Tubby the Forgotten Tugboat
Tubby the Forgotten Tugboat
An Anytime story for children
by Michael Wenberg
Copyright 2011 Michael C. Wenberg
www.michaelwenberg.com
Tubby the Forgotten Tugboat
An Anytime story for children
by Michael Wenberg
A diesel roar disrupted the quiet summer afternoon in Backwater Bay, the home for forgotten and useless boats.
Tubby the tugboat opened one eye and noticed a large, muscular tugboat idling a few feet off his bow.
“Do you mind?” he said. “I’m trying to nap. This is a quiet neighborhood. Troublemakers are moored on the other side of the bay. We’re all forgotten here, and we’d like to keep it that way.”
That should take care of it, Tubby thought.
“What’s yer name?” demanded the larger tugboat. His name was Bulldog. “You're so covered with dirt and grime, I can't read what's on your bow.”
“It’s T - U - B - B - Y,” Tubby said peevishly, “not that it’s any of your business. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to resume my nap. . .”
“. . . but I do mind,” Bulldog growled. “You're the one they want. Prepare for towing.”
“But....but...there must be a mistake,” Tubby stuttered. He was wide awake now.
“I’m not. I got my orders. Tow T - U - B - B -Y. And that’s you.”
“You’d better talk to my owners first,” Tubby blustered.
“Already did,” Bulldog smirked. “And they gave the okey dokey.”
“Where are you taking me?” Tubby was almost too afraid to ask.
“You're going to the scrap yard,” Bulldog snarled, “not that it’s any of your business.”
“Scrap yard?” Tubby repeated dumbly. “SCRAP YARD!” he yelled. “Hold on there. . .you can’t just . . .”
But no one was listening. One of Bulldog’s deckhands tied a thick line to Tubby's bow, and before he had a chance to say goodbye to any of his neighbors, they were underway.
Tubby the tugboat was forgotten no more.
“What a disgrace,” Bulldog muttered, glancing behind him. “He looks like a garbage scow, he does. Not a proper tugboat anymore.”
Tubby overheard Bulldog’s comment. He started to object, but what could he say? Bulldog was right. He was a disgrace. As year had tumbled into year and Tubby hadn’t moved from the dock, he began to look less and less like a serious, working tugboat, and more and more like something useless and forgotten. His bright blue paint had faded, and his brass light tarnished. Grass sprouted from the roof of his cabin. A small tree even poked up from the pile of dead leaves that were thick on his deck.
Bulldog raced his engines and gave Tubby a jerk.
“Hey, take it easy there,” Tubby yelled.
Bulldog responded with a wicked grin and a toot on his horn.
“Goodbye, Tubby,” cried some of the other boats as Bulldog pulled Tubby past the last of the tumbledown docks in Backwater Bay. “See you later.”
“So long,” Tubby replied sadly. He didn’t have the heart to tell them that he’d never see them again. Even if his engines still worked, he wasn’t strong enough to get away from Bulldog. And if a miracle happened, where would he go? He didn't have a captain so he couldn’t do any work.
Maybe Bulldog was right. He was a disgrace.
“Come on, you,” Bulldog growled. “No dawdling. Some of us have REAL work to do.”
Despite how horrible he was feeling, Tubby had to admit a small part of him was excited to be on the move gain. It had been years since he had been out of Backwater Bay. As Tubby looked around, the harbor was even more crowded than he remembered.
“Hey Bulldog,” a tanker from Dubai called out, “what’s that, a toy tug you’re pulling?”
“Who are you calling a toy, you, you, shipwreck,” Tubby retorted.
“What are you, a floating garbage can?” snorted a passing freighter on its way to Singapore.
Tubby shrunk beneath his stack. He knew how he must look. Awful. Maybe he could find a way to sink to the bottom of the harbor? He could become a home for lobsters and crabs. That wouldn't be so bad. At least then he would be useful.
At the Point No Point Lighthouse, Bulldog made a sweeping left turn into Eagle Harbor. A few minutes later they nuzzled into a sturdy wharf at the Eagle Harbor Boat Builders & Scrap yard.
“They'll be quick, kid.” Bulldog said, realizing that someday he could end up in a scrap yard, too. “It won't hurt a bit.”
As Tubby watched Bulldog churn away, a sea lion suddenly bobbed up next to him.
“Whiskers,” Tubby said. “I didn't think I'd get a chance to say goodbye.”
Whiskers the sea lion was Tubby's best friend. Over the years, he had spent many hours lying in the sun on Tubby’s deck.
“Just heard the news,” Whiskers panted. “Scrap? I can't believe it. I got here as quickly as I could. Unhook that line so I can tow you away from here. I know just the place. . . “
Tubby shook his head sadly. “You're not strong enough to pull me. But thank you anyway. You've been a very good friend.”
“I'm not ready to give up yet,” Whiskers said. “I'll be back when it's dark.” He disappeared under the waves.
At dusk, Tubby was pulled out of the water by a bright orange crane. Tubby had never felt so forgotten. “If only they'd give me another chance,” he cried sadly to himself. “I could be useful again. I know it.”
As soon as he was settled into a cradle and the workers had disappeared, Whiskers bounded out of the shadows. “I have a plan,” he barked proudly. “I just know it will work.”
“And I'm going to help,” Screech the seagull added, spiraling down out of the sky. Screech was another friend from Backwater Bay.
“We can't move you,” Whiskers said. “But we can hide you until we can figure out how to get you back into saltwater again.”
“It won't do any good,” Tubby said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt on my account.”
But his friends had already started. Whiskers piled scraps of wood against Tubby's hull, while from above, Screech and a flock of his friends dropped seaweed, leaves, anything they could find and carry.
By morning, Tubby had disappeared beneath a huge pile of debris.
Tubby couldn’t believe his luck. All day, none of the workers seemed to notice him.
Maybe this is going to work after all, he thought?
But just before dinner, someone wearing black boots and a captain's cap walked right up to the pile covering Tubby from top to bottom, bow to stern.
She stared intently at the pile for a moment as if she knew what was underneath it.
“Nice try,” she chuckled.
Tubby fought back a sob.
“My name is Patty,” the women in the black boots said, “Captain Patty. But since we're going to be working together, you can call me Patty for short.”
Tubby sneezed. “You mean you're not turning me into scrap?” he asked cautiously from beneath the pile.
“Nope. You’re just what we are looking for. We need a small, spunky tugboat who can get in and out of tight spots. If we clean you up, give you a new, more powerful engine and a fresh coat of paint, you just might do. Think you're up to the job?”
Tubby couldn’t believe what was happening.
“I must be dreaming,” he said softly.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Captain Patty said with a smile. “But this is real.”
“Well then, I. . .I can do whatever you want,” Tubby said with excitement. “And probably more.”
Patty slapped the side of Tubby’s hull. “That’s what I was counting on!”
The next day, workers cleared
away the pile covering Tubby and began scraping, sanding and painting. A few weeks later, Tubby was back in the water, looking like a brand new tugboat. His pilothouse was bright orange. His funnel was dark black. His brass light gleamed like sunshine.
“Wow,” Screech cried from his perch on the brass light.
“What do you think?” Captain Patty asked.
“I look better than new,” Tubby replied proudly.
“Just about perfect,” Whiskers barked, floating next to Tubby. “I just knew it would turn out all right.”
“You're a Phozz tugboat now,” Captain Patty announced. “Welcome to the family.”
Tubby the tugboat was back in business, herding freighters, barges, and other ships and boats in and out of tight spots, places the larger tugboats couldn't go.
“What are we waiting for?” said Captain Patty. “Let's go make ourselves useful.”
And with that, Tubby the tugboat was truly forgotten no more.
The End
About the Author
MICHAEL WENBERG lives just up the road from the Point No Point lighthouse on Washington State’s Puget Sound. In addition to working in technology, he’s the former CEO of the Walla Walla Symphony. He enjoys backpacking, hiking and kayaking the waters of Puget Sound with his wife, Sandy, and their dog, Gracie. Michael’s nickname when he was six-years-old was “Mickey.”
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You can find Wenberg online at www.michaelwenberg.com, or contact him at michaelcwenberg@hotmail.com.