You’ve never been able to stand falsity, pretensions of grandeur. You’re proud of me, as a writer, I know. But I think, secretly, you hate my writing style, especially what it has evolved into over the years. When I first started writing, it was for fun, as a challenge, as an expression. A way to create art, when I have always been more technical, mechanical, and social. I can fix an engine, I can sail a boat, I can plow a field, start a fire, kill, skin, and cook my own food whether fish, fowl, or mammal. I can discuss—as you pointed out in one of your emails discussing the man I used to be—any number of subjects with facility and enjoyment; I am enormously well-read, after all—stuck in Festering Shithole, Illinois, there was little to do but read, and then after I left, books became my steadfast companion during my travels. But while I have always been able to appreciate and love and discuss art, until I discovered writing, I couldn’t produce any of my own. So now that I know I can paint with words, yes, I am going to indulge in it. Thick, great, iridescent and textural glops of words smeared across the page in fat eager brushstrokes.
God, Ava. I need you. This is a specific need, however. Yes, I miss your intelligence and wit and vulgarity and blunt-as-a-hammer honesty and your easy way with words, spoken and written; and yes, I miss our relationship, as it was before Henry.
I hate myself for that phrase—as it was before Henry. But it’s true, and it cuts me to the quick to admit that. Cuts as deeply and sharply as a nanoblade.
Henry changed us. Me, you, and us. He was our ending, Ava. God, what a vile thing to say. But it’s true, isn’t it? That doesn’t negate the bone-deep, soul-shearing love I have—had? Have? I don’t know, dammit—for him. But he changed you. He changed your body, and he changed your psyche, and he changed your focus. I don’t mean that selfishly, my darling. Truly, I don’t. I loved your body as it was post-birth, even in the months when you were complaining about not being able to get rid of the “extra baby weight”. I loved that version of you. Softer, lusher. More curve to your hips and thighs. From the point of view of the man who looked at you and desired you day in and day out, naked in the shower and in three-day-old yoga pants alike, you were so lovely, so sexy. Motherhood suited you. If only you could have enjoyed motherhood. I can’t even allow myself to imagine our life together had he not been ill. The few times he was happy and content, as a baby should be, it was heaven. But those moments were so few and far between, love. Overshadowed by pain and horror. Tears, and frustration, and desperation, and Pain. God, the pain.
I digress.
I need you, Ava.
I am desperate. For you. For touch. For a kiss. For the scrape of your hand down my stomach. For the slide of your lips across my hipbone. The sweep of your thigh against mine in the dulcet, drowning darkness. For the warm huff of your breath on my skin and the wet suck of your mouth around me and the building pressure of need reaching release. Ava, I need the sweet cream of your cunt—and oh yes, love, you’d hate that phrasing as well; you’d shudder and curse me if you were to read it.
I am mad with need.
Wild with it.
I cannot have you. I have lost you, as I have lost myself.
And so I go in search. Of myself, and thus the man who might return to you, and take you in his arms, and love you from the plunging red of sunset to the birthing gold of dawn. I yearn for that reunion. But I am not that man.
I am no man.
I am…Un. As in Undone. Unmade. Unrestored. Unremarkable. An Unmitigated disaster…that one was a stretch, I admit.
Un.
Nix.
A no-man. A being writhing in the vast empty spaces of the world, a wicked and twisted creature scrabble-clawing through the endless dark of despair, faceless. No, not faceless—possessed of eyes with which to see the ruin of self. Mouth stitched closed, sewn shut with thick black poisonous thread. To scream is to groan, to speak is to moan, to weep is to hiss, and all these sounds are eldritch and ravaged, scuttling up from beneath the mossy lichyard stones.
Ava, I need you.
But I do not deserve you. I still dream of darkness, still desire sometimes to drown myself in the bottom of a bottle. Sometimes, as The Hemingway sculls across the waves, I stare down into the wine-dark sea and I think of the peaceful oblivion I might find there, floating down down to the blackest crushing depths, the silence I might finally possess if I threw myself overboard. Silence, I say, because my mind is a place of cacophony, a lampshade full of banging and burning moths, each fluttering desperate winging thing a doubt, a sorrow, a desperation, a need, a curse, an angry tirade, a vitriolic diatribe against the flimsy vagaries of this venomous thing called life. I cannot silence them, Ava.
You have your own moths.
And, in the long sleepless nights beneath a countless million stars, those moths become dragons, long massive draconian fire-breathing demons, unkillable and monstrous.
I loathe each of the thousands of miles between us, but I cannot wish them away, for I hope at the end of my journey I shall find you. Or rather, find myself, and thus…you. Myself, and thus us.
I am taking the long way home, Ava.
21
[Off the coast of South America; October 23, 2015]
Jonny and I decide to wait until late November to make the crossing from the Caribbean to Africa. It’s a challenging trip, with difficult winds and crosscurrents, and that’s under the best of conditions. Until then, we opt to, as Jonny puts in, “bum around a bit.” I think he’s angling to take on another crew member or two, because a west to east trip with only two people, even on a catamaran designed for minimal crew, is tricky as hell, and would be made safer by additional hands.
Fine by me, just don’t expect me to be best friends with any of them.
We left Venezuela and followed the coast, for the most part. We put in at Trinidad and Tobago for a while, and then took another short jaunt up to Grenada, where we stayed for a few days, drinking rum like it was about to be discontinued. Just like the old days, which was exactly what I needed. We’d hit bar after bar, making friends and telling outrageous stories. We left Grenada, and Jonny convinced me—which didn’t take much work on his part—to hit up Barbados. So then we ended up staying in Bridgetown for most of a week.
Which is where we met Martinique. A French expat, an experienced sailor, and the only woman I’ve ever met who could go shot for shot with Jonny. Shit, not just the only woman, but the only person aside from myself. Going shot for shot with Jonny Núñez is a competition I only attempted once and vowed never to repeat. Martinique, though? She did it three nights in a row, at three different bars, and it was Jonny who put the kibosh on a fourth.
It is four in the morning, we’ve been drinking since nine the previous evening, and we are currently on The Hemingway, in the saloon, playing a drinking card game that doesn’t really make sense for three people.
Martinique is shuffling the deck. “I have a question,” she says, bridging the cards and then rifling them into a stack to shuffle them again.
“I’m sure one of us has an answer,” I say. “Maybe not the right one, but an answer, at least.”
“Where are you going after you leave Bridgetown?” She eyes me, cutting the deck with one hand and pouring shots for each of us with the other.
She’s in her early thirties, maybe late twenties—it’s hard to be sure. She has the air of a woman who has seen much of this world and a lot of life in a short span—worldly-wise, knowing brown eyes, long blond hair she keeps in a loose braid. A killer body, a yoga body, a swimmer’s body, strong, athletic, toned, but curvy enough that I find it hard to not stare at her. Over the last three days, she’s worn what seemed to be a kind of uniform for her: short khaki shorts that barely covered her ass, a tank top or V-neck T-shirt, and Teva sandals and a pair of mirrored sunglasses on top of her head, the arms shoved into her hair.
Jonny shoots me a glance, telling me silently it’s mine to answer.
I waffle on how to answer. We’ve spent a lot of time over t
he past few days trading stories of our various voyages, and it’s clear Martinique knows her way around a boat and the open sea. She would be a valuable asset on the transatlantic voyage, both as an extra pair of hands and as someone new to break the monotony. She’s funny, sharp, and has no problem keeping up with Jonny’s acerbic and sarcastic sense of humor, or my often-stony silences. Plus, she’s beautiful.
But on the negative side, she’s beautiful. She’s a distraction. A potential problem. The last thing I need in my life is a funny and beautiful woman.
I know, intellectually, that I should tell her we aren’t looking for any additional crew. I know it. I don’t need the distraction, the temptation.
But I’m sick of being haunted by the specter of what used to be. I need something new in my life, and this is a new chapter, right? It doesn’t have to be a thing. She’s just someone to make the transatlantic trip more pleasant.
“South,” I answer, eventually. “Georgetown or Paramaribo, most likely.”
She deals, and nods, then fixes me with another look. “And then? Long term, I mean.”
“Africa.”
She nods again, and each of us examines our cards. “I am trying to make my way back to Europe. I ’ave been gone for quite a few years, and I think it is now time to go back to Marseilles. See my family. See my father, before he is gone.”
I nod, and glance at Jonny. He shrugs a shoulder, his expression closed. I know he approves of her for the voyage, or we wouldn’t have spent the last three days drinking with her, but it is my decision, in the end.
I fidget with my cards and sigh, knowing I’m probably making a mistake. “The crossing, then. I don’t know my plans beyond that.”
She smiles at me, warm and bright and sharp. “The crossing. Wonderful. Thank you, Christian.”
I keep my smile in return small and somewhat cold. “Looking forward to the journey, Martinique. We’ll have a lot of fun, I think.”
Her gaze glitters, and her grin is enigmatic. “Oh, I’m sure we will.” She plays the first card, takes a drink, and winks at me. “Call me Marta.”
Later, after she’s left for her hostel, Jonny pokes his head into my quarters; I’m lying in my bed, letting the room spin, and wondering exactly what I’ve gotten myself into by agreeing to have Marta make the crossing with us.
“You are sure about this, Chris?” Jonny asks.
“About what?”
He snorts at me. “Don’t play stupid. Marta— you sure it’s a good idea bringing her?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Jonny expels a breath. “Because she’s a nice-lookin’ lady and you’re two years into a dry spell. And you’re not in a good place in your head or heart. And because I saw the way she was lookin’ at you.”
“She wasn’t looking at me any kind of way.”
He blows a raspberry. “Yeah, okay, bro. Whatever you say.”
“Fine, I’ll bite. How was she looking at me?”
“Like she wanted to eat you for dinner.”
“She’s just along for the transatlantic.”
“So you say now.”
“So I say now, and so I’ll say all the way across. Not looking for that, Jonny.”
“Good. Because that would be a complication you don’t need.”
“No shit.”
He hesitates. “Look, Chris. I’m your friend. Maybe even a mentor in some ways. I’ve got your back. I’ll check your shit when your shit needs checkin’, okay? But I ain’t your papa. I’ll tell you how I see it, but I ain’t gonna police your ass, okay? You make that mistake, it’s on you. This is me warnin’ you—that girl has her eye on you. Don’t go there, me etiéndes, amigo mio?”
I throw a pillow in the direction of his voice. “Yes, yes, yes. I got it. Fuck off so I can sleep.”
[150 miles east of Rio de Janeiro; November 18, 2015]
* * *
We’d made good time from Barbados to Rio, which was our last stop on this side of the world. Marta had proven herself to be every bit as valuable as I’d predicted, and the three of us had meshed well together, falling into an easy sync as a crew. Jonny and I had discussed the possibility of a fourth person, but I’d squashed that idea after some thought. For me, it was hard enough having one new person aboard, and the thought of two new people made me queasy. I liked Marta, but I kept my distance, as much as one could on a relatively small boat such as this.
I’d overestimated myself, I was realizing. Jonny is a known commodity, to me. An old friend, someone with whom I have a history. Someone who knows me, knows what I am going though.
Marta? She knows nothing. I’ve resolved to keep it that way. She doesn’t make it easy, though. She’s a natural conversationalist, and it used to be my nature to let the talk flow freely, let the conversation go wherever it ended up. And for the most part, it was fine; we would talk about music and art and the exotic locales we’ve been to and favorite drinks and favorite cuisine, and eventually she would find something to do somewhere else. And then I would breathe a sigh of relief, because I’d weathered another moment alone with her; each time it was just Marta and me, I would feel as if I was being tempted, and then I would tell myself how stupid that was, how greatly I was overestimating my own attractiveness. I wasn’t attracted to her or her to me. I may not currently be with Ava physically at the moment, and we may be experiencing a deep and agonizing separation, but I was still committed to her. Marta was just a passenger and deckhand on my boat for a few weeks. No reason for any weirdness.
But sometimes…she would get curious. About me. And that’s what I struggled with. I didn’t want to talk about any of that, with anyone. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. I wanted to keep pretending this life on the sea was all there was, all there ever had been. But then Marta would ask a probing question.
Like now. She sits opposite me. I’m behind the wheel, feet kicked up, an e-reader in hand. The sails are trimmed and bellied out taut in a favorable wind carrying us eastward toward Africa. The sky is blue and clear, the waves rolling past and around and beneath us, the sun is high, just past the midpoint. And Marta is on the couch a few feet away, eying me over the top of a magazine, which looks like a French version of People. She’s got her mirrored wraparound sunglasses on, making her expression unreadable. She’s in her customary too-short shorts and a tank top. Jonny is forward, earbuds in, sunning himself.
“So, Christian. May I ask, why are you making this voyage?” She asks it casually, seemingly as passing conversation. But yet I feel her attentiveness as a second skin upon my flesh, wrapping around the moment.
“I’ve only been to Cape Town twice and Jo-burg once. I’ve always wanted to go again.” I shrug. “Now’s as good a time as any.” Truthful statements, all, and vague enough.
She flips a page of her magazine. “I meant…” She waves at the sea around in an expansive, all-encompassing gesture, “in a more…philosophical or personal sense. More deeply. The voyage as a whole. Not merely this leg of it, only. Why are you sailing? You and your friend, the very funny Jonny.”
“I can’t speak for Jonny, necessarily, but I’ve known him long enough to know the sea and sailing and fishing are all he’s ever known. He’s sailing because it’s what he knows.”
“And you?”
I shrug, trying for nonchalant. “I…needed a change. A big one. I sailed with Jonny awhile back, and when I decided to do this, I knew I needed him along for the ride.”
“You are trying for a circumnavigation?”
I shrug again. “Eh. Not in the particular sense of the word, no. I hope to get all the way around eventually, yes, but…I’m in no rush to get anywhere in particular. Last time I was out, we sailed west to east, from the Caribbean down around Tierra del Fuego and then up to Indonesia by way of Hawaii. This time, I want to see things going in the opposite direction.”
She flips another page, the sound of the paper snapping seeming irritated; I may be attributing too much meaning to the turn of a
page, however. “So you’re sailing just to sail?”
“More or less.” I don’t give her time for another question. “Why are you out here?”
“I left home very young. I read too many stories of young boys who went out to seek their fortunes on the sea and I thought, I could do that. I was a naive little girl. I did not realize how different our world is now than when those stories were written. I lied about my age and convinced a fishing boat to take me on as kitchen help. In time, they let me work on deck with the men. That was almost twenty years ago, and I have spent the years in between on fishing boats, on the antique tall ships, on anti-whaling expeditions, scientific research vessels scouring the Antarctic. Any ship I could find berth on, anywhere it was going. I have accumulated very little money, but a great many stories and a lot of wonderful friendships. A greater fortune than a bank vault full of Euros, I think.” She gives a very Gallic lift of a shoulder. “Now I go home, finally. For how long, I do not know. Until Papa is dead, perhaps.”
“Is he sick?”
“Not in any particular sense. He is just very old and has lived a very hard life. I was an accident, you see. My next oldest sibling is fourteen years my elder, and my parents began having children late. So even though I am only thirty, my father is eighty years old. I was…an afterthought.” She twirled the end of her braid between her fingers. “When he is gone, I think I will set out again, and this time, I will not return to Marseilles. It is not really my home. The sea, she is my home.”
I nod. “I think I understand.”
Marta gestured at the waves again. “The sea, is she your only home, too?”
I debate my answer for a little longer than I probably should. “For now, The Hemingway is home.”
“Why that name? I have wondered.”
“I enjoy writing. Ernest Hemingway is one of my favorite writers, and a wonderfully complex figure. A man of great courage, great talent, and many faults. A true man of the world.” I can’t help but let my mouth run away from me. “He was an alcoholic, and he committed suicide. But his life and his writings left behind an indelible mark on the world. I think I named her The Hemingway so that I would be reminded of…well, many things. The beauty in the written word, the importance of truly living in each moment and of having courage, and that alcohol alone will not exorcise one’s demons, or eradicate one’s ghosts. In committing suicide, Hemingway stole from the world a great many more works of fiction, and that, to me, is a great tragedy. Same with any suicide. It is theft, to steal one’s self from the world in that way.”
The Long Way Home Page 8