The Tidewater Tales

by John Barth

  Katherine Sherritt regarded Peter Sagamore across our cockpit in 1970 and does likewise now, a decade later. It looked to her, she declared back then with furrowed brow, as though we two really had little in common. He’s a solitary; she likes people. She’s an organizer (hasn’t even told him yet about ASPS, which she and May founded in ‘69); he won’t even join the Authors Guild or the American Association of University Professors. She’s a citizen, a true participating democrat; he seldom even votes. He’s fairly indifferent to and distant from his family; she loves hers busily, all save shitful Will. She’s been given the best of everything since before she was born; as far as she can gather, he never had the best of anything until as an adult he achieved it for himself. What were we doing on that boat together?

  Well, what are we? Peter asks her. Apples and Oranges hold their breath.

  Kath’s gray eyes flash. Just taking the long way home, she says as she said then, and reached and reaches out her left hand. Grave Peter does/did with it what she did with his at the Katherine Anne Porter party: palm to palm, fingers up, tips kissing and then slowly spread—and then slips his between hers and squeezes. Just now she is too offspring-fraught to do more than smile; but at that shipboard squeeze in October 70 she was off her seat with a bound and upon him.

  At this point our twin narratives had fetched us wing and wing through the warming forenoon, past Bloody Point aport and across the mouth of Eastern Bay; we were bearing directly for Poplar Island: a wooded, all but uninhabited little archipelago off the Eastern Shore. Anchor this boat or beach it, K. Sherritt ordered, thrusting our clasped hands deep into her lap; I’m going off in my Levi’s. Growled Peter Me too: We’ll run under the lee of Poplar there. Fifteen minutes. Too long, groaned K, working his lap now. Can’t we drop the fucking anchor right here?

  That is the one we dropped, in the lee of nothing, right there on the eight-foot shoal just north of Poplar Island. Bit of wave action, but good holding ground. Dropped anchor, sails, inhibitions. As Peter set the hook, Kath scrambled below; she was shoes off and out of her jeans by the time he came down the companionway. Got himself proper jumped, he did: She was at his belt, his fly. But he couldn’t wait, either: dropped to his knees on the cabin sole, whisked her undies down—nope, canary yellow—grabbed both cool buttocks and buried his face in fleece. Kath clutched handfuls of his curls, she loves them, held his head there while she stepped out of those step-ins and pulled us both to the port settee. Bit of a flurry then: Each wanted all the other’s duds off to see it again, inspect, savor; but who could hold still for that? He managed to kick free his Topsiders and ankle-down his jeans and drawers, and that was it: Our woman’s knees were up, thighs open (socks on); with one hand she seized his jersey-front, his penis with the other; she pulled him on, and even as she lifted to take the thrust, we felt him fire at our first deep stroke.

  Which was therefore also our last, for the time being. Unexpectedly shot, the man went limp at once and dropped laughing atop her. She was chuckling too, at our hurry, but hooked her legs behind his back, reached down under to hold him literally by the balls, and kept in place his wet little slip there while we kissed, nibbled ears, murmured Less Is More, and rubbed Katherine Shorter Sherritt to climax. Which, after all (Peter Sagamore could not avoid reflecting with some small chagrin), her friend May Jump could have fetched her to about as well.

  However, we were unburdened then of urgency. Leisurely now, though it was not summertime in Story’s cabin, we finished undressing, each for the other’s delectation, and fixed ourselves a lunch of tea and tuna, admiring each other’s bodies at their ease in our slightly pitching craft. Much touching the while: her shoulderblade, his butt and cleft; light buss of collarbone, underside of breast. Few words. In mid-salad, Kate felt and announced a great gush from her of Peter’s semen; not to stain the settee cushion, she tidily tucked her lunch napkin into the fold of her vulva and retired to the head compartment to clean up. Those several movements—tucking that napkin; sliding out from behind the dinette table, her hair down to her breasts; moving sideways between him and the table leaf to get through the narrow cabin to the head—restirred P.S. past leaving her alone. Nuzzled those buns as they passed before him (she’d expected he might); followed her in there, mighty close quarters; stood before her while she did her business—he wants to watch her do everything always, naked and clothed, he finds her ordinary movements that appealing. She was not displeased. Since there he hung, she cleaned him with a tissue for the pleasure of handling his equipment and then sipped him back to size.

  No fans of the sexually explicit, our children ask whether that tuna salad ever got eaten. Sure it did, dearies, every bite, and our tea drunk dry, dishes washed, bodies more or less reclothed, sails reraised, anchor weighed and voyage voyaged, all in time’s fullness. But there was no hurry; rarely has been since, from that hot first stroke to this present point of your parents’ pen. We paused an age off Poplar Island, making second love; the Bay’s geology was in greater haste than we. No slight meant to lesbian pleasures, but good May Jump cannot do this, or have that done, unless with artifice with which our Kate will have no truck. Less became More, More Most, in no hurry, and this time stayed that way a proper while. When presently we sailed again, though our vessel was the same, we were a different crew, upon a different voyage.

  Where to? It scarcely mattered. On the original Columbus Day, light left the Chesapeake about six-thirty Algonquin time. Given daylight saving, not quite spent, and a two-o’clock second start, we had yet five hours plus to fetch wherever. Fifteen miles to Nopoint Point at, say, four knots in the easy air, less something for the tide (now turned), gives home by dark if we had an engine to push us through Knapps Narrows into the Choptank. Said happy Kate Who cares? We were beside ourselves in Story’s cockpit with satisfaction. The forecast was clear; the wind iffy. We could have taken the long way around, under Tilghman Island, and sailed the last leg after dark, wind permitting; but Peter was loath to risk a repeat of last month’s fog. What’s more, if May’d done us her favor, wouldn’t the Sherritts have the Coast Guard out in force by dusk?

  Well, yes. Unable to worry, but resolved not to worry others, we decided to heave to off the Narrows and hitch a ride through behind the first boat willing to tow us, dropping off just before the bridge to pay-phone Hank and Irm. If we could then scrounge a second tow out into the river, we’d aim for Nopoint Point as long as the breeze held, or scull to the nearest shelter should it fail. If we could not (scrounge a second tow), we’d either ride the tide back into the Bay and anchor for the night in empty Poplar Island Harbor or leave Story tied up where she is, near this hypothetical pay-phone, and sleep aboard.

  Alternatively, of course, we could have asked the Sherritts to send a car for Kate or both of us; it’s not a long drive, and Peter could have gone his way next morning. But we knew we weren’t going to do that: We’d too much yet to say to each other, even in word language, before we rejoined the world. We had scarcely broached e.g. the weighty subjects of library science and literary art: how we had got ourselves involved therein and what we hoped to accomplish. Hadn’t touched What next? with which our hearts were full. Oh, we scrounged those tows, both the first and the second—first behind an obliging oysterman coming home from work, who likely had no use for pleasure sailors but thought we needed help; second behind an elegant Canadian yawl en leisurely route from Toronto down the Intracoastal to winter in Florida—and Kath made her call (no May at Nopoint Point, but she had faithfully phoned the Sherritts, and so K was glad she did: told Mom and Dad she’d get there when she got there, not to worry, and she loved them; tried to call May as well: line busy). But as we rode out then behind Moonraker, Dawn Treader, Whatever (the oysterman had been Rosie B. Giles), we were arms around each other and grinning, not at hokey yacht names. There was indeed just enough breeze yet to sail. When Sundance dropped our line at Peter’s signal and puttered off eastward into the wide Choptank, Kate hung a left and aime
d us north, toward Harris Creek.

  Where to? our man called back from the mast. She’d been enjoying the sight of him working there, barefoot and shirtless now in Indian-summer late afternoon: raising sails, coiling with easy motion halyards and towline. She was thinking things, too—making comparisons, in fact—and didn’t answer him right off. He admired the way she handled herself there in the cockpit, steering with one brown leg while she hauled in jib and mainsheets. She’s barefoot too, jeans rolled to the knee, denim shirttail out and knotted in front, sleeves rolled, top three or four buttons open. Good Marcie B. had been strictly a fair-weather sailor; this one he could imagine weathering storms. He was pleased to stay put awhile and watch her trim our sails; push her hair back and check windvane, shoreline, compass, chart. She saw him watching her. Smiled. Said Dun Cove?

  THAT’S THE END OF OUR STORY?

  ask To and Fro, disappointed: the story of Day Zero in Dun Cove?

  Nope: That’s its beginning. At this point in Nineteen Eighty, our paired narratives have fetched us through dinner and cleanup; we’re back in the cockpit at half after eight, enjoying the warm last light and considering yet another family swim. It goes without saying that between Peter Sagamore and Katherine Sherritt, the long story we’ve just told goes without telling: We have reminisced, in fact but nowise in full, about our meet and our remeet, our first Chesapeake night together, here aboard Story here in Dun Cove, which led to a weekend which led to much more and which is not done yet, though its culmination may be said to be yourselves. But in October Seventy it was just four-thirty when we ghosted out of Harris Creek into this cove, turned right, sculled up into the fork, and dropped anchor for the night in approximately this very spot. Couple of hours of daylight left, but we wanted our attention free of sailing. A few other yachts rode at anchor; a few more might yet come in; but that time of year there’s privacy aplenty. Then as now it was warm enough to swim, though the autumn air would cool fast as the sun set. The sea nettles, however, were at fleet strength. The water was theirs; even the canvas bucketfuls we would haul up for foredeck showers must be inspected for medusae before we dumped them on each other’s goosebumped skin.

  That is what soon we did, pour le sport and because a warm day’s sail is well washed off. But at first, distracted now by neither boat-tending nor imperious desire, we shared a short self-conscious spell, a different sort of What next. Anchor down, sails furled, Dun Cove examined and agreed to be mighty handsome but alas unswimmable, we sat about wondering, until, without realizing what she was doing, Sherritt set Sagamore a test. So what do you think? she found herself asking when our eyes next met across this famous cockpit. She could scarcely herself have said about what, much less have understood that About what? would have been the wrong reply—until her new lover smiled, held out both hands, and said I think so!

  He was right. Unease dispersed; we resumed the dialogue that continues yet. God bless a sailboat! We chattered away now, as busy being new friends as lovers. In time, of course, our very animation would rearouse us: There was that pouch in Peter’s pants, the peep of Kate’s free breasts from her knotted workshirt, the rest of America to be discovered. We would soak, soap, and rinse each other’s skin with buckets of Dun Cove; go off again like fireworks in the cabin—but you’ve had enough of that for this chapter. Eventually we’d settle down, congratulate ourselves with wine upon our good fortune, make late dinner, even sleep (not well) in each other’s arms in Story’s largest too-small berth. Would we go together then tomorrow to Nopoint Point? Introduce Pete to Hank and Irm and Chip, and spend the holiday weekend there, pretty obviously lovers? Would we in fact leave Story moored in Sherritt Cove, borrow a spare car to get back across the Bay, and do our voyage in reverse the following weekend? Would we, however, in that four-day interval, crave each other’s company to the point of long nightly phone calls and a Thursday dinner date? Would we, on the homeward sail, weather our first foul weather of both sorts (rain, plus a thoughtless crack of Peter’s re May that fired into anger K’s self-reproach at having just quarreled with her over the obvious subject), so satisfactorily that we understood by weekend’s end that we wanted to be together much much more? Were we, on the strength of one week’s reacquaintance, ready to begin a life together? I think so!

  UH-OH.

  Off to bed now, Mother Kate says to our brood; but just as they begin to settle down in her hold, Peter goes Uh-oh. He’s looking south, down-fork, from where a warm light air is just beginning to stir and swing us. Katherine looks too, and lets go a Lithuanian obscenity—she picks these things up in her line of work—that sounds something like “roopoogee” and means something like “pigdogdamn” at sight of a familiar big blue-and-white center-cockpit double-headsail ketch gliding into Dun Cove in the waning light. That will be Irma there at the wheel, though we can barely make her out; Andrew on the bowsprit (transferred from the chase boat by Bobby Henry en route home) unlashing the anchor; Henry Sherritt manning the seven-by-fifties. Presumably he espies us; Katydid IV swings up our way. Demonstrative Kath hollers Double damn! and springs to our foredeck, alarming the household; does the TV trick again, peeling out of maternity shorts and halter and exposing herself to broad view, feet apart and arms akimbo. She calls back to Peter to come do likewise; help; they’ve probably got Jack Bass aboard too, in case she delivers in Dun Cove. But Pete won’t return overzealous generosity with offense. Thinking of shrug-shouldered Fritz and Nora, he shakes his head, fetches out our own binoculars, watches amused to see who wins.

  It is a standoff. Katydid steams close enough for Hank to see what his daughter’s not wearing; sharp-eyed Irm and bright-eyed Andy, forewarned by the afternoon preview, have guessed already. Signals are given; the ketch slows in reverse. Henry Sherritt raises the binocs again, quickly puts them down, picks up the cockpit mike, realizes we’re not going to be tuned in, maybe considers the hailer (there’s a loudspeaker at his mainmast spreaders for hailing purposes and giving foredeck instructions in noisy weather), says something in exasperated Episcopalian. Not for the first time, Peter wonders why they do not stand their ground, come right alongside if they want to: It’s just their naked, pregnant, thirty-nine-year-old willful daughter, and Chip is beyond reembarrassing in this particular; he’s grinning and waving at us. Let the naughty girl beaver their bowsprit, if that’s her pleasure; Hank ought to cluck tongue and proceed with the evening. But Kate knows her dad: K IV withdraws a discreet way down-cove and anchors, still within view but at soft-focus range, from where one can tell at seven magnifications that a person’s naked, but can’t really see anything.

  I swear! K cries moving aft, annoyed nearly to tears. P gives her a hand and says Look now. Sure enough, a sleek Ericson sloop, Jack and Joan Bass’s Off Call, is sliding in to raft up with K IV. Relax, Peter advises, and she really tries to, but one can’t do that, try to relax. Wails Katherine Why don’t they leave us alone? Her husband, still thinking of his indifferent parenting, reminds her We know why.

  So she does in fact manage to calm down by the time Andrew Sherritt reaches us on his Windsurfer (that southerly has settled in now, balmy, steady). Her brother rounds up two yards astern, not to bang us; calls Hi; and in a display of sailboardsmanship even manages to lower mast, boom, and sail into the water without losing his balance. He’s wearing a ski belt and a T-shirt with the legend HEDONISTS HAVE MORE FUN; we’ve heard that before. Hi yourself, his sister says, slumped glum in her seat: Come aboard if you want; I’ll put clothes on. Sure enough, now-worldly Andy says not for his sake; if he was his dad, he’d’ve thrown a moon right back at her. Says Peter Good man; says Katherine If you were Dad: subjunctive mood. Couldn’t they park in some other creek? You’re too hard on them, Chip chides, still balancing his skinny body on the drifting board; why not come over and be nice? Peter Sagamore smiles at his wife. She’s smiling too now, but says No, and they’re not to waste time radioing, either; Andrew may report that she’s sorry again for misbehaving again, but she’l
l do it again if they crowd us again, even if she has to be sorry again again. It’s privacy or privates.

  The boy shrugs, almost goes over. He and the board are drifting up-fork. Want to windsurf, Pete? There’s no nettles. The man does indeed. Reading his muscles, Kath says Do it; it’s a perfect evening; my time will come. She pulls a towel over her lap for Andy’s benefit when the men change places, but doesn’t bother covering her breasts. The light’s going; anyhow, anytime now there’ll be a suckling suckling each. Chip drips aboard, squeezes out and hangs up his T-shirt—a present from May Jump from Ocean City, he announces—dries off, digs a Coke from the icebox, lounges on Peter’s seat, and, shivering under a towel, asks Kath questions about James Joyce’s early short story “Araby,” which he has read several times that afternoon at our recent suggestion. He understands that times were different then; even so, that twelve-or thirteen-year-old boy was a real dork.

  You’ve never felt shy with girls yourself? his sister queries. In over your head? Or worked up in a way that you realize you’re not experienced enough yet to handle? She doesn’t mean just sex; she means what the lad in the story feels for his friend’s older sister but can’t effectively follow up on. You know: first love.