by Jen Malone
The weather is the very opposite of my mood—blue skies and puffy clouds offering the perfect summery backdrop as we sail under the Golden Gate Bridge, all three of us craning our necks to take it in. I snap my daily “minus” picture for Dad—the bridge fading into the distance while we leave the city for good. We’re headed south to Half Moon Bay. Another day, another port of call.
At least checking them off the tally feels like progress.
And I’m more eager than ever to see them pass by, especially after the disaster I made of things with Jonah last night. The sooner I can retreat to the safety and comfort of Pleasant Hill, the happier I’ll be. Tara and Jess in person make a much better sounding board than they do via group text.
Not that I didn’t resort to that five seconds after Jonah walked off with my mother. Their take:
Tara: Just come clean about the grounding and tell him that’s why you lied about dinner.
Jess: Cosigned
Me: Meaning he’ll think I’m an immature high school kid. Who wants to hang out with one of those when you’re twenty and on your own?
Tara: Right. I see your point.
Me: Advice?
Tara: Basically you’re totally screwed.
Jess: Cosigned
Me: So happy I turned to you guys in my hour of need.
Jess: Can I ask something?
Me: . . .
Jess: Is this about not having someone to hang out with the rest of the trip? Or is this about not having *Jonah* to hang out with?
Tara: Ooh, good one. This is why we voted you president of E.A.T. Me.
Jess: YOU REMEMBERED!
Tara:
Jess: Just for that, when I get off work I’m bringing you the expired Milk Duds from the box office display case.
Tara: Um . . . thanks? Is anyone else noticing Cassie is suspiciously quiet?
Jess: Suspiciously
Me: He really opened up to me and I feel like I betrayed that by lying to him. What if he thinks I was rejecting him after everything he told me about his family? You guys, I would hate if I hurt him.
Tara: Oh. My. God.
Me: What?
Tara: You *like* him!
Jess: Cosigned
Me: I like him as a FRIEND!
Tara: Uh-huh. Sure. Screwed.
Jess: Cosigned
Me: NOT HELPFUL!
Jess: Fine. I say you put on your big girl panties and apologize. If you don’t, you actually *are* being the immature high school kid.
Me: Crap, you’re so right.
Jess: Madame President’s got your back, Rush Coordinator (that’s your new position. No need to thank me. I already know the depths of my awesome).
Me: I love you guys
Tara: All for one and one for all
Jess: Cosigned
I smile, rereading our conversation again now, snuggled under blankets in the cockpit. I should be working on my apology to Jonah, but my brain is still on my friends. When I’m texting with them, I feel like I’m right there in Pleasant Hill, but as soon as I pick my head up and look around, I’m surrounded by this whole other world.
The weird thing is, this one is starting to feel like the more familiar one and my real, regular life seems a million miles away, instead of only a couple of hundred. How is it that I could hop in a car and be in Pleasant Hill in under ten hours, when it’s taken us this long to sail here? I know from past experience that “vacation time” stretches like saltwater taffy until you can’t remember what day of the week it is anymore, but even accounting for that phenomenon, it feels like an entire lifetime ago that I was sleeping in my own room, with dust bunnies and my old stuffed animal collection under my bed . . . instead of a freezer.
We’re only heading into our fourth week at sail, but already the rocking under my feet and the constant droplets of spray in my hair feel more normal to me than the sensations of being on dry land.
Even my muscle memory has been betraying my loyalties to home. Back there, it used to be my job to lock up at night, since I was typically the last one in. I could noiselessly slide the dead bolt, flick off the porch light, and turn down the thermostat with my eyes already closed in anticipation of the sleep that awaited.
Now my brain has somehow perfectly recorded the steps from my berth to the bathroom in the middle of the night, the location of all light switches in the cabin, which drawer to open for the cutting board, and which button to hit on the VHF radio to turn off the computer voice that broadcasts the marine weather forecast on a loop.
Like it or not, I’m living at sea, and it already feels less like something new and different and more like our normal way of life. I guess it’s sort of a relief not to be fighting the idea every second of the day, but it also scares me that I already feel so removed from my friends’ lives—and they definitely wouldn’t recognize mine. That took less than a month. Yes, Tara, Jess, and I are keeping in touch just fine, but what about after four months? What will it be like to go back?
My mood, still recovering from the rapid swings it took yesterday, is part melancholy, part unsettled, and the vastness of the seascape makes me feel hemmed in and restless.
When Drew complains of a headache after lunch, Mom sends him down to the cabin with orders to stay there resting. I’m tempted to say the same, so I can retreat below too, but I know if I stay up here to help if needed, Drew will actually let himself relax.
I’m less than thrilled to be stuck alone with my mother, but I snuggle deeper under my blankets and watch birds dive off our stern and try to work out what to say to Jonah when I see him. If this were last year, I’d be asking Mom’s advice, and knowing she’s five feet away but still not accessible to me in that way sucks big-time.
She catches me looking at her and her eyebrows rise. I turn away, but she obviously thinks I was giving her an opening because she asks, “Did you guys have a good time yesterday? You never told me everything you did.”
Because you were too busy grounding me.
I give her a carefully abbreviated version of our sight-seeing.
She has sunglasses obscuring her eyes, but I can feel her studying me carefully. “You covered a ton of territory for one day.”
“I guess. It’s a really cool city.”
“And Jonah? Is he a ‘really cool’ tour guide?” she asks, her voice teasing.
Why not just come out and ask what you want to know, Mom? It’s obvious what you’re hinting at. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s actually really nice.”
My mother steals a glance at the instruments dash, then takes a seat on the bench next to me. “Okay.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like an ‘okay’ the way you said it.”
“I do think he’s nice. I just think he’s sailing away, and that it’s going to catch up with him sooner or later.”
“Sailing away?”
“Yeah. Dropping out of school and taking off for Mexico is sailing away, in my opinion. Like running away, only by water.”
“Except you don’t know the whole story.”
She lifts her hand and drops it to her side in a What can I say? gesture. “I know what Christian’s told me.”
“Christian is taking off for Mexico and you don’t seem to find any fault in him.”
Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’ve realized which part about Drew’s recounting of yesterday has been tugging at me. It was the tidbit he so casually dropped in, that Christian took them to see the Yoda statue. Which therefore meant Christian spent the day—or at least part of it—with Mom.
“That’s different and you know it,” she says. “Christian isn’t sailing away from anything. He’s sailing to something. Retiring there has been his dream for a long time, and he’s worked hard to achieve it.”
“You don’t think Jonah is sailing to anything? How do you know he doesn’t have plans once he gets there?”
She slides her sunglasses onto her head. “I think Jonah’s plans very conveniently
fell into place when Christian needed someone to crew for him.”
“Wow, I guess you and Christian have had lots of time to talk over Jonah’s private issues. That’s so great for you both.”
“Honey, do you have a problem with me talking to Christian? And don’t think I didn’t notice your comment a few minutes ago about my not finding any fault in him. What’s up with that?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any issue with you talking to Christian. I have an issue with you talking to Christian about someone’s personal stuff behind his back because that’s disrespectful. I have a problem with what you might have said about me in return.”
She sighs and takes a sip from her water bottle. I’m careful not to look at her because hot tears are beginning to prickle behind my eyelids and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing them. I used to be able to have regular conversations with my mother, ones that weren’t laced with sarcasm and accusations, and the fact that this is our new default makes my heart hurt. So does even thinking about her with another man who’s not my dad, even though I know full well she’s already “been there, done that.”
“I have an issue with you maybe more than talking with Christian.” I speak softly, my face turned away.
Her bottle clangs on the deck. “Cassie, please! That’s not even a remote possibility.” She sounds genuinely shocked, but I’ve been well-schooled in the many ways Mom can deceive, and let’s be honest, if she was hot to trot with a wedding ring on her finger, what would hold her back now? I subtly wipe my eyes before turning to her with a raised eyebrow.
“No?” I challenge.
She holds my gaze. “God no! I’m not ready for that with anyone, and I don’t even want to guess when I will be. The divorce is barely finalized, for Pete’s sake.”
I so badly want to call her out on her righteous indignation right now. So. Very. Badly. But that’s a can of worms I refuse to open. Not here and not now. Instead I say softly, “If you say so.”
“I say so!” she exclaims. “Geez, Cassandra!”
Okay, okay, I get it. Nothing is going on with her and Christian. At least for now. Obviously that makes me happy, but I’m taken aback at how deep my sense of relief is. I exhale a long breath.
We’re both quiet after that, and the water slapping against the boat becomes a soothing rhythm. Mom’s eyes are closed and her face is tipped to the sun when I ask, “Which one are we?”
One of her eyes opens and studies me. “Which one are we what?”
“Are we sailing to or sailing away?”
Mom’s silent for so long I wonder if maybe she’s fallen asleep. I’m just about to get up and grab my laptop when she speaks. “Neither, I guess. I think we’re sailing in.”
I can’t contain my bark of a laugh. “Sailing in? What does that even mean?”
She sits up and levels her gaze at me. “It means I don’t think we’re necessarily running from anything, but I also don’t think we’re running to anything, since we won’t be staying once we drop the boat.”
She pops up halfway to glance at the depth meter before sitting back down. “I think in our instance it’s more of a ‘the journey is the destination’ thing. At least that’s what I hope this trip can be for us.”
At the rate we’re going, we’d have to sail to Tahiti and back to make any progress in our relationship.
I’m quiet again. After a few minutes, I stand. “I’m gonna check on Drew.”
My mother’s lips turn down, but she doesn’t say anything else until I’m halfway into the cabin, when she speaks to my back. “Good talk, Cass! How about we schedule fifteen or sixteen hundred more of those.”
I continue below without comment.
21
I still don’t have Jonah’s cell phone number, and when it becomes evident after anchoring in Half Moon Bay that we’ll all be doing our own thing for the night, I have no choice but to suck it up and try to reach him on the VHF.
With anyone else tuned to the same channel able to listen in, it’s quite possible this is going to be the most public rejection ever. At least Mom and Drew are up above, trading the depth meter for the anchor light and covering the sails for the night. I sigh and grab the transmitter.
“Sunny-Side Up to Reality Bytes. Reality Bytes, do you copy? Over.”
“Copy, plantita. What’s up? Over.”
Great. It’s Christian. Why did I think the universe would make this easy on me?
“Um, could I please speak with Jonah? Over.”
There’s a long wait, and then Jonah’s voice echoes through our cabin. “Hey.” There’s a pause and then, “Over.”
None of those three syllables give me much to go on as far as determining whether he’s written me off entirely or not, but they sound flat. Crap.
“Hey. Um, would you possibly want to ride ashore with me? I read there’s a really good ice-cream place. My treat? Over.”
His reply is quick. “I used to have regattas here, and the closest ice-cream shop is in the town of Half Moon Bay. Over.”
“Right. Isn’t that where we are? Over.”
From Tide Drifter, Abigail very helpfully chimes in with, “We’re in the bay named Half Moon, but the town is nine miles south. Probably more like eight if you’re measuring nautically. Over.” She clearly forgets to take her finger off the transmitter because next I hear Amy in the background yelling, “Leave those two be, Abby. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
This is not my life.
Screw it. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that . . .
“Thank you, Abigail. Jonah, can I interest you in a trip ashore with me to sit on some rocks and indulge in a dessert of whatever is nearby, most likely slimy seaweed soaked in salt water and sea lion droppings? Over.”
This time the smile in Jonah’s voice is unmistakable. “Why didn’t you start with that offer, Sprite? Pick me up in five. Over and out.”
I exhale and do a small happy dance.
Fingers crossed.
“Watch out for pelicans! They’re absolutely everywhere. Over.”
“Abigail, give me the transmitter. Sorry, Cassie! Over and out.”
I’m laughing as I turn down the radio and grab my sweatshirt.
But when I pick Jonah up minutes later, he’s subdued again and my mood shifts to match his. The dinghy’s motor is loud, so the only conversation we have is him asking if I’d prefer him to steer us ashore. Soon enough, though, we’re settled on a narrow strip of sand, and my time of reckoning is here.
I draw my knees to my chest and tuck my chin on them. “I owe you an apology for last night. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Accepted.”
I lift my head and face him. “What?”
“Accepted.” He shrugs. “I don’t need to know more, I just needed to know you were sorry.”
“So you don’t want to hear my reason for lying?” I’m totally thrown off-kilter by his response.
“Actually, I think I already know it. Or at least I’ve narrowed it down to two plausible things.”
He draws little circles in the sand with his finger.
Eventually I say, “Are you going to tell me them?”
Jonah peeks at me, then goes back to his sand art. “Yup. When I replayed our day in my head, I realized something. You, my actual friend, played your cards very close to your vest yesterday. Somehow you did an intake of my entire family history without telling me anything overly personal about yourself. Impressive feat.”
I didn’t—I wasn’t—that wasn’t intentional. More or less. But I don’t speak because I want to hear what he adds next.
“I then drew my highly unscientific conclusion, which is: you realized that sooner or later these Ivy League smarts I possess would kick into gear and I’d recognize your crafty evasive techniques and call you out on them. And maybe you suspected our outing with my friends would involve alcohol, which is widely proven to loosen tongues, thus making you even more likely to spill
secrets. So you figured you’d ditch me before that could happen.”
His delivery is hilarious and his assumptions so, so off base. But I’m mostly relieved he doesn’t think I was running scared from the things he told me about himself, which was my biggest worry all day. I couldn’t stand the thought of him thinking I was passing judgment on him or his family. I open my mouth to rebut his accusation, but he holds out a hand to stop me.
“Being a responsible detective, I do have an alternate hypothesis.”
I bite down on my smile before dropping my chin back onto my knees. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from an Ivy Leaguer such as yourself.”
“Back on the dock, before. I mean, not last night, but earlier. When I was saying good-bye after our day . . .”
I cup a handful of sand and let it fall through my fingers but avoid his eyes. I hope the moon isn’t bright enough for him to read my embarrassment, because I’m pretty sure I know exactly what he’s referring to.
“Right,” he says lightly. “Well, I thought perhaps you, um, misinterpreted what I meant to do when I was reaching for my hat. I thought maybe you assumed I was going to, uh, kiss you.” He rushes on before I can react. “And maybe you were too polite to come right out and tell me, ‘Hey, Jonah, possibly no one’s had the courage to mention this to you before, but you actually smell like the inside of a grizzly bear that’s been dead for three days and you should probably get that taken care of before you put the moves on anyone, but since I’m too much of a lady to say that to your face, I’ll just avoid any one-on-one time with you from here on out.’”
By the time he finishes I’m laughing, half at his words and half because I’m grateful he’s turning it into a joke instead of making it some incredibly awkward thing.
“You’ve been next to my allergic-to-the-idea-of-deodorant brother, right? If anyone smells like a three-days-dead grizzly bear . . .”
“Insides,” he says.
“What?”
He slides a mound of sand over my bare toes. “I said the insides of a three-days-dead grizzly bear.”