Never turn your back on the sea: an old adage about the unpredictability, mutability, and overwhelming suddenness of the ocean. Invariably, there will be tourists who don't take heed. One could say the same about the heart. The sea and love make and unmake you; they are at once necessary and have the power, as Michael Parker puts it, to "get away with you." Parker has written a beautiful, elegant novel about islanders who experience the vicissitudes and blessings of hard-earned belonging, and who withstand - sometimes admirably, sometimes not -- the losses to which we are born.
The narrative of Theodosia Burr Alston and Whaley is especially absorbing. Her survival on the island depends on the surrender of nothing less than her seemingly indelible identity; her endurance is possible because of an unadorned love that no one, especially not she, could have imagined would wash ashore. Theodosia's life is a remarkable trajectory and Parker tells her story deftly and, thankfully, without sentimentality. We need stories of (physical and emotional) survival told with honesty and compassion like this. They are the literary coordinates for our own emotional lives and too often we are insulted with the abundance of tales that offer us romance and all its overdetermined scaffolding when we'd rather have the starkness of genuine love, trust and need.
There are some minor missteps - or rather, near missteps. The historical figure of Virginia Dare, which Maggie and Miss Whaley -- both lonely children in their respective ways -- use for imaginative inspiration, seems a bit smuggled in. The potentially larger problem is Parker's delineation of Woodrow as all-knowing and mostly flawless Black waterman; the worry early on was that the author would elevate him to the level and type of mythic Black man, at one with nature. But Parker humanizes him in a way that will break your heart (here the reader is reminded of Gloria Naylor's Mama Day). Indeed, it is during Woodrow's storyline when the narrative swells, opening up unknown space - at this point the reader knows she is in good hands.
Although one supposes that Parker has read Faulkner (a remark about a coffin seems to quote As I Lay Dying), The Watery Part of the World is most strongly reminiscent of Morrison, both syntactically and in the etching of a character's thought process -- especially Theodosia, who reminds this reader of the unforgettable Sethe of Beloved. Indeed, the author is a natural inheritor of the American literary tradition, which is unflinchingly resigned to the wilderness but recognizes its sublime beauty: a nature forever redeeming the losses it exacts by provoking gratitude, mercy and awe. Like his characters, Parker is immersed in and enthralled to his island, which gives this novel its power.