Sea Over Bow

by Linda Kenyon

  “Would have been good to know,” Chris says with a grin.

  There’s a message from Brenda, too — I download it to read later. We follow the road up to the church, crossing a stone bridge over a stream that has cut a channel deep into the rock through the middle of town. We stop in front of the church to admire it — and catch our breath — then continue our climb, up and out of the village.

  We’re both getting tired, but we walk a little way out into the countryside. There are flowers everywhere, hydrangeas growing in thick hedges along the road, roses climbing rusted farm gates. It seems a bit early to me, but the Queen Anne’s lace along the road is just starting to bloom, and there are tiger lilies growing in the ditch. It’s just like the farm. And yet so not like it.

  The land here is divided into small fields separated by low stone walls. Most of them are pasture, with cows and sheep grazing on them. We meet a man leading a bull, a huge red animal that submits meekly to the rope around his neck. He could easily break free but shows no inclination to, not surprising considering what the man is leading him to — or from. There are milking machines out in the fields, rusty old mechanical devices. Clearly they milk the cows out in the pastures, which is perhaps why the cows look at us so expectantly as we pass.

  But we can’t walk any farther — our legs are starting to feel wobbly. We turn back to the village, stop at a little store beside the road — the front room of a house, actually.

  “Pão?” the woman behind the counter asks.

  We look at each other. What could she mean? She goes through the door to the house, comes back with a fresh loaf of bread.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  No that’s not right. What’s the Portuguese word for yes? It doesn’t matter. She understands. We pick up a bag of ripe plums and some soft cheese to go with the bread, then head back down to the harbour with our purchases.

  At the top of the sea wall, we stop to admire our boat bobbing at anchor in the harbour below. It feels good to be viewing it from a distance.

  “Look at that,” Chris says. There is a French boat sailing straight into the crowded anchorage, a woman at the helm, a man standing at the bow. The woman shouts something and lets the jib sheet go, spilling the wind from the foresail. The man drops the anchor, and when it grabs, the boat spins around into the wind. They’re down.

  “Show-offs,” Chris says, enviously.

  Exhausted now, we head back to the boat for some supper — fresh bread! — and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll attempt to bring some semblance of order to the boat.

  The next morning, we make many trips to the public sink at the base of the sea wall where fishermen clean their catch. We lug jugs of fresh water back to the boat, wash all the hatches and portholes and rinse the salt out of our clothes, hang them in the rigging to dry. Then we pack a couple of bottles of water in a backpack and what remains of the bread and cheese and dinghy to shore.

  There is a woman at the sink, up to her elbows in cold water, rinsing the salt out of diapers and tiny shirts and pairs of pants, little dresses, a grey teddy bear, an only-slightly-less-grey bunny, blankets, sheets, towels. Her hands are red and raw, her brown curly hair falls in her eyes. So intent is she on her task that we pass her by without a greeting, not sure what language to use in any case. She doesn’t look Portuguese.

  With a little more confidence in our legs than we had the day before, we climb the path to the village, through the square, then up, up out of the village and along the coastal road, which is lined with a low stone wall tangled with pink roses.

  The church in the next village is covered in blue and white tiles, a sharp contrast to the rough stone and plaster on the houses surrounding it. To our surprise, it’s unlocked. We push the heavy wooden door open, and inside is an altar draped with lace and heavy with flowers — lilies, for the most part, mixed with ferns. The elaborate plaster work is thick with gold.

  School has let out by the time we leave the church and children have gathered in the shade of the big tree in the village square.

  “Good afternoon,” one of the little boys says formally. Then he giggles, no doubt feeling as self-conscious as we do when we try to speak Portuguese.

  “Boa tarde,” I say, trying to roll the “r” and swallow the “d” the way I heard the woman in the store do it. The children dissolve into fits of laughter.

  Farther along the coastal road we come to a ceramic sign (all the signs are ceramic here, white tiles with blue writing and pictures of flowers). We can’t read it, of course, but we see the word “natur” so we decide to follow the overgrown trail plunging down the side of a ravine.

  We pick our way down an ancient cobblestone cart path that quickly degenerates into a series of moss-covered steps descending to a fast-moving stream. Along the stream are the ruins of several old buildings. Houses? Mills maybe? Each building is about the size of a garden shed and has a millstone worn smooth by years of use. Clearly the settlement was deserted long ago — but what was it doing here in the first place? I can’t imagine a less accessible spot. Or a more beautiful one.

  We sit on the doorstep of one of the buildings, watch a grey wagtail work his way along the boulders beside the river, laugh at the way he pumps his tail, admire his yellow chest — he’s in full breeding plumage. The water gurgles by our feet. Only dappled sunlight makes its way to the bottom of the ravine. It’s perfectly quiet except for the birds.

  Suddenly I’m ten years old, riding my bike as fast as I can along the trail beside the river. I’m not supposed to be here when I’m on my own — there are tramps, my mother says, whatever they are. And what if I fall off my bike and hurt myself? She doesn’t know what a great rider I am, how fast I can go on my palomino.

  Really?

  Yes.

  I’m heading for the deep ravine where the creek feeds into the river, another place I’m not supposed to go — there could be boys playing there, wild dogs even. But I don’t care. It’s Easter Sunday, all the eggs have been found (hidden in the living room, not outside, even though it’s a warm, sunny day). Mom and Dad are sitting at the kitchen table, smoking, drinking coffee. My mother’s coffee has gone cold, but she says she likes it that way. The other kids are watching TV, except for my new baby brother, Dave, who is securely fastened in a towel pinned to the back of the couch because he keeps trying to crawl outside. But I don’t feel too sorry for him — he’s happy enough there, for now, bouncing, gurgling, waving his hands.

  I’ve slipped away and I’m on an adventure. I have a hard-boiled egg and hot-cross bun tucked in one pocket, the last of my chocolate bunny — the ears — tucked in the other. I have everything I need.

  That ten-year-old girl lost her way somehow, I think to myself, as I watch a tiny chaffinch perched on a low bush singing his heart out. But she’s finding her way back.

  As we retrace our steps along the coastal road, we stop from time to time to look out over the now perfectly benign-looking ocean. Sunlight sparkles on the deep blue water. There’s almost no wind. Off in the distance we see a tiny sailboat — heading to the harbour here? It’s making very slow progress.

  It’s late when we get back to Lajes so we decide to stop at Paula’s, the only café in town, for supper. As we cut through the garden beside the church, we walk by the woman we saw down at the sea wall. She’s sitting on a bench, a book open in her hands, a Portuguese dictionary. Definitely not Portuguese, then. Again she is too absorbed in her task for us to disturb her. She doesn’t even look up as we pass.

  Paula serves us plates of salted codfish and potatoes stewed in some kind of wonderful tomato sauce, which we wash down with local beer. Exhausted by our day’s hike, we head back to the boat. As we walk down to the harbour, we notice that the French boat has been lifted onto the quay. It’s missing its rudder. A man and woman — ah, the woman with the brown curly hair — are unloading all their belongings into a
container. They don’t look very happy. Two children are playing half-heartedly around the boat. The little boy is fending off an imaginary enemy with a wooden sword that is too big for him — he can hardly lift it. Indifferent to the fact that they are under attack, his sister struts around in a long pink skirt and feathered hat. The man calls down to them and they put their toys in the container.

  As we dinghy back to the boat, Chris spots a boat sailing somewhat erratically back and forth just outside the harbour.

  “I wonder if he’s in trouble,” he says.

  When we get to our boat, Chris puts out a call on the VHF and asks if everything is all right.

  “I could use some help,” a tired voice responds.

  Chris climbs back in the dinghy and zips out of the harbour. I watch him pull alongside the boat, then tie the dinghy to it and climb aboard. I can’t really make out what they’re doing — the boat continues to sail back and forth across the mouth of the harbour, the dinghy in tow. Then I see Chris climb back in the dinghy and zoom towards me. He stops long enough to give me a quick update.

  “Nice guy, named Niles. He was hammered by the same gale we were. His batteries are dead, his engine won’t turn over, and his boom is broken. He’s been hand steering for days now and he’s totally exhausted. Without the main, we can’t get the boat to point into the wind enough to make the turn into the harbour. I’m going to shore to get some help.”

  He returns in about fifteen minutes, climbs on board.

  “I talked a fishing boat into going out to get him.”

  “How did you do that?” I tease him.

  “With a lot of hand gestures.”

  The next day, while Chris tries to repair our shredded stormsail, I settle down in the cockpit to read Brenda’s letter. It’s a long one.

  Dear Linda

  I hope by the time you read this you’ve had an uneventful last few days at sea and have made landfall in the Azores. I made a pretty spectacular landfall myself this week… It’s a long story, so go make yourself a cup of tea.

  Anna and I went shopping for riding clothes Friday night, after school. We bought her a pair of riding breeches and tall riding boots — like the rubber boots you bought me, but without the red strip around the top. All second hand — very sensible for a growing child. The breeches have leather patches inside the knee to enhance hanging-on ability and also to prevent saddle burn. She looked cute as a bug in them but of course that was not any part of the decision to get her proper riding attire, no sir.

  But here’s the part I think you will understand, Linda, like no one else would.

  I wanted a pair of breeches too, because I ride in old black pants that are comfortable enough, but they fall down when I’m standing up so I need to hike them up all the time, and the legs ride up, so I need to lean over and pull the pantlegs down when I’m riding. All around unsuitable riding attire. And black is too hot in warm weather. Anyway, those were the excuses. I wanted sleek, beige leather-patched breeches, so I got a lovely pair, brand new because I am not a growing child. They even make my butt look good!

  Then, in a moment of excitement and indulgence, I bought a pair of leather half-chaps — no, not the things of cowboy fantasies…they fit over your calf from ankle to knee, zip up outside with a neat snap closure at top and bottom. They also have a little strap that goes under your boot, like ski-pants did in the old days. So they provide a sleek leather sleeve from heel to knee. Their purpose is to reduce any places for rubbing between your boots and pants, keep the pants from riding up, and well, they look so darned smart! I picked chocolate brown suede to go with my camel-coloured breeches and already brown boots. I was so proud and embarrassed at the same time.

  Then of course I had doubts all night about wearing them to the barn the next day. It seemed so silly for a beginner to buy expensive breeches and chaps ($150!). Who did I think I was? But by morning I had tried them on so many times that I was ready to nonchalantly show up in my new stuff. Anna, however, gleefully showed off her new tall boots and breeches, saying they make her look at least seven years old, and pointed out Mommy’s new attire. The instructor took me aside and very kindly murmured that I had the chaps on backwards.

  It sure did make a difference riding. I could hold on better and feel the movement of the horse better. Which didn’t help me one bit when my horse tripped over his own big feet going over a jump in a corner and fell to his knees.

  He recovered himself quickly and I would have been fine, Linda, except that in my nervousness approaching the corner, I hadn’t put my hands far enough forward on his mane so when he went down, I went right over his head, did a somersault, and landed hard, really hard, on my hip and back. I rolled and got up, worried that he would bolt and trample me, but he was standing right over me, calmly, looking very puzzled.

  I was okay, but quite shaken. Anna, on the other hand, was in complete hysterics, having watched me fall. I walked over and had a few quiet words with her, then walked her around on her pony for a bit to work out the kinks in my back and settle her down. We agreed that I was now officially a rider, and I got back on my horse and finished the lesson, even though all I wanted to do was go home and cry.

  I picked up groceries on the way home, cooked a nice supper, spent a quiet evening with Anna then put her to bed. Finally I took some painkillers and crawled into bed and had a big cry. Here’s where I got stuck, Linda.

  I felt so embarrassed. Who did I think I was in my fancy riding clothes? I’m really just a scared chicken. What if I lose my nerve and can’t ride next week? What if I can’t get over being scared of that corner?

  But here’s the worst one: What if Anna fell and got hurt? It would be my fault for keeping her in riding lessons. She likes riding, but I’m not so sure she loves it like I do. She seems to enjoy the other girls more than the horses. What if I’m placing her in the way of danger just because I love to ride? What kind of a mother am I? I would never forgive myself if she got seriously hurt.

  So it has been a weird few days. I feel like a foolish middle-aged woman. Maybe this is what a mid-life crisis looks like: a grown woman doing a child’s sport, with a huge blue bruise on my leg where it hit the saddle going over, and Advil and heating pads on my back for three days. How foolish is that??

  My back will get better — it’s getting better already — and the bruise is spectacular but fine. I am slightly less afraid of going riding next Saturday (even looking forward to it, to be honest). But I feel shaken inside, because what if I cannot tell the difference between excitement and adventure, and stupidity? What if this is just stupid? Or worse, what if it is not stupid, but I let fearfulness stop me from having an adventure? And the very worst of all: how do I know the difference?

  How I wish you were here and we could talk this through. I’m sure you know something about this… But of course you are probably busy exploring the Azores. I can’t wait to hear what it’s like there.

  Love you.

  Beek

  I wish we could talk, too. Always go for the adventure, I want to tell her. But even a short call on the satphone costs about fifty dollars. I close my computer, go below to put it away and to let Chris know I’m going to shore to pick up some fresh bread for our lunch. He doesn’t look up. He’s muttering at the sewing machine, the thread has broken again. I’m glad to have an errand.

  On the way back to the harbour, I pass the French woman, who is again studying her dictionary, this time on a stone bench at the top of the sea wall. She’s alone — I can see her children playing on the quay below us. Her husband pokes his head out of the container from time to time to check on them.

  I work up the courage to approach her.

  “I think I spoke to you out in the ocean,” I say shyly.

  She looks up. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black.

  “Yes, you are from MonArk. I give you bad informations. The storm was very bi
g.”

  “Sometimes it’s better not to know. But we did okay. Better than that boat,” I say, pointing to the one on the rocks below us.

  Her English is better than my French, but between the two languages we manage, switching back and forth as we struggle to find the right words.

  “We did not so good,” she says. “Our — ” She gestures with her hand.

  “Rudder?” I offer.

  “Yes. Is broken, and our engine too. And everything wet, so much salt!”

  I point to her dictionary. “You are learning Portuguese?”

  “Yes, to talk to the capitão and the men who must work on my boat. It is easy for me, more easy than English.”

  I look down at the quay. There is a mechanic’s truck beside her boat, and a group of men are hoisting a new rudder into place. She must be doing okay.

  “I do not think it will be ready soon,” she says. “My husband must go home to start his job, and the children must go to school. I will stay here, sail the boat back.”

  “By yourself?” I ask her. “You did a great job of sailing into the harbour. Not many people could do that. Have you sailed alone before?”

  “No, but I am excited to do it. I may just keep going,” she says with a grin. “I said we will sail for a year, and then I will be a good doctor’s wife. We will buy a house in a small village. I will take care of the children.”

  Her brow furrows. She looks down at her boat. It could go either way, I think.

  “And you? Do you keep sailing?”

  “Yes,” I say. “The boat is our home now. We quit our jobs, sold our house, our cars. We will spend the summer here, go to Portugal for the winter, then into the Mediterranean next spring. I would like to spend some time in France, sail to Italy. Then who knows. Maybe Greece? Turkey?”

  “So you are both sailors? My husband doesn’t like so much to sail.”