“Come on, Little HarryLittle Fisher, get on the boat!” The two little kids at the bow immediately stood up when they heard they could go out to sea with their sister, but they were still a bit shy around Brian Carter and didn’t dare come over. Brian Carter didn’t mind bringing along two kids around seven or eight years old; they weren’t useless at all. Kids from poor families learn to be responsible early. After dinner yesterday, these two had been helping their sister and mother wash rice and clean fish the whole time—very well-behaved.

“Raise the sail! Where are we heading?” Once on the small boat, Amy Grant naturally stood at the stern and picked up the wooden oar. Brian Carter, imitating Paul Foster, stood next to the small mast. After pondering for a moment, he figured out how to use the shabby sail. It was very simple: a piece of patchwork cloth clamped between two bamboo slats, with a rope at the top running through an iron ring on the mast. Pulling the rope raised the sail, loosening it lowered the sail, and the direction of the sail was controlled entirely by manually moving the bamboo slats. This thing was only useful in a light breeze; if the wind picked up, the bamboo would bend and couldn’t catch much wind at all—better than nothing, though.

Chapter 10: The Fisherfolk’s Classroom

“Let’s go to Drum Island. There are lots of fish and shrimp there, and plenty of reefs, but you can’t catch anything with a net.” Paul Grant rowed while pointing ahead. Her rowing posture was beautiful, full of energy. Except for her feet, which were firmly planted on the deck, her whole body swayed with the movement of the oar. Her thigh muscles were taut, but her waist was flexible. Under her power, the small boat quickly left the row of boats behind and sped across the sea, riding the wind and waves.

“Don’t stare!” Seeing Brian Carter grinning at her, Paul Grant blushed again.

“Let me row for a bit, you’re already sweating!” Brian Carter wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by being exposed. He didn’t bother to explain, just went over and took the oar from Paul Grant.

In less than five minutes, Brian Carter handed the oar back to Paul Grant. This thing looked simple—just push and pull—but once you tried it, neither motion was smooth. Even though Brian Carter was stronger than Paul Grant, he couldn’t row the boat effectively, and his palms were rubbed raw. No point being stubborn—this was skill, finesse.

It was about five kilometers from the row of boats to Drum Island. Not that the island was that far from the coast, but it was to the west of the row of boats, and actually less than three kilometers from the shore. Paul Grant was like a perpetual motion machine, swaying steadily. By the time she started panting heavily, the boat had reached the island. She then leaned on the oar, took off her headscarf, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Only then did Brian Carter notice her hair was coiled at the back of her head in two buns, like a pair of bread rolls.

“Little Harry, Little Fisher, throw the net in.” Brian Carter didn’t waste words, directing the brothers Paul Waters and Paul Fisher to toss one end of the fish trap into the sea. A big stone was already tied to it, so the net would sink to the bottom by its own weight. All they had to do was hold onto the rope at the other end. Once the net stopped sinking, they tied on a bamboo tube over a meter long and tossed it in as a marker.

“It’s seven meters deep here?” On the way over, Brian Carter had tied knots in the hemp rope at one-meter intervals—a basic skill for anglers. Whenever you arrive at an unfamiliar reservoir and need to check the depth, you tie knots in a rope, attach a big stone, and row the boat near the spot to measure. The one-meter distance wasn’t guessed; everyone had their own way of remembering. Brian Carter had measured that from his right fingertip to his elbow was exactly 50 centimeters.

“Two zhang, two chi…” Paul Grant also picked up a rope, tied on a stone, let it sink, then pulled it up and measured the wet part against the gunwale, giving a different answer.

“Oh, so this is a chi?” Brian Carter quickly noticed something. On the inside of the gunwale, there were two marks about half a meter apart. Could this be a Song Dynasty chi?

“Two chi… How long is your meter?” Paul Grant held up two fingers, then curiously asked about Brian Carter’s units of measurement.

Well, now there was something to do: first, get to know each other’s measurement systems. This was important. Not only did Brian Carter discuss it with Paul Grant, he also called over the kids Paul Waters and Paul Fisher, and taught them the relationship between a chi and a zhang, a meter and a centimeter, bit by bit. But progress was slow—they couldn’t read or count, let alone do addition or subtraction. They could barely grasp base ten, but got confused with base one hundred.

But that was fine. Since they’d be waiting here all afternoon anyway, Brian Carter simply became their math teacher for the time being. Including Paul Grant, he first taught them the multiplication table, then how to carve their names into the deck with a machete. As for whether to use simplified or traditional characters, Brian Carter didn’t worry about it—he couldn’t write traditional anyway, so they’d just make do.