Charlie St. Cloud

by Ben Sherwood

  “C’mon, Tess, I’ll give you my special friends-and-family discount,” she was saying. “Only five bucks for an hour of quality listening.”

  “Too bad you don’t take Blue Cross,” Tess said with a smile. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to get out on the water.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bella said, adjusting her earphones and settling back into her lawn chair.

  Up ahead, a few old wharf rats were playing pinochle on a bench. They were retired fishermen who got by on Social Security and keno jackpots and who lounged around by the water every afternoon, keeping track of boats, monitoring the price of lobster, and telling lies.

  “Hey, princess!” an old-timer rasped, peering through Larry King glasses that dominated his scraggly face.

  “How you doing, Bony?” Tess said.

  “Losing my shirt,” he said, throwing down his cards. “Need a crew for the afternoon?”

  “Wish I could afford you.”

  “I’m begging,” he said. “I’ll work for free. I can’t take another minute here.”

  “He can’t take another losing hand,” one of the guys cracked.

  “Please, Tess, let me sail with you.”

  “You really want another heart attack?” Tess said, adjusting the sail bag. “You know I’ll give you one.” She winked.

  “Whip!” Bony said, using the local slang for “damn” that had been passed down for generations.

  “Down bucket!” Tess answered. For reasons lost to time, it was the automatic response, a phrase that had been coined when slops were thrown out of windows in centuries past. Marblehead was indeed an ancient and cloistered place, where only fourth-generation residents earned the right to call themselves true “Headers.” Everyone else was considered a new arrival, and townies used expressions like “whip” to separate themselves from the off-islanders who had invaded the peninsula, pushed up prices, and brought cappuccino to Pleasant Street.

  “See ya later,” Tess said, heading down the dock.

  “Watch out for the weather,” Bony called out.

  “Will do, and try not to break any hearts while I’m gone.”

  The gang laughed as she walked on. She was wearing khakis with flowery patches on both knees, a white tank top, and an oversize blue button-down. Her eyes were a soft shade of green, and her nose came to an impossibly fine point, the kind women in Los Angeles and New York paid plastic surgeons thousands to create. She was one of those lucky New Englanders who always looked great at yacht-club clambakes or at the ice rink for midnight broomball. Indeed, she was a natural beauty who never bothered with the mirror except to make sure she wasn’t bloody after a rough night at the mast.

  Tess strolled along the dock toward her gleaming thirty-eight-foot sloop, an Aerodyne with a slate-blue hull, an immaculate white deck, and QUERENCIA painted in gold on the stern. The tide was half and rising, and she could smell the seaweed and salt in the air.

  “You going to help or just sit there?” she said to a massive mound of a man who was dangling his feet over the side of the yacht.

  “You’re doing fine without me,” Tink Wetherbee said, standing up and straightening his T-shirt that announced in bold letters: MAY BE USED AS A FLOTATION DEVICE. He was 6′4″, with a chest as puffed out as a spinnaker, a furry face, and shaggy brown hair that he chopped himself. Tess liked to joke that if Tink strapped a barrel around his neck, he would look exactly like a St. Bernard.

  “You know,” he was saying as she stepped aboard with the sail bag balanced on her shoulder, “you’re pretty strong for a girl.”

  “You mean, pretty strong for a girl who signs your paycheck and could kick your sorry ass,” Tess said, heaving the sack toward him. It hit squarely in his prodigious stomach, and he stumbled back.

  “What’s sorry about my ass?” He held on to the sail bag and craned his neck for a look.

  “Trust me, Tink. It’s a sorry sight.” Tess hopped into the cockpit of the boat, elbowing him in the ribs as she went by. “Just one more week,” she said as she untied the wheel. “One more week and I’m gone. Think you’ll miss me?”

  “Miss you? Did the slaves miss their masters?”

  “Funny,” she said, taking the covers off the navigation instruments. “So how’s our mainsail? Ready for the big trip?”

  “The best we’ve ever built,” he said. “You’ll be the envy of the world.”

  “I like the way that sounds.” She stretched her arms and back, reaching first to the sky, then down to her red Converse high-tops. Her body ached from all the preparations of the past few months. She had done thousands of military presses and biceps curls. She had run and swum hundreds of miles. Every step and stroke had been carefully calculated so she would be ready to lash sails in Force 10 winds, stand long watches in high seas, and haul anchors.

  Next week with the blast of the starting cannon, Tess would set sail on a solo race around the world and, if lucky, ride the wind more than 30,000 miles. It was the greatest adventure in sports—the dream of a lifetime—and an enormous opportunity for her sail-making business. Fewer people had circumnavigated the world alone than had climbed Mt. Everest, and Tess’s goal was to become one of the first ten women ever to make the journey. So far only eight had succeeded.

  The whole community was rooting for her, holding bake sales and lobster cookouts to raise money for the quest, and the selectmen even passed an official resolution declaring her an ambassador to the world. Starting in Boston Harbor, the race itself would be covered by every TV station in New England, and journalists around the globe would track her progress. Even the town teenagers were onboard—Mrs. Paternina’s science class at the high school promised to e-mail every day with news from home.

  Tink kneeled on the deck and pulled the mainsail from the canvas bag. The sheet was folded like an accordion, and he began to spread it out. Tess bent down to help. “It’s gorgeous,” she said, stroking the green taffeta outer layer. This wasn’t any old piece of sailcloth, like the one she had cut from a bedsheet and stitched for her first boat. This main was a state-of-the-art laminate with Kevlar fibers, built to ride out the worst weather in the world, and everyone in her company had worked weeks fine-tuning it.

  “Sure hope we spelled my name right,” she said, pulling the corner of the sail to the mast, where she unscrewed a shackle and attached the tack. She kneeled on the deck, turned the winch, and began feeding sail to Tink. Inch by inch, he put the slides on their track, and the green sheet began to climb the mast.

  Tess smiled as the triangle emblazoned with her company name—CARROLL SAILS—took to the sky. Mariners on five continents would see it, and with any luck, they would want one for their own.

  She turned the winch more slowly now, and the main was almost two-thirds up the mast. Almost unconsciously, she felt light air tousle her hair. Without checking the weather vane, she knew the wind was from the northeast, the first feelers of that low pressure. The susurrus of the sails, luffed by the breeze, and the tickle on the back of her neck told her it would be rough later on the water.

  Tess loved the wind and its ways. As a girl, it had been her constant companion. From a sunny morning twenty years ago when she ventured into the harbor in her first Brutal Beast, she had always tracked the ripples on the water and the lean of the tall grass on the shore. She knew the difference between true and apparent wind, and she had mastered the air in every form, flying hang gliders and sailplanes, racing Windsurfers and catamarans, and—to the horror of her mother—thrilling to the free-fall of parachutes.

  As a woman, she had made the wind her livelihood. Straight out of Williams with a physics degree, she went to work for Hood Sails in Newport, learning fast and immersing herself in the advanced science of modern sail design. She worshiped Ted Hood, a Marbleheader and America’s Cup skipper, who knew more about striking a curve on a spinnaker than anyone on earth. But after a couple of years, she realized she just didn’t like having a boss, and even worse, she hated spending her days running compu
ter models on lift and drag ratios. So with $186.40 in the bank, she quit and moved home.

  Dad went in on a bank loan with her, and she opened her own sail loft on Front Street, determined to compete with the big boys. Within a year, she had hired a dozen of the smartest designers, cutters, and sewers in the area. She made a family of them, paid them better than anyone around, and encouraged this team to dream up ways to make boats go faster.

  Now the wind was picking up, and Tess cranked the winch, but the sail suddenly seemed to jam. She pushed hard on the handle, then Tink gave a hand, but the sail wouldn’t move.

  “Better get up there to take a look,” she said.

  “Want to hoist me?” he said, patting his belly.

  “Nobody’s that strong.” She walked over to one of the lockers, pulled out the bowswain’s chair, fastened it to another halyard, and positioned herself on the wooden seat.

  “Up, up, and away,” she said, and with a few good tugs of the line, Tink lifted her in the air.

  A seagull wheeled overhead as Tess soared to the top of the forty-seven-foot mast. She grabbed hold of the pole and could tell immediately that the halyard was jammed.

  “Release the downhaul,” she yelled to Tink. Then she reached into her pocket for her army knife, jammed the point under the halyard, and lifted it back into the sheave.

  “We’re clear,” she shouted. “Just give me one more second. I love it up here.” She looked down on the town curving along the waterfront. She saw fishermen on the rocks casting for stripers. Across the harbor, kids were flying kites on Riverhead Beach. In the distance, she made out the mausoleums and obelisks of Waterside Cemetery sloping down to the shore. Her dad was buried there under a Japanese maple. When her mother chose the spot, she wanted him to have a perfect view of the harbor.

  Marblehead was definitely her favorite place on earth, a world unto itself. Sure, there were 20,377 people living on the peninsula, but it felt like a small town. Most folks had spent their whole lives here and never even thought about leaving. They were born at Mary Alley Hospital. They were raised on blueberry pancakes at the Driftwood and Joe Frogger cookies at the Rusty Rudder. They went to movies at the Warwick and got drunk at Maddie’s. They gathered at the Landing every December to watch Santa and Mrs. Claus arrive by lobster boat for the Christmas Walk. They married at the Old North Church and celebrated at the Gerry function hall. And in the end, when they sailed over to the other side, they were buried in Waterside.

  But, much as she loved Marblehead, Tess believed there was more for her out there beyond the rocks. There was a world to see and, God willing, great love to find. Over the years, she had given a good look at every eligible guy in town, all seven of them. She had dated fellows from Boston to Burlington. But after a series of misses across New England, she knew she wasn’t going to find her Prince Charming or even a Regular Joe who would know what to make of her. So she was determined to venture beyond. Somewhere in Australia or New Zealand, she dreamed of meeting a dashing millionaire who spoke three languages, restored fifty-seven-foot classic boats, and was tall enough to twirl her around in her heels.

  Her sea journey would take four months, maybe more, and to be honest, there were no guarantees she would ever make it back. Her mother seemed to know every case of a solo sailor vanishing or skirting death, like the Canadian who sank off the Canary Islands, escaped in a life raft with three pounds of food and eight pints of water, and survived seventy-six days.

  “Hey, girl, you’re not getting any lighter up there,” Tink shouted from below.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Just trying to memorize what everything looks like.”

  Back on deck and out of the harness, Tess made for the cockpit, where she pulled out a clipboard with her checklist. This weekend trip was her last chance to make sure everything—absolutely everything—was shipshape. She would inspect the sails, autopilots, electronics, and survival equipment. Then she would take a few days off with her family and friends, and try to relax before the starting gun next week.

  She could feel Tink’s breath as he peered over her shoulder at the list.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come along?” Tink said. “You know, in case it gets lonely or cold out there.” He nudged her with a big paw.

  “Nice offer, but I don’t need any more ballast onboard.”

  “Who’s going to hoist you when the main gets stuck again?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Tess said. “Now tell me about that low-pressure front. What’s the deal?”

  “It’s not good,” he said, pulling a computer printout from his pocket and unfolding it. In the sail loft, Tink was in charge of cutting and sewing. For the big trip, he was Tess’s go-to guy and meteorologist. He had worked in Bangor as one of those jovial TV weathermen doling out forecasts and cheer, but his broadcasting career ended prematurely. One night on the eleven o’clock news, he got fed up with a blow-dried, emaciated anchorwoman and called her a “skeletal gasbag.” No one disputed the characterization, not even the station manager, but Tink lost his job anyway. So he threw out his hairspray and makeup, moved to the North Shore, and went into sail-making and marine forecasting.

  “It looks like a lot of low pressure coming down from Maine,” he was saying. “You can see the isobars on the back side of the depression.”

  “That means more wind,” Tess said, grinning.

  “Wish you weren’t going out at all, but you better head southwest and get ahead of the storm. Don’t want you to break anything on this boat before you have to.”

  “See you Sunday, big guy.”

  “Radio if you need me,” he said, going to the rail. “And remember, I’ll be pining away for you.”

  “Pining away with a few hot dogs at tonight’s game?”

  “I’ll have an extra one for you.” Tink jumped down to the dock as Tess turned the key, and the onboard engine rumbled. She put one fist on the throttle and was ready to push off when she heard a voice call out.

  “Hey, sailor,” a woman said from the wharf. She was in her late fifties, with fluffs of gray hair poking over a sun visor. “Got a good-bye kiss for an old lady?”

  Grace Carroll was every inch as tall as her daughter, and despite hip-replacement surgery a few years ago, she moved up the gangway with forceful steps. “I was in the kitchen looking out the window and I saw you on the mast,” she said. “Thought I’d come down to say hi.”

  “Awww, Mom,” Tess said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’ve been so busy—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Grace said, stepping aboard. “I’ve been running around like crazy getting the fund-raiser ready for next week.” For years, Grace had been on the board of the Female Humane Society, the town’s oldest charity, which was founded after a gale turned seventy-five Marblehead women into widows in the early 1800s. “Just be careful out there,” she was saying. “I’m counting on you to entertain all the old ladies.”

  “I’ll be there,” Tess said. “Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t forget WBZ is coming Wednesday to interview me about your race. Better tell me what to say or I may embarrass you.” She chuckled, looked up and down Querencia, then said, “Dad would be so proud, and darn jealous too.”

  It was true. He would be proud and jealous. He had taught her to tack in a little tub with a broomstick mast. He had cheered when at age five she won her first race week series in a Turnabout. Above all, he had encouraged her to live boldly and see how far she could go in the world. “Dive for dreams,” he used to say, quoting the e. e. cummings poem. “And live by love.”

  When the heart attack hit him two years ago—no doubt from too many lobster rolls at Kelly’s in Revere—a gaping hole opened up in Tess’s universe. She had tried everything to fill the void, but it was futile. So she decided to do what he told her—push the limits and see how far she could go. Her race around the world was in honor of him.

  “When will you be back?” Grace said.

  “Sunday for dinner, or
maybe sooner. Depends on the wind.”

  “Want me to make chowder?”

  “More than anything in the world.”

  Grace ran her hand through her hair, then said, “Tell me something. Who on earth am I going to feed every Sunday night when you’re gone?”

  “That’s easy,” Tess said. “Tink and Bobo.”

  “Bobo? That old hound. He’ll eat me out of house and home! You sure you can’t bring him around the world?”

  “Wish I could, but it’s against the regs. No companions allowed.”

  “Silly rules. What’s the point without a companion?” Grace’s pale eyes managed somehow to ask questions without words, and Tess knew exactly what her mother was wondering: Why haven’t you found one yet? Why haven’t you settled down? Why haven’t you said yes to either of those two marriage proposals? Then, Grace’s expression changed, and she was back in the moment. “Love you,” she said. “Have a good sail. And don’t forget you need to go see Nana when you get back. She could use a hug from her granddaughter.” She turned to go back down the gangway, but Tess stopped her with a hand on the shoulder.

  “Come here, Mom,” she said, opening her arms. She pulled her tight, the way Dad always did, and thought for a moment her mother might break in her arms. It was as if Grace’s body had shrunk from the lack of physical contact and the absence of her life companion. Tess could feel her mom’s arms around her, too, squeezing, as if she didn’t want to let go.

  After a few moments, they released each other. Grace pinched Tess’s cheek, kissed her, and walked down to the dock.