Saving Sailor: A Novel

What people are saying about

Saving Sailor

Simple truth and discovery through the eyes of a quirky ten-year-old girl. A. J. Degulio brought me back to that wonderful era between hamsters and boys, keeping a smile on my face even through tears. A heartwarming, refreshing story!

Karen Harter, author of Where Mercy Flows and Autumn Blue

Three cheers for Renee Riva’s Saving Sailor! Renee’s humorous storytelling brings the Degulio family vividly to life in the summer of 1968. She deftly reminds us what really matters—God, family, helping others, and having fun—through the sassy voice of youngest daughter A. J. I savored every word of this compelling story and look forward to reading more novels by Renee.

Leslie Gould, author of Scrap Everything

Funny and touching, Saving Sailor grabbed hold of my heart on the first page. Placing God at the helm, Renee Riva masterfully navigates A. J. and her unique family through troubled waters and hilarious circumstances. I fell in love with whimsical, charming A. J.; her Sophia Loren look-alike mom; Sailor, her sidekick pooch; and her stowaway hamster. I hated to say goodbye to them at the end of the book but know they will remain in my fond memories.

Kate Lloyd, author of A Portrait of Marguerite

Anyone who was a kid in the 1960s will recognize the world Renee Riva has created in Saving Sailor, but you don’t have to be a Baby Boomer to delight in both that world and the marvelously believable characters that live in it. Renee’s a natural when it comes to adding a humorous touch to a poignant story. That’s a rare gift in a first-time novelist.

Marcia Ford, author of Finding Hope: Cultivating

God’s Gift of a Hopeful Spirit

SAVING SAILOR

Published by David C Cook

4050 Lee Vance View

Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

David C Cook Distribution Canada

55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

without written permission from the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s

imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the

King James Version of the Bible. (Public Domain.)

LCCN 2007921089

ISBN 978-1-58919-091-7

eISBN 978-1-4347-6553-6

© 2007 Renee Riva

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, 7680 Goddard St., Ste. 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

Cover Design: BMB Design, Inc.

Cover Photo: Photodisc

Interior Design: Susan Rae Vannaman

First Edition 2007

I dedicate this book to my sibs,

who insist to this day

that Mom and Dad won me

in a bingo game.

Just thought you’d like to know,

it wasn’t bingo, you idiots, it was bocce ball.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Prologue

Drifting: Indian Lake, Idaho July 1968

1. Indian Island

2. Backstage Actress Act l: Scene 1

3. Sisters, Saints, and Sinners

4. True Confessions

5. Juniper Beach

6. Saving Sailor

7. Turnin’ Ten July 20, 1968

8. Exposed

9. Mama’s Pink Villa

10. Sand and Surf

11. Blessed Are the Poor

12. Betrayal

13. Downwind

14. Solitaire

15. Dear Friends and Deer Heads

16. Big Island Bash

17. Mouth of Babes

18. Crosswinds

19. Grace

Epilogue: (For all you hopeless romantics out there)

Drifting Again: Indian Lake, Idaho July 1976

Author’s Epilogue

Author Interview

Saving Sailor Readers’ Guide

Acknowledgments

My thanks to all of you wonderful people who have contributed to my life as a writer:

Elaine, Dee, Lonnie, Myla, Kate, Diane, Glenda, Kris, and Gail.

Dorie, my childhood inspiration, where it all began on the merry-go-round.

My therapists: JoAnn, Celiene, Linda, Mike, Cris, and Dr. Leo Marvin.

Karen Harter and Alice Crider, my online comedy relief team for all the times I needed a good distraction. Thanks for always being out there for me.

Chip MacGregor, for my beginnings. Beth Jusino, for keeping me in print, smiling, and on caffeine. Jeff Dunn, for rescuing Saving Sailor from the slush pile and bringing it to life. And Jon Woodhams, for covering my tracks. Nick Harrison, for your encouraging words send it out. Gary, my husband, for pursuing my dreams above your own, listening to my endless stories—over and over—and still letting me write above all else. My girls: Anna, Taylor, and Oksana, for tolerating 365 Happy Meals too many, and still liking them better than my cooking. You’re the best.

To everyone who never thought it would happen, neener-neener!

I could not have written this book without my big, amazing Italian family; Leslie, Grant, Blake, and Gregg, who gave me a lifetime of material and taught me the true joys of sibling rivalry. We took it to a whole new level, didn’t we, guys? Thank you, Mom, for putting up with us, and when necessary, washing our mouths out with soap.

In memory of my dad, Santo Benjamin, who taught us all to love much, live well, and laugh our crazy heads off. You gave us the best in life and taught us never to settle for less. How I wish you were here, but I know where you are. Save me a good seat on your left at the wedding feast in heaven. Mom already called dibs on your right.

Thank You, God. Thank You for our lives, thank You for The Life, thank You for The Truth, and thank You for The Way.

Introduction

When I was growing up, I thought I came from the weirdest family on earth. Now, as I look back on my childhood, I know I did. When I compare my family in those days with families of today, I see just how weird we really were. For one thing, there were seven of us, almost unheard of nowadays. For another, I had only one set of parents, and they actually loved each other. A lot. Scary, isn’t it? And here’s the real clincher—I had a great childhood. The kind where your mom stayed home and baked cookies for you and your family stayed in a summer cabin all summer and swam and water-skied and had candy night every Friday night.

What can I say?

Pretty much, just, Thank God.

Did I mention we weren’t perfect? Well, we weren’t. But perfect isn’t what makes a great childhood. What makes a childhood great is being able to look back and remember the good over the bad, the laughter over the tears, and the love that covered a multitude of sins.

It’s looking back to that one summer that stands out above the rest. You know … the one where you knew what really mattered in life: God, your dog, your hamster, and your family. Most definitely in that order.

Prologue

Many times there comes into our life a crosswind, a change in course that changes us forever. Often we don’t know until years later just how much influence that event had on who we have become.

For some of us, it comes at a very young age; for others, late in life. For me, it came in the summer of 1968, when I was ten years old. It swept over me like an east wind when I was heading south. I can only describe it as an epiphany, an awakening in my young soul that told me there was something more to life than what I could see with my eyes.

Along with that awakening came the people and relationships that would determine how much or how little I would settle for in life, how far I would seek to find Truth. And true love. And the revelation that life is a wonderful gift of grace.

I look back on that summer often, when life feels more complicated than it should. The memories are never far from my heart and mind. I have only to close my eyes to see the water … cool, clear blue water. And when I breathe, I smell the sweet, warm summer air of my childhood.…

Drifting

Indian Lake, Idaho

July 1968

I’m sittin’ in a rowboat in the middle of Indian Lake with my dog, Sailor. He’s a collie-shepherd mix with one brown eye and one that looks like a marble. He’s wearin’ a bright orange life jacket, as any seaworthy dog should when playing shipmate. Sometimes we pretend we’re on the high seas awaitin’ capture from handsome rogue pirates. But today, we’re just driftin’.

The oars lay on the floorboard of the wood dinghy; a slight breeze sweeps over us, rufflin’ up Sailor’s long fur. We’re just soakin’ up the sun and floatin’ by the island where our family spends our summers.

My mama is reclinin’ on the dock in her new Hollywood sunglasses. She’s got a paperback novel in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. My big sister, Adriana, is slathering on baby oil, singin’ along to her transistor radio. My big brother, J. R., short for Sonny Jr., is gutting a fish over on the big rocks, while the younger twins, Benji and Dino, are still tryin’ to catch their first fish of the day.

All this is going on, while at the same time I’m in the middle of a conversation with God:

… And so, Lord, if we get to pick what age we’ll be in heaven, I choose nine years old, because I am havin’ the best year of my life. I know I say that every year, but this time I mean it. And next year, if I change my mind, don’t believe me. I promise it will always be nine.

I have this feelin’ deep down inside that I will never change my mind. I just don’t see how it can get any better than driftin’ with my dog on a sunny afternoon, goin’ wherever the wind takes us.…

1

Indian Island

A. J., you float your little fanny right back to this dock.

Comin’, Mama, I yell across the water. I think we have a family matter we’re about to deal with here. Our family tends to have a lot of family matters. If you ask me, it comes from havin’ too much family history. There are times I just want to say, Ix-nay the istory-hay. Nix the history.

For starters: We are a Roman Catholic Italian family, and none of us are allowed to forget that. Anyone who puts that identification in jeopardy is dealt with severely. I was nearly disowned for trying to change my name to Dorothy Jones at school.

To make matters worse, there are two rumors I’ve had to live with my entire life. One is false. The other true. Contrary to what my sister has told everyone since the day I was born, my parents did not win me in a Mississippi bingo hall when I was a baby. And yes, my real name is Angelina Juliana Degulio.

I am a living legacy of two grandmothers who insist on preserving our rich Italian heritage. My name was settled in a coin toss. The dispute was over whose name would be first. Grandma Angelina won, but was accused of cheatin’ by Grandma Juliana. They fight about it to this day.

The name Angelina, I am often reminded, means angel, and I am the lucky child who gets to bear it. So, whenever someone asks me my name, I say, Just call me A. J.

I’m workin’ my way back to the dock, paddlin’ with my arms over the bow of the boat. Once I’m in drift mode, I like to stay there. Still comin’, Mama …

The one thing I’ve gotten away with up to this very moment has been my self-imposed Southern accent. My mama is just beside herself right now from hearin’ me yell, I’m floatin’ down yonder, Mama. I’m the only one of her kids to call her Mama instead of Mom or use words like y’all and yonder. I don’t do it to make her mad. I just picked it up from those old Western movies I watch. I’m still tryin’ to figure out why they call them Westerns when everybody’s talkin’ Southern.

I think Southern is a beautiful language. I’m almost fluent now, but I have to watch it around Mama. Tends to get on her nerves. The closer I get to the dock, the more sure I am that down yonder must’ve really hit a nerve. You always know when you’ve gone too far with Mama. You can see the blood rise in her face like a thermometer on a hot day. And it just keeps risin’ ’til her true Italian temper kicks in. Like right now …

Angelina Juliana Degulio …

That’s the next clue—she yells the whole embarrassing name.

"No full-blooded Roman Catholic Italian child raised in the Northwest can possibly have a Southern accent. You stop that Southern garble right now before I march you into the confessional at St. Peter’s, where you can tell Father Sharpiro how you’re dishonoring your family." That’s my mama’s way of sayin’, if I want to stay out here on the water, I’d better zip it with the Southern lingo. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Mama, she plays life by her rules. You either follow them or you’re out of the game.

Her name is Sophia, and she would like everyone to believe that she is The Sophia Loren from Hollywood. When she does herself all up, she comes pretty close. She has those same dark Italian eyes and adds that little swoosh of eyeliner. She even makes a point of getting her hair styled exactly like the actress’s.

Mama’s favorite game is to fool people into thinkin’ she is Miss Loren. She can only go so long before she decides she just has to play this game or she will go nuts. If there’s one thing Mama cannot tolerate, it’s boredism. We’ll all be layin’ around the dock readin’ or fishin’, when suddenly, out of the blue we’ll hear, Miss Loren is goin’ to town. Then she hauls us all off the island to go to town with her. We usually go somewhere real crowded, like downtown Squawkomish.

First off, we hit the corner across from the local hangout, Big Daddy Burger. Mama puts on her dark sunglasses, dabs on her Poppy Pink lipstick, and hands me a notepad and pen. A. J., she’ll say, after I get over there by that crowd, you all come running up to me holding out that notepad, yelling, ‘Sophia, Sophia, can we have your autograph?’

Adriana is so embarrassed she pretends she doesn’t know us, but my brothers love this as much as I do. And, boy, do people fall for it. The next thing you know, everyone is swarmin’ around my mama. Folks are pullin’ anything they can out of their purses and pockets, even old gum wrappers, to get that autograph. The best part is, Mama says it’s not even a sin because when people ask for her autograph she only signs her first name. She also says, It serves these people right for being so gullible as to think that the real Sophia Loren would be spendin’ her time at Big Daddy Burger, in downtown Squawkomish.

After she’s done gettin’ everybody riled up, we all pile into our turquoise Thunderbird convertible and laugh all the way to The Spaghetti House. Everyone, that is, but Adriana. I guess you can’t expect a sixteen-year-old Prom Queen to think that’s funny.

I’m watchin’ Adriana right now from my boat. I can’t believe how much time she