Sea Over Bow

by Linda Kenyon

  “If we head back now, we should be able to make it home before the hurricane season begins,” Chris had said uncertainly. I didn’t much like the sounds of that “should.”

  “Or we can spend the summer here, live as cheaply as we can, run the line of credit to the max, then put the boat on the hard, go home, and dig ourselves out.”

  I liked the sounds of that a lot better.

  By the time we made it to Menorca, the easternmost of the Balearic Islands, we had about $100 dollars cash left and just enough room on our credit cards to buy two plane tickets home. Reluctantly, we turned back, retracing our path down the Mediterranean coast of Spain and back through the Strait.

  Sancti-Petri was our last stop before the boatyard in Lagos, a little village at the westernmost tip of Portugal, where we’ll pull the boat out of the water and put it in storage while we fly home.

  But not before we spend one last night at sea.

  If it has not yet set, the sliver of a moon that remains is hidden in the haze that has settled over the water. It’s just after midnight and we’re about fifty miles off the coast of Spain. Chris has gone down to sleep and I’m alone in the cockpit, watching a light off our port bow — a fishing boat? a tuna net?

  It’s a fishing boat, I decide. Unless tuna nets move around, which I don’t think they do. And there’s another one. I’ll have to keep a close eye on them — the fishermen are way too busy with their nets to notice a pesky sailboat, never mind alter course to avoid it.

  It’s almost too hazy to see the stars, but I know they’re up there. I’m going to miss the night sky. I never get tired of it. And I’m going to miss this boat, my little galley, all the gleaming wood below, and the comfortable leather couches, the brass lamp swinging overhead. Our little berth, which feels smaller and smaller as Bica grows. We are heading home with a five-month old puppy, a little ball of brown curls nestled in beside me on the cockpit bench.

  What will Bica make of living on land? The boat is the only home she’s known.

  We celebrated my fiftieth birthday in fine style in Palma de Mallorca. Chris took me out for a nice dinner, and I kept expecting him to present me with a little box. Mallorca is famous for its pearls, not natural pearls, not cultivated pearls, but not plastic pearls, either. They manufacture pearls, somehow. I had seen them in all the shop windows. They were lovely. So I was surprised when, as we lingered over the last of our bottle of wine, he pulled a photograph out of his pocket.

  “Your birthday present,” he said.

  It was a picture of a puppy with brown curly hair and white paws. My heart leapt. A puppy! I missed Emily so much, I pined for her, Chris knew that. He’d watched me go up to strangers and pet their dogs. Leaving her behind was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Emily lived with us on the boat for a while before we set out into the ocean, but we found out the hard way that she couldn’t swim. Some bulldogs can, but not Emily. She sank like a stone, head first, straight to the bottom. Chris had to rescue her more than once. And she cried when we were under sail, hated the motion of the boat. I think she was just too old to adjust to this new life.

  Chris knew what I was thinking.

  “This puppy is going to do just fine on the boat,” he said. “She’s a Spanish water dog. She’s too young to leave her mother just yet — in July we’ll sail to the mainland to pick her up, in Cartagena.”

  I gazed into her milky blue eyes. She stared boldy back at me. Come on! Let’s go! I loved her already. But as I studied her picture, my heart sank. She’ll break my heart. All puppies do. Am I strong enough to go through that again?

  We decided to call her Bica, the word for the Portuguese version of espresso we came to love during our winter in Portimão. She’s coffee-coloured and has the boundless energy of someone who has dashed back one too many bica. When she’s awake, that is. She sleeps much of the time. Her favourite spot is wedged under the dinghy on the foredeck, where she’s out of the sun.

  Having Bica on board changed everything — for better and for worse.

  The day we picked her up, we took the spinnaker ashore to refold it. I had her on her leash, which I’d slipped through one of my belt loops, leaving both hands free for me to work.

  “Why don’t you let her go, see what she does?” Chris said, reaching over and unsnapping the leash from her collar.

  “Please don’t!” There was an edge of panic, of desperation in my voice. All I could see was this little ball of brown curls tumbling into the dark, choppy waters of the harbour. He picked her up, angrier than I’d ever seen him, shoved her roughly into my hands and walked away. I felt stunned, and sick at heart.

  I took her below, put her in the little bed I’d made for her at the foot of the V-berth, slumped on the settee feeling utterly hopeless.

  Bica peered at me from the safety of her little nest. Then she hopped over the barricade and sprawled on the floor at my feet.

  Things were pretty cool between us as we left Cartagena a few days later with our little puppy on board and sailed back to the Balearics. We had decided to anchor for a while in a sheltered harbour we had found near the town of Andratx on the southwest tip of Majorca, to make this our home base for a few weeks while Bica got used to living on a boat. And we got used to her.

  She taught us a lot about the sun, our little Spaniard. She simply would not go out in the middle of the day, would run from patch of shade to patch of shade if we tried to make her walk somewhere. The Mediterranean sun is a sneaky thing. There’s always a nice steady sea breeze, so you don’t realize how hot it is until you have a splitting headache. We started taking a siesta during the hottest part of the day, just like Bica — not under the dinghy, though.

  My fear of her falling in the water began to ease after Chris and I took her to a sheltered beach to teach her how to swim. I left her on shore with him and waded out, intending to coax her into the water. But when I turned around, there she was, swimming happily behind me. I guided her to shore, and when her feet touched bottom, she scampered up on the beach and ran around like a crazy thing, barking and tripping over her own feet. Then she ran back into the water for more. Clearly she was born knowing how to swim.

  I still liked to keep her in the cockpit unless one of us was above deck to keep an eye on her. She was so small. I feared that if she went overboard, we would have trouble finding her little brown head in the water. With her curls slicked down, she was no bigger than a rat. Bica and I would play tapas bar. She would stand on her hind legs with her paws on the sill of the companionway — she could just reach — and I would put little treats on the ledge for her — tiny pieces of cheese, little bits of sausage.

  Chris liked to let her run free on the deck. When he played with her, I would go below and do chores or read, listen to her little feet scampering on the deck above my head. I began to think maybe he was right: Maybe it was almost impossible for a creature with four legs who was only ten inches tall to fall over a four-inch scupper.

  One evening, as we were stretched out on the foredeck enjoying the gentle breeze, Bica stretched out beside us on the cool steel deck, Chis apologized for getting so angry with me the day Bica came on board.

  “I was never allowed do anything risky with the kids,” he explained. “I wasn’t allowed to take them in the water when there was a big surf. I wasn’t allowed to take them flying with me. I wasn’t really allowed to take them with me on my motorcycle. But I did.”

  “More wine?”

  Chris refills our glasses.

  “I didn’t handle that very well, either,” I admitted, taking a sip. “All I want is for her to be safe.”

  “All I want is for her to be free.”

  I look up at him, smile gently.

  “We’re not talking about the puppy here, are we?”

  Bica is sleeping soundly on the bench beside me. Every now and then I reach over and touch her brown curls. She grumbl
es in her sleep but tolerates this: it’s something humans seem to need to do. The other night I was idly watching the phosphorescence that trails behind the boat when I realized that there was something on the stern deck, hmm, looks like… a puppy! It was Bica. She had hopped out one of the back windows (I didn’t know she could do that) and was just enjoying the night air, watching the wake stretch out behind us. Ever since, I like to check from time to time and make sure she’s still in the cockpit.

  She is. And there are no boats in sight, no sails to tend. And another two hours before my watch is over. This would be a good time to write one last letter to Brenda. I go below and as quietly as I can, pull my computer out of the locker.

  Dear Brenda,

  It’s a warm, windless night and we’re motoring relentlessly over glassy seas towards Lagos and our flight home. I think we’ve entered Portuguese waters — a few minutes ago I heard the unmistakable sound of Portuguese on the radio, a fishing boat, probably, but I don’t see any lights and the radar isn’t picking anything up, so it must be pretty far away. And may it stay there. I want to enjoy this last bit of peace and quiet.

  We will be in Lagos by tomorrow evening, so this is my last night watch for a very long time. And probably my last chance to write to you before I see you at the airport. When we get to the boatyard, we’ll be working full out to get the boat decommissioned before our flight home.

  I’m going to miss these night watches, Beek. There’s something about the darkness, about being alone with the stars. Something expands in me, I feel like there’s enough room for me out here. And I love this life.

  Our last morning at anchor in the Med, I was in my tiny galley, emptying our last bag of chickpeas into a plastic jar that fits exactly into the little shelf behind the stove while I waited for the kettle to boil. Chris was at the nav station — you’re supposed to spread charts out on the nav station, determine headings using parallel rulers, calculate magnetic variance, and so on — but he had his voltmeter out, and some tiny screws, and was working away at something, I don’t know what, but from time to time the meter would beep. Bica was sprawled out on the floor at the bottom of the companionway ladder, chewing happily on a rawhide bone, and suddenly I was washed with happiness.

  This is my life, I thought, this hot, sunny Tuesday morning bobbing gently at anchor somewhere along the Costa del Sol. I looked out my tiny window, watched the waves lapping the sand beach at the base of a chalky cliff. A tern plunged into the water beside the boat, came up with a silvery fish, flew away, a couple of noisy gulls in pursuit.

  I wonder what it will be like to live in a tiny apartment, that’s all we’ll be able to afford. To get up and go to work every day. Do normal things on the weekend, go grocery shopping, get the oil changed in the car. A car. We’ll have to get a car. Chris will need it for his work. I’ll have to get some work clothes. I gave all mine away. So will he. And neither of us has a winter coat, or boots.

  We’ve never lived together except on the boat. He’ll have nothing to tinker with. I can see myself coming home from work and finding the kitchen sink in pieces, the television taken apart.

  “Look, you can turn the taps on and off with the remote now!”

  “Are you worried about going home?” I asked Chris before he went down to sleep after supper.

  “A little.”

  When Chris admits to being a little worried, I know he is a lot worried.

  And so am I.

  I think you’ll find me much changed, Beek. I’ve crossed an ocean, survived not one but two proper North Atlantic gales, and I feel so proud, so sure of myself now. But it’s more than just a sense of physical accomplishment. I feel at home, somehow. We say we’re heading home, but what if home isn’t a place? What if it’s a feeling? Maybe you can feel at home anywhere.

  As we were making our way back along the Mediterranean coast of Spain, we anchored for a night in a little cove below the ruins of a castle. We figured we’d have the place to ourselves — the pilot guide described it as an imposing anchorage with fluky winds, and sure enough, we were the only boat there.

  But as I scanned the shore, I realized we were not alone. There was the castle, and there was narrow sand beach, and there was… a naked person walking along the shore. The cove is only accessible by foot — it’s part of a national park, and there are no roads leading to it, so we didn’t really expect to find any people there. But as I looked more closely, I could make out a number of dwellings on the hillside behind the beach, caves and other rough shelters in the rubble below the castle. And a number of naked people. I quickly lowered my binoculars.

  In time, we worked up the courage to go ashore. We didn’t bother to lock the dinghy to a tree — where exactly would a naked person in a stolen dinghy go? Feeling somewhat overdressed, we strolled as casually as we could across the sand to the path leading up to the castle.

  Away from the beach, we discovered that many but not all of the people wore clothes. Most of them wore rough shoes of some description, handmade, for the most part. One woman was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt. Another had tied a fringed scarf around her waist. We passed a man wearing nothing but a pair of sandals and a straw hat (where do you look?).

  It wasn’t at all clear which of the many paths lead to the castle. As we stood at a junction trying to decide which way to go, a man — clothed, thank goodness, and carrying a plastic water jug — approached us.

  “Hello,” he said. He was the first person to acknowledge our presence, never mind speak to us.

  “Hello,” Chris said. We were both surprised that he spoke English. “Is this the way to the castle?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s just up here.” He motioned for us to follow him. “You’re from Canada. Did you sail across?” Clearly our presence in the harbour had been noted.

  “Yes,” Chris answered.

  “I’ve made that trip many times. I used to be with Greenpeace, on the Rainbow Warrior.”

  Is that how you lost your arm, I wanted to ask him, but we’d arrived at a clearing where a group of people had gathered around a little spring. Water dribbled through a small opening in the rocks, splashed down into a stone basin. Someone had carved a woman’s head out of stone and placed it above the spring. I wanted to take a picture of it, but was too shy to get out the camera.

  “Don’t go in the tower,” the man from Greenpeace called after us as we continued along the path. “It’s not safe.”

  On our way back to the boat, he waved to us from his cave above the path.

  “Come for tapas!”

  Chris was climbing the path before I could think of a reason not to. Banana pancakes, he and his partner offered us. And tea. All carried in over the mountains. I felt bad about using up any of their provisions, but they were happy to have us there. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the man’s partner went inside and came out wearing a buckskin jacket. Only a buckskin jacket. But by now it didn’t seem strange to be sipping tea with a man who had no pants on. I could live here, I thought, among these naked cave dwellers.

  I’ve been listening to Ladysmith on this watch (homeless, homeless, moonlight shining on a midnight lake), looking up at the stars, hoping, as always, to see a falling star. I find myself thinking about how we are all homeless, in a way. I could live anywhere now, I think.

  But I’ll admit I’m looking forward to coming back to Canada for a while. It will feel good, I think, to put the boat on the hard, empty out all the cupboards, change the oil… (believe me, you don’t want to hear the whole list.) I’m looking forward to sleeping in a real bed again (so much room!) To getting our bikes back, going to the market on Saturday mornings and buying cuts of meat I can recognize, vegetables I know how to cook. To walking in familiar woods again (with Bica!), to going to plays in English, and movies again. To cooking on a real stove, with four burners that don’t run out of fuel, and a big oven. To soaking in a
bath until the water runs cold.

  I should be seeing shore lights soon. Only forty-five minutes left on my watch. Breakfast. I’m thinking about breakfast. A big bowl of bran flakes with a banana sliced on top. A cup of coffee with Chris while the sun comes up. Then a long nap.

  See you in just two weeks, Beek. I can’t wait to see your face. Thanks for offering to pick us up at the airport. You shouldn’t have any trouble spotting us in the crowd. We’ll be the couple in serious need of haircuts, wearing scruffy jeans and faded shirts and carrying a dog crate. A regular little family, Chris says. It’s like coming back from our honeymoon with a two-year-old.

  Love,

  Linda

  It’s good to be busy — leaves me no time to think about going home — and the boatyard in Lagos is a good place to be busy — everyone is. The whine of the travel lift wakes us every morning, then the steady thrum of the pressure washer as they blast barnacles off the bottoms of boats. A crew is painting the hull of the boat beside us, their portable radio on full volume, pop tunes from a decade ago. I’m not sure if they know what the words mean, but they know them all.

  “My name is Luka,” they belt out cheerfully. “Just don’t ask me how I am.”

  They’re not sure what to make of us, doing our own boat work. Most people leave their boats here and head home while decks are replaced, hulls painted, new rigging installed. But we’re doing everything ourselves. We remove the sails, wash the salt off them, spread them out on the pavement to dry, then fold them neatly and stow them in the V-berth. We soak our lines in pails, hang them on the fence in the sun. We pull all of the chain out of the anchor locker, hose it down before re-stowing it.

  We haven’t had the boat out of the water in a long time. It looks strange up on boat stands, balancing on its keel. We inspect every inch of the hull, check the zincs, the prop. Except for a few tenacious barnacles in some of the through-hulls, things are looking pretty good. We spend several days sanding and painting the bottom, hard work, but satisfying.