Sea Over Bow

by Linda Kenyon

  I close the computer with a grin.

  After lunch, it’s my turn to go down for a serious nap, but it’s hard to sleep in the daytime, I just doze, really. From time to time I roll over onto my back, look up through the companionway. The wind ruffles Chris’s hair as he scans the horizon for boats. So scruffy. But so handsome. This is how he looked the first time I met him.

  I was reading the ingredients on the back of a box of muesli when a voice at the end of the aisle cried, “Linda!”

  It was Cindy, a woman I used to work with. We had lost touch a few years ago, and now here she was, looking very different than I remembered. She was growing out her hair, and had highlighted it, I think, or else it was sunbleached.

  “This is my boyfriend Chris,” she said, waving towards the tall, dark-haired man standing behind her. “We’ve been sailing all summer, just home for a few days,” she said breezily. That explained her tanned face and windblown hair.

  This guy is trouble, I thought to myself. Too good-looking. Probably full of himself. But there was something about the way he looked me straight in the eye, he was seeing me, really seeing me. It was startling. Suddenly I wished I had changed before coming to the grocery store. My husband Brad and I had stopped in on our way back from our Sunday morning walk in the woods and I was wearing a pair of faded jeans, a work shirt, and my old hiking boots. My hand wandered to my hair. Was the blue jay feather still tucked behind my ear?

  But he didn’t look much better. Clearly he hadn’t showered — his hair looked like he had combed it with his fingers and there was dark stubble on his chin. And his khaki pants and faded black T-shirt had seen many days of wear. I looked down at his feet. Boat shoes. Without socks. My mother had warned me about men who don’t wear socks.

  But there was something about him. He looked perfectly at ease, not at all self-conscious. This is a man who is comfortable in his own skin, I thought.

  “Hey! Am I ever going to get my nap?” Chris calls from the cockpit.

  I must have fallen into a sound sleep. I smile up at him, stretch lazily.

  “Maybe,” I say, pulling the light blanket up to my chin.

  He’s down the ladder in a flash, tumbles me off the settee.

  “Get up, you lazy wench!”

  He dives in, closes his eyes, starts snoring softly. Can he really fall asleep that quickly?

  “Chris?”

  I guess so.

  Around mid-afternoon, the wind dies altogether and the spinnaker collapses — no, nothing as sudden as that. It sighs into an exhausted curtain of silky fabric, plasters itself against the rigging, then from time to time rouses itself to flutter around feebly in search of wind before giving up again. I should take it down, but it’s a two-person job and I don’t want to wake Chris. I try to keep the boat more or less on course, but it’s not easy when we’re moving so slowly. I look down. The knotmeter reads 0.0. And the chart plotter is blank except for the words Atlantic Ocean.

  But we’re not alone out here — a tropicbird is following us, looking for fish in our wake, perhaps? Uh oh. He has his eye on the pink plastic squid dangling from the fishing line on the stern. I go back and tuck the lure under a coil of rope. (No, don’t call it rope.) The tropicbird keeps a close eye on what I’m doing. Hey, that’s my squid.

  As he hangs in the air above me, I admire his long white tail feather, wonder how on earth he can walk with his feet set so far back on his body. They’re practically under his tail. I go below as quietly as I can, grab my bird book.

  He can’t, it turns out. On land, tropicbirds can move only by pushing themselves forward with their tiny, underdeveloped legs and feet. They spend most of their time at sea, alone or in pairs. Their relationship to other living birds is unclear, the book says. They seem to have no close relatives.

  “Are you all alone?” I ask the bird. He doesn’t answer.

  “Time to motor,” Chris says, popping up through the companionway, startling me. Somehow, even asleep, he has sensed that we’ve stopped moving altogether.

  “See my new friend?” I say. But the tropicbird is disappearing in the distance, not interested in us now that the squid seems to be gone.

  We go forward and take the spinnaker down, stow it in the V-berth. Then Chris starts the engine and takes the helm while I go down to make supper. It’s chicken tonight, poached in coconut milk and lime juice, with a little green curry paste stirred in to make it interesting. I shred some carrots and snow peas to toss into the pan at the last minute. A pot of rice bubbles on the other burner. I’ll slice up a ripe mango for dessert.

  At 6:30 Chris gathers up the dishes and goes down to listen to Chris Parker’s evening forecast.

  “Perfect weather for the next few days,” he reports, taking off his headphones and switching off the radio. “Winds light and variable, waves less than a metre. So far so good!”

  We run through the pre-night checklist — trilight at the top of the mast on, check, flashlight in easy reach, check, binoculars, check. I send Chris down to nap again before he takes the first night watch, then I settle in, feet stretched out in front of me. I watch as the sun dips lower, lower. It passes through a thin band of clouds on the horizon, which glow red, briefly, then fade to pink. The sun flashes between the clouds and the sea, then disappears into the water. I watch as the clouds fade to a soft purple, then darken to grey. I can no longer make out waves in the distance. Then I can’t make them out beside the boat. Until the moon rises, we’re sailing by the light of the stars, which are surprisingly bright.

  I look around the cockpit. This will be my world for the next three weeks. A teak bench long enough for Chris to lie down on curves along the back of the cockpit. It’s as beautiful as a piece of fine furniture, each board cut and fitted by hand — Chris’s hand, this time. We’ve had a thick foam cushion custom made for the bench, and we bring pillows up from below, and blankets, when it’s cold. It’s a comfortable place to nest. Too comfortable sometimes. Staying awake on the night watch can be a challenge.

  We’re trying a new watch system on this journey. Six-hour night watches are just too long, we discovered on our seven-day passage from the Bahamas to the British Virgin Islands. During the day we will take turns at the helm, adjusting the sails, watching for other ships, keeping an eye on the weather, while the other person naps in the cockpit or reads or does little boat chores. In the afternoon we will each take a long nap, then at 6:00 pm, the night watches will begin. I’ll do 6:00 to 9:00 pm, Chris will do 9:00 pm to midnight, I’ll do midnight to 3:00 am, and Chris will do 3:00 to 6:00 am.

  Along the sides of the cockpit are two narrow teak benches, not so comfortable but a good place to sit when the boat is heeled over — you can wedge your feet against the opposite bench and keep yourself more or less level. They are also a good place to stand.

  I put one foot on each of the two side benches, lean on the top of the windshield, which is of course not called a windshield but a spray dodger. From here I have an unobstructed view of the night sky. The breeze ruffles my hair as I watch the stars. I have to remind myself to look around for other ships every now and then, though we still haven’t seen another ship since we left Antigua.

  But what’s that? A pinprick of light the horizon. I jump down from my perch, switch the radar on. Nope. Nothing. But I can see something, and it’s getting bigger, which means it’s coming closer. I’m reaching for the binoculars when the now-yellowish light resolves itself into a crescent as it rises out of the sea. It’s the moon, of course.

  It’s a lot easier to sleep once it’s dark and at 9:00 pm I have to go below and wake Chris up. Before I go to bed, I make him a thermos of coffee and hand it up to him along with a little treat.

  “Cookies! I didn’t know we had cookies,” he says, ripping open the cellophane package.

  I’ve hidden the night watch treats under my T-shirts — if he finds them, they’ll be g
one in a week. Or maybe a night.

  I sleep soundly and wake at midnight feeling rested and ready to stand my watch. Chris gives me a quick kiss then dives into the still-warm berth, pulls the covers up to his chin and starts snoring. Like most sailors, he can fall asleep instantly. He also wakes at the slightest sound — I try not to adjust the sails while he’s asleep or he leaps out of bed fully alert and ready to deal with whatever is going on.

  I step up onto the side benches again, lean on the dodger. The moon has risen but the stars are as bright as before. Brighter, even. I scan for boats. Nothing.

  So much room out here. So much time to think.

  I took possession of the condo on the first of January — was it really just four years ago? It feels like a lifetime. I picked up the keys from the real estate developer’s office, but it was another week before I could bring myself to go there. This is silly, I told myself. You’ll be moving in at the end of the month.

  I had bought a unit in an old school in downtown Waterloo that was being converted into condos. Cindy and Chris lived there, so at least there would be someone I knew in the building. I was nervous about living alone

  I made myself stop in on the way home from work. With a heavy heart, I turned the key in the lock, fumbled for the light switch. The door clicked softly shut behind me and there I stood in my long black coat and winter boots, alone in my condo for the first time. The heat was off — I could see my breath. Rush hour traffic was lined up on the street outside my window, exhaust rising in the still night air. The light changed. A delivery truck honked impatiently. Traffic began to move. Home, I thought. They’re all going home. For dinner.

  I made myself look around the condo. The workers had finished moving the wall, converting what had been the library of the old school into a one-bedroom unit rather than two. I wanted there to be room for the dining room table from the farm, and anyway, what did I need a second bedroom for? The painters had almost finished. Was green the right colour after all? Was it too dark? I’d never chosen paint colours on my own before.

  Look at you. You can’t even pick a paint colour.

  I made myself walk into the little galley kitchen, stood in front of the sink, leaned on the granite counter. Cooking for one. After all these years. How would I do it? I walked quickly to the door, switched off the light, locked the door behind me.

  I climb down from my perch, check our course and speed, look at the oil and temperature gauges, scan the horizon for ships — nothing. I curl up on the bench, gaze out at the ribbon of moonlight on the water behind us.

  It was snowing heavily the day I moved in. Where do you want this? the movers would ask. Just put it there, I would say, waving my hand vaguely. I wanted it to be over, wanted them out of there, wanted nothing more than to be alone.

  And then I was.

  I scooped up Emily, lay down on the couch, and hugged my little bulldog. She squirmed to be let down, but I held her tightly, looked up at the strange new ceiling, listened to the sound of traffic outside my window. They’re all going home.

  The next morning my sister Brenda called to check in on me.

  “How’s the unpacking going?” she asked.

  “Um, not very well, actually. I can’t decide where to put things. I was wondering, could you come over and help me?”

  “Of course. I have to take Anna for her three-month check-up this morning, but that shouldn’t take long.”

  It was two o’clock before Brenda appeared at my door. She handed me the baby, stamped the snow from her boots, shrugged out of her L.L. Bean parka.

  “Sorry I’m so late. It’s snowing like crazy,” she said, pulling off her toque and running her fingers through her dark hair, so much shorter now. “The drive took forever. Okay, where do we start?”

  “My books,” I said, pointing to a huge pile of boxes in the corner.

  “How do you want them?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Right,” she said, trying to hide her concern. She knew I’d spent money I didn’t have on custom-built floor-to ceiling bookshelves. No more storing my books in boxes in the basement.

  “Let’s just put them on the shelves for now. You can rearrange them later.”

  As we unpacked box after box, I came across books I’d forgotten I had. My tiny perfect Edward Gorey books. I flipped open my favourite, The Gashlycrumb Tinies.

  A is for Amy who fell down the stairs.

  B is for Basil assaulted by bears.

  All these hapless children meeting untimely deaths. I flipped to Neville, who died of ennui. There he was, staring out the window, the top of his tiny head just peeking over the sill.

  We worked until the light began to fade, Anna sleeping happily in the little nest of pillows we’d made for her on the couch, Emily snuggled up beside her, snoring as only a bulldog can. I’m not sure which one was sweeter, Anna in her soft pink sleeper or Emily. I sat down beside my little dog, stroked her smooth tawny-brown coat, her bat-like ears which perked straight up, even as she slept, her wrinkled face, her black button of a nose.

  “I’ve got to go,” Brenda said. She woke Anna gently and began zipping her into her snowsuit. “What are you having for supper?”

  “I’ve got something in the fridge,” I said.

  She knew I was lying. She rummaged in her bag. “Here,” she said, handing me a plastic freezer container. “It’s eggplant and noodles. Just throw it in the oven for half an hour.”

  “Thanks, Beek.”

  Don’t go, I wanted to say to her. Please stay. I need you. Her daughter needed her more, I understood that. But it didn’t make it any easier to see her go.

  She hesitated at the door, gave me a big hug, then held me at arm’s length, squeezed my shoulders tightly.

  “You’ll be all right, you know. Just give it time.”

  P is for Prue trampled flat in a brawl. She didn’t see it coming. How could she? Her mother has sent her to fetch her father home from the bar. She’s just being a good little girl. She reaches for the door handle, has to stand on her tiptoes, she’s so tiny. And then.

  A school of flying fish bursts out of the water off our port bow, trying to avoid us, perhaps, or maybe pursued by something under water. Or perhaps they’re just flying for the sheer joy of it. I often have to pick them off the deck in the morning, tiny creatures, maybe five inches long, with big dark eyes that give them a look of perpetual surprise. Am I supposed to be flying? Or maybe, what’s this boat doing out here?

  What are you doing out here? You’re afraid of everything.

  May 24

  Day 3

  “You’re quiet this morning.”

  It’s another perfect day. The winds have picked up a little and we’ve put the genoa back out, switched the engine off. We’re sailing again.

  “Just thinking,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “About what?” he asks, refilling my coffee mug, topping up his.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.” He’s a brave man.

  So I tell him. It’s May 24th. Today would have been my thirtieth wedding anniversary.

  “Why is it still so hard for me?”

  Because you can’t let go. You’re pathetic.

  “These things take time,” Chris says.

  He puts his cup down, reaches for the winch handle, tightens the sheet slightly so the genoa catches a little more of the light winds. I watch it belly out with each gentle gust, then slacken. The sun is warm on my face.

  I had been dreading my first wedding anniversary alone, almost made it through the day, but around three o’clock I left the office in tears, came home, made myself a big mug of tea, took it to bed. Emily followed me into the bedroom. We’re napping now? Okay. She hopped up on the bed, curled up at my feet and was asleep in no time. I sat with the quilt up over my knees, watched the curtains br
eathe in and out in the warm spring breeze. Breathe in and out, in and out. That’s all you have to do.

  I put my empty mug on the dresser, curled up under the quilt, napped a little, I think, but mostly I just watched the sun move across the room, looked at the pattern the lace curtains made, on the quilt, on the rug, on the wall. I could smell roses outside the window. At the farm at this time of year, it would have been lilacs.

  Emily snored all afternoon, then around five o’clock, decided she’d had enough. She hopped down off the bed, sat in the hall outside the door looking at me. You coming?

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re right. Enough.”

  The narrow yard at the back of the condo had been turned into a formal flower garden. It was one of the things I liked about the place. While Emily sniffed around, I could stroll up and down the path and look at flowers that someone else took care of. But that day the sight of the peonies starting to bud, the iris just coming into bloom was too much for me.

  Chris found me sitting on the back step, hugging my knees, my eyes red from crying. He put his recycling in the bin, then sat down beside me.

  “What’s up?”

  I hadn’t seen him around much that spring. Cindy was off travelling and he’d been spending most of his time at the boat. I didn’t really know him very well, but there was something about the way he just sat there, waiting patiently, that made it all come pouring out. I told him that twenty-six years ago, I’d married the boy from the farm across the road. I was nineteen.

  “I didn’t know anything about farming,” I said. “We were just renters, Dad worked in town. Fortunately, an elderly aunt came with his grandmother’s farm. She did her best to teach me how to be a farm wife, always wash the clothes on Monday, have them out on the line by nine in the morning or the neighbours will think you’re a slattern. I had to look that up — slattern.