The Summer of Chasing Mermaids

by Sarah Ockler

I’m sorr

  He grabbed my hand, cut off the rest. “Forget about it. Adds character. And, ah, thanks for the list.” He released me and folded up my note about the boat’s issues, stuck it in his back pocket. “God, I love a woman who knows the difference between a mainsail and a jib.”

  He held my gaze, eyes glittering.

  Sometimes there’s a fine line between sexy and crass, and Christian walked it with the best of them.

  His looks helped, sure. The strong build, the confident stance, those mysterious green-gray-blue eyes. But more than that, it was his attentiveness. Just looking at him, a careful observer could see that he was there but not there, his thoughts in many places at once. Adrift, as I’d noticed earlier. But when he was with you, he was with you. In a shared moment, for however long it lasted—an instant, a minute, ten—he was the kind of guy who offered his undivided focus, no ­matter how many other girls might be in the room, no matter who he planned on taking home that night.

  Clever? Yes. Cocky? Sure. But dismissive? Not part of his ­repertoire.

  All of this I deduced standing too close to him on the deck of the Queen of, his sea-and-mangoes scent enveloping me.

  “Gotta be honest,” he said after a beat too long. “I’m not sure what to make of you.”

  My fingers reached instinctively for the shell necklace, gave it a twist.

  Those eyes . . . He had me pinned. He knew it. I matched him, unflinching.

  It was both thrilling and unnerving, the intensity that crested between us.

  The boat bobbed. Tipped. Straightened.

  And like a wave, the moment receded.

  Kirby’s words echoed, and I thought about the long line of “liberators” he’d soon face, once the rest of the summer renters arrived.

  “Seriously,” he said. “You know your boats.” It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t deny it. “Good sailing in the Caribbean?”

  I turned the page, wrote another message.

  Yes. Family owns an eco-resort in Tobago w/ small fleet nearby.

  I lead guest charters. Used to lead.

  When I looked up, he nodded toward the open maw of the sea, the waves that endlessly tumbled and turned as they made their way toward the Queen of.

  “Used to? When’s the last time you were out?”

  That was a question whose answer I couldn’t provide without trawling through the past, wading through pains too close and tender. The scar on my throat tingled.

  I shrugged and mouthed a quick response. Three, four months.

  “Formal?” he said.

  I held up four fingers and tried again. Months.

  “Four months,” he said, nodding. “I couldn’t go that long. I sail at school. Kayak, too, when I can. Sea’s in my blood.”

  Mine too, I mouthed, but he was looking out across the Pacific again. He didn’t know I’d said it, didn’t know I’d felt my own blood stir at his words. My pulse quickened, warmth rising inside as old ­passions—for the first time in months—surged ahead of more recent fears. I didn’t know the story with his old Vega, but Christian’s love for the sea was plain, as deep as the Pacific herself, and the liveliness in his eyes tugged at something in my heart, too.

  The doctors in Trinidad had warned me about possible nightmares. Post traumatic stress, they’d called it. Irrational fear, paranoia, depression, anger. All of those things they’d tried to prepare me for. But what they hadn’t talked about was betrayal. How something you’d known and loved forever could turn on you, could break your heart even as it left you alive.

  Now it felt as if the sea, that old treacherous lover, was giving me another chance.

  Was I wrong to trust her? To want to trust her?

  Did it matter?

  Again I thought of Lemon, kneeling in her garden to trim the herbs she’d planted, blending them into tonics and lotions. Pacing the shore in contented silence, scanning for treasures. Reading tarot cards and books about witchcraft in her reading nook at the end of the hallway. Cooking meals for me and Kirby and her guests in the big white-and-turquoise kitchen. Assembling her sculptures, piece by piece, humming her otherworldly music as she did.

  Home.

  All of these things buzzed through my blood anew, making my skin warm and tingly.

  I opened my mouth to make the offer at the same time Christian said, “What would it take to make you my first mate?”

  My first thought was, Boy, keep looking at me like that and I’ll be whatever you want. . . .

  But that was just my skin speaking, all the soft parts that hadn’t been touched by strong hands since Julien broke things off a month after the accident. I quickly dismissed the thought and looked up to the sky, as if to consider.

  He didn’t rush to fill in the silence, to sweeten the deal with some other promise, to convince me how much I’d like working with him. He just let it stand.

  Christian Kane, I was quickly learning, knew how far he could push. Knew when to silence the jokes, the flirting, the sarcasm. When to give a conversation space to breathe, to expand.

  The Vega took a hit from a large wave, rocked and rocked.

  Water splashed up the sides, splattered us.

  My heartbeat quickened, but my limbs remained steady.

  Still Christian waited. Watched. Waited.

  He didn’t know that I’d already decided, some time between last night and this morning, catching the sunrays between my fingers, spilling my blood into the sea. Finding him here, adrift and back again.

  I didn’t know that I’d already decided either.

  But somehow, I had.

  I pressed the Sharpie to the page. He stepped closer, mangoes-in-the-sea.

  I’m in.

  Chapter 7

  “Let’s box everything up for now, get a look at her from the bones up,” Christian said. We stood in the saloon together, wasting no time after my acceptance. “Sound like a good plan?”

  A good plan.

  No matter how far from home I’d gotten, the past had a way of tracking me, never giving up the chase. It snuck into my dreams, into those quiet moments when I’d been writing on the boat. It leaped out from the ocean, cresting on waves when I was certain I’d spotted a sea lion or an otter. Now, at Christian’s words, the past found me again.

  Last year, it was. Natalie and I sat in the shade of the cherry trees passing my notebook between us. We were supposed to be with Granna on a meet and greet for new resort guests, but we’d snuck out, ducked under the trees in a fit of giggles. We were working on our set list and choreography for Carnival. The festival was still months away, but the music had already taken us; we both knew it would hold us hostage until we finalized every word, every step.

  The sun was low on the horizon when we finished that day, and Natalie closed the notebook, satisfied. When our eyes locked, she said, “Gyal, we got ourselves a good plan here. Real good plan.”

  I missed us all over again, each time as raw as the first.

  “You okay?” Christian’s hand on my elbow tugged me from the grip of the past. When I nodded, his concern changed to relief, then excitement. “Shall we get this good time rolling?”

  Christian may have been pissed about the fact that his father made the bet without consulting him, but he wasn’t talking about it, and the idea of fixing up the boat seemed to buoy him. I felt it too, the lightness in him emanating outward. For me, fixing up the old Queen wasn’t like prepping for the stage at Carnival, or even for the show my sister and I put on for the resort guests. But it felt good having a purpose again, a project with a clear goal. A partner.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded, and together Christian and I got a system going. Mostly it involved him tossing things from the saloon through the companionway, and me catching them, dropping them into boxes.

  “You spent a lot of time here,
I think.” He flipped through a dark gray book I recognized as Moby Dick. “Yeah. This one was never my favorite. Look alive.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it.

  I caught it, dropped it in the box with my blankets. After the notebook incident, I’d decided to cast my lingering embarrassment out to sea. After all, Christian didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’d taken up residence in his boat, painted the walls with poems. Why should I be? Anyway, I meant my apology about the writing, and if he wouldn’t let me paint over it, the least I could do was work my boomsie off ­getting the boat regatta ready. Christian depended on me now; I’d put myself in his trust, as far as the boat went.

  But more than that, Lemon depended on me too. Even if she’d never say it.

  Still digging out the V-berth, Christian said, “Since you obviously like stories, allow me to regale you with the tale of how I came to own this fine fixer-upper.”

  I sat down on the saloon bench, starboard side, and Christian said, “Oh, it won’t take that long.”

  I rose.

  “Dad won her in a poker game in Coos Bay,” he said. “Two years ago. Later that summer, after Noah and I won the race on Never Flounder, Dad gave me the Vega. Said we’d build her up together, make her gleam until she outshone Katz’s boat.”

  I looked on, waiting for him to explain how the project got derailed.

  Christian’s laugh was bitter. “Sweetheart, this boat is so damn metaphorical it could bring tears to the soul.” He considered that a moment, then the fog lifted, his half smile back in place. He pointed at my chest. “That’s some poetry, for you. Tears to the soul. Write it down.”

  Behind the sarcasm, the clenched muscle of his jaw told me that we’d reached the end of the story—as much as he was willing to share, anyway. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a question.

  What’s Noah say about this bet?

  “Haven’t seen him yet—we just got into town yesterday. But I’m sure he’ll be pissed. We’ve always raced together. But our dads? Everyone knows they won’t back down from a bet.”

  “Never could,” a voice said from the docks. I knew it immediately, thanks to all those café runs with Kirby and the times I’d spent alone at the Black Pearl, doodling in my notebook over a cup of coffee.

  Noah gave us a smile, a broad and unabashed thing that lit up his face. Other than the lack of a suntan—common in this misty gray part of the world—he had the hot-surfer vibe going on, complete with blond dreads and an easygoing gait.

  Christian hopped off the boat, grabbed Noah in a rough hug.

  “Good to see you, man,” Noah said. “You’re tanner than I remember.”

  “Get out of Oregon once in a while, dude. Might see the sun,” Christian said. I was still on the boat, and he started to introduce us, but Noah waved him off.

  “Elyse and I go way back,” Noah said.

  Christian folded his arms over his chest. “That so?”

  Noah only shrugged. “But seriously, dude. What the hell with our dads, right?”

  Christian ran his hands through his hair, leaving it all sticking up. “They were in their chest-thumping, dick-­measuring glory last night.”

  “This sucks even harder than the lobster incident,” Noah said. “Remember that shit?” He turned to me to explain. “This was, like, ten years ago, right? The Cove used to have this lobster race for kids, back before people got all animal rights and put an end to it.”

  “The lobsters were fine. They should’ve put an end to our dads.” Christian shook his head, laughing at the memory. “Our fathers made one of their stupid bets. The loser’s dad was supposed to buy fresh lobsters for the winner for the rest of the summer.”

  What happened? I mouthed.

  “We both lost,” Noah said. “Because Christian’s jerk-off lobster attacked mine, and all the other lobsters piled up, and everyone freaked. A bunch of kids started crying, and parents were running around chasing the lobsters back into the ocean.”

  “My lobster was not a jerk-off,” Christian said. “He just had some anger issues.”

  “Dude.” Noah laughed. “My father never forgave me for losing that race. He still gets twitchy around lobsters.”

  “My dad’s like that with swordfish. Remember that one?”

  Noah sighed. “Remind me not to have kids. It’s our sworn duty not to pass this shit on to them.”

  “Agreed,” Christian said.

  I pulled out my notebook, wrote another question for them:

  What if you guys just said no? Didn’t race?

  They both bristled.

  “The whole sea-in-the-blood thing,” Christian said. “Can’t not race.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair again. “Anyway, you don’t say no to sirs Wesley and Anderson. If Noah and I blew them off, we’d be out on our asses. We’d probably have to sleep at the Black Pearl. Or maybe move in with you guys.”

  Not Vanessa? As soon as my lips formed her name, I regretted it.

  Christian only laughed. “For a quiet chick, you ask a lot of questions.”

  I left it at that, wondering if he’d backpedal, try to erase the “quiet” as if it were some kind of unintentional insult. Others had, especially in Oregon. The polite state, it was. The smile-bright-and-keep-your-thoughts-buried state.

  But this boy let the joke stand.

  Maybe Kirby, well-intentioned as she was, was wrong about Christian Kane.

  At least a little bit.

  After a final sweep of the saloon, Christian and I packed up the remaning items, and Noah helped us stack the boxes on the dock. After I handed over the last of them, I saw a tiny blond boy materialize from a spot in the distance, running fast and clattering with gear: flippers, scuba mask, a bucket full of shovels and sand molds.

  “Sebastian! Over here, bud!” Christian called with a wave. I noticed Mrs. Kane then too—she waved when she saw us, then turned back toward the houses, probably returning to her work.

  The kid lit up, zipping toward us with a turbo boost of energy. When he reached us, Noah scooped him into his arms for a welcome hug, then transported the little guy onto the boat. I grabbed his hands, held on until he got his footing.

  “All right, dudes,” Noah said. “Gotta head to work. Shift starts in ten. Stop by later if you’re hungry.” He and Christian exchanged a fist bump.

  “Guess this is it,” Christian said. “From now on, we’re mortal pirate enemies.”

  “Arrrrgh,” Noah said with a fierceness that surprised me. “Oh, but we’re still on for crabbing next week, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Christian said. “Just don’t bring your dad.”

  As he backed up along the dock toward the marina, Noah pointed at Christian and smiled. “Same, dude.”

  “You guys cool to hang out a minute?” Christian asked once Noah had disappeared. He pointed in the distance toward a sleek ­yellow-and-blue boat at the other end of the marina. “That’s the Never Flounder. I need to do a quick recon. Be right back.”

  “Hey.” Sebastian set down all his stuff, then looked up at me with a wide grin. “You’re the birthday cake girl.”

  I smiled and held up my hands, guilty as charged.

  Sebastian sat down on the bench, gesturing for me to follow.

  “Here’s a game I just invented,” he said as I sat beside him. “Let’s pretend we’re underwater. Only it’s like a dream, because we can breathe underwater and we can talk.”

  I frowned and pointed to my throat. Can’t talk, I mouthed. No voice.

  “Are you a mermaid?” he asked.

  I grinned. Maybe.

  After regarding me with open curiosity for several long but not uncomfortable moments, Sebastian said, “I read a story about a mermaid who couldn’t talk because the sea witch cut out her tongue.”

  I stuck out my tongue to alleviate his conce
rn.

  Relived, he said, “Did you know some mermaids are boys?”

  He was right. I wondered if he’d read about the mermaids back home. Men, the old ones. Maybe Granna could send over some of the books, the island fairy tales she’d read to us growing up—I’d have to ask her next time we Skyped.

  I pulled out my notebook and made a quick sketch for him, something I remembered from those stories. He stayed utterly silent, watching each stroke with awe. At the bottom, I wrote:

  A mermaid from the Caribbean Sea, where I used to live.

  When I tore out the page and handed it to him, he said, “I can keep this?”

  I nodded. Sebastian considered me with those wide, genuine eyes, and when he reached up toward my throat, I didn’t flinch. His pink fingers found the shell around my neck, touched it softly. He lifted it and saw the scar. His brow furrowed.

  He whispered, “Is your voice inside the shell?”

  I smiled a little sadly.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “We don’t have to talk to be friends.”

  “What are you two conspiring about over here?” Christian was back, standing on the dock with his arms folded. I wondered how long he’d been watching us, how much he’d heard.

  “I’m goin’ on a mermaid hunt,” Sebastian said, as if this explained everything. He rose from the bench and gathered up his gear. A thin silver camera dangled from a strap around his wrist.

  “Think this is the year you’ll find her?” Christian asked.

  Find who? I wanted to know.

  “Remember when I was telling you about Atargatis?” Sebastian said. Even his curls bounced with excitement. “She used to be a star, and then this one time she fell in love with a shepherd. And he loved her too, so he was always watching her. But he should’ve been paying attention to where he was going, because one night he tripped and fell into the sea and then he died.”

  My eyes widened. Sebastian was not one for the cartoon versions of fairy tales.

  “It’s true,” he said. “Right, Christian?”

  Christian nodded. “According to the legend, she was so heart­broken and guilty over the death of her lover that she broke her oaths with the moon and the gods, and flung herself into the sea. She wanted to drown so she could find him again.”