my hair should be. My red sequined t-shirt has become a pale blue top with a lace collar, and the pond’s muddy bottom is now clear water over smooth stones.

Scrambling to my feet, I trip a little over a long dress where my shorts used to be, black shoes now standing in for my sandals. The pond behind my house has become an enormous lake stretching out in front of me. I’m still trying to make sense of any of it when a voice asks if I’m out looking for warships, too.

A blonde girl about my age is picking her way toward me across the stones, dressed like she just stepped off a stage set. Startled, I ask if she really said warships. She explains that they drove the British off just yesterday, though once the enemy repairs their ships, they’ll be back across Lake Ontario.

The girl looks surprised when I ask where we even are, then tells me we’re in Sackets Harbor, New York, with the village just past the bluff. Her worried look breaks into a grin as she introduces herself as Caroline Abbott and asks for my name. Her smile is warm enough that I like her right away, so I tell her, adding, truthfully, that I’ve only just arrived.

Caroline assumes I must not have heard about yesterday’s battle, when British ships lined up and fired on the harbor for hours. She tells me the Americans fought back, though, and that she even helped a gun crew herself. My jaw drops. I really have landed in the middle of a war, and I wish harder than ever that Mom were still here with me.

Before I can ask how a kid ends up helping a gun crew, Caroline asks how far I’ve traveled. I tell her farther than she’d guess. She looks around for whoever I came with, and I admit I’m alone and got lost. She says that with war declared, people keep flooding into Sackets Harbor, and she has a feeling 1812 is going to be a hard year.

1812. So I really have traveled more than 200 years into the past. Caroline's eyes fill with sadness as she tells me her papa is a prisoner of war. I squeeze her hand, aching at the thought of anything like that happening to Mom. The compass in my grip suddenly feels like it's burning hotter than everything else combined.

It clicks, all at once: the compass needle aimed at my heart is what dragged me here to begin with, which means turning it the other way might send me home again. Mumbling some excuse to Caroline, I duck behind a rock and twist the trembling needle until it points straight away from me. Please, I think. Please, please, please. Dizziness returns, and I shut my eyes.