by Kirk Jockell
Candice said, “Dang. I love that song.”
“Me too. He’s playing at the Raw Bar tonight. If you want, we could ride out there after dinner.”
“Let’s go now. For dinner.”
“You want the Raw Bar for dinner?” I asked, sounding surprised.
“Is there a problem with that?”
“Absolutely not, I was thinking that … that you might want something more sit down, more white tablecloth … more quiet. Italian or something.”
The look on her face politely told me to shut up, so I did. Then she used some of my own words and threw them back at me, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am from around here. I’m not Italian. I’m local. Local and proud of what my area has to offer. That’s the protocol around here.” She smiled and continued, “Plus, having Brian playing on the porch and sharing some baked oysters with you sounds nice enough for me.”
I didn’t say anything. I turned the truck around and headed out Highway 98 towards Indian Pass. As I drove she listened to the radio and I got to thinking. The Raw Bar has food, plenty of big televisions sets, and even more beer. Then I asked her a question. “Candice. Tell me something. If you were going out with some other fella from around here, where would he have taken you?”
“Probably the Raw Bar.”
Then, I said, “Well, I don’t get it. What’s the point? Why would you make such a big deal about getting to pick where we went?”
She slid over and kissed me on the cheek. “It isn’t about where we go. It’s about you letting me pick where to go. I never get to pick. It was nice knowing I had options.”
She slid back to her side of the truck and smiled. I drove on in silence glancing over at her from time to time. She is always attractive, but, on that night, she was beautiful.
The Raw Bar was crowded for early October. We ended up parking out on the highway and walking, not at all unusual. As we got out of the car, we could hear Brian’s music over the normal ruckus of the porch crowd. He acknowledged us with a singing smile and a nod as we came onto the porch.
The Forgotten Coast Shrimp and Oyster Bar or Raw Bar, as it’s more commonly known, is one of the true local establishments; it’s where people meet. So when you first arrive, it’s hand shaking and howdy, glad to see ya all across the porch. Candice grabbed my arm and said, “I’m going to run inside and get our names on the list to eat. Can I get you a beer?”
“That sounds like a great idea. Thanks.” She gave me a smile and my arm a little extra squeeze before turning to head for the door. I looked up to see Trixie, Red’s wife, walking towards me. I met her halfway with a kiss and a hug.
“So fill me in, Trix,” I said. “What is going on with Red? What’s with this ride?”
“There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “His brother showed up at the house this morning and said, ‘Let’s go!’ They haven’t seen each other in a few years, so Red packed his saddlebags and took off.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I said nothing.
Trixie continued, “Red said he was tired, that he needed to reconnect with nature, and that a ride would be good therapy. Like a Henry David Thoreau walkabout, but on a motorcycle. Plus, he would get to spend time with his brother. He has missed him so.”
“How long do you expect he’ll be gone?”
Trixie smiled and lit a cigarette. She took a draw and exhaled. She laughed and said, “With that crazy Red of mine. Who the hell knows?” Then she turned and walked away, catching Brian between songs. “Play some of that Jack Johnson, dammit!”
He did.
The list of folks waiting to eat wasn’t that long. Candice and I shared an order of baked Apalachicola oysters and steamed shrimp. They were fabulous, as usual. We had a good time. I shared stories from my Navy days and she told me much about her previous marriages and worthless husbands. The entertainment value was very high, and we did a lot of laughing. That was nice. I hadn’t laughed like that since before my troubles back in Norfolk. It felt good.
After dinner we headed back out on the porch to mingle and listen to Brian. It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear which meant every star was visible to the naked eye. The moon was huge, not full, but plenty big to cast great illumination down on the earth. There isn’t much in the way of ground lighting out on the Pass to interfere with stargazing.
A light breeze worked its way through the trees. That told me it was probably blowing eight to ten knots out on the bay, perfect conditions for an evening sail. It was a gorgeous evening.
I looked across the porch and saw Candice hanging out in the parking lot with old friends, mostly guys, probably from her high school days. She was sitting on the back of an opened tailgate, her boots swinging in the air. They were laughing, having a good time. I kept my eye on her until she caught me looking at her. She smiled. I motioned for her to come and she jumped from the truck and walked towards me. All the guys watched her as she headed my way. There was no doubt about it; the girl knows how to walk.
“Have you ever been sailing?” I asked.
“I went out on one of those catamaran things once. It turned over, wasn’t fun. A fishing boat had to stop and help us.”
“That’s not sailing,” I said. “Well… it is, but not the kind of sailing I’m talking about.”
I looked towards the stars and sky, then towards the trees. I turned back and said, “I got a text message from my boat. She wants to get underway. Are you interested? It should be a nice sail.” She gave me a grin that told me everything I needed to know. Let’s go.
In less than forty-five minutes, we were motoring out of the channel and into the bay. Ten minutes later the motor was off and we were sailing. I didn’t want to work too hard so I hoisted the full mainsail and the smaller working jib. Normally, I would carry much more sail area, but for a simple midnight cruise, this would be perfect.
I set a course which took us out of St. Joe Bay and into the Gulf of Mexico. The boat was on a close reach and moving well. I set the autopilot. We would be on this heading for a while before clearing the point and falling off a few points towards deeper water.
I excused myself and made my rounds about the boat, both on deck and down below. I knew everything was secure, but as a creature of habit I always take another look once underway. As expected, everything was fine. I returned to the cockpit to find Candice sitting to leeward, the low side, her hand reaching for the water. The occasional swell would dip her fingers into the salty seawater.
“Wine?” I asked. “A glass of red sounds nice.”
“And a blanket, maybe?” she replied.
A few minutes later we were enjoying an effortless sail down the coast. Soft music filled the cockpit. I shut down the autopilot to steer by hand, my favorite. Without a doubt, we were a visual treat for anyone on shore paying attention. With the moon reflecting off Mischief’s clean, white sails, there would be no missing us. It was perfect.
We didn’t talk much. We enjoyed the sail. I think even Candice picked up on the fact that too much talk could ruin the experience. That it would interfere with the mood of the boat.
On a sailboat, a skipper does a lot more listening than talking. Not listening as in listening to other people, but listening as in to the boat. A sailboat will tell you everything you need, if you know what you’re hearing.
The breeze picked up a bit and the old girl began to respond, putting her chin in the surf and surging down the coast. She met each swell with the kind of grace only an old full-keeled boat can offer. It was a smooth and easy motion, everybody was happy. The boat, the passenger, and the Skipper were all in a good place.
We sailed for a full hour and a half before tacking the boat to head back towards the cape. The commotion of the sails, first luffing, and then filling again after crossing over the deck of the boat, got Candice’s attention. She looked to me inquisitively.
“Heading back,” I said.
She nodded in confir
mation before asking, “More wine?”
“No thanks. I’ve had enough for now. But go ahead and pour yourself another glass.”
She went below and came back with her glass fully charged. She again settled on the leeward side of the cockpit, closest to the water. She took a sip then looked at me and mouthed the words, thank you. I smiled back with a wink.
The sail back was great, perfect therapy for a guy that needed some slow-time in his life. As usual, the boat was well behaved. She practically sailed herself, a light touch on the tiller. Slow-time. That was how best to describe the night with Candice, slow-time.
It had been a perfect night, different from what I had expected. Nowhere was the normally aggressive, sassy, flirtatiously forward Candice to be found. I looked at her as she cuddled up underneath the blanket in the corner of the cockpit, both hands cradling her glass of wine, her back resting against the doghouse cabin. She struck me as someone I had never met before, a stranger. A beautiful stranger, someone I might want to get to know better. I smiled and laughed to myself. Look at yourself Logan. You would have never thought in a million years that you would see her as you see her right now. Candice caught me with a huge smile on my face.
“What is it?” she sat up slightly and asked, “Why the big grin?”
Slightly embarrassed I said, “Ah, nothing. I like sailing my boat, that’s all.” She went back to her casual posture. Then I recalled something I heard before our date. Candice had told a few folks she was going to blow me away. I guess she did.
I entered the channel, into the protected waters of the bay. Then headed towards a small cove just inside the point of the cape and brought the boat head to wind. Mischief’s momentum kept her moving forward, straight into the wind.
“What’s happening?” Candice asked. “What are we doing?”
“Dropping a hook. It’s too pretty to head in yet,” I said, dropping the headsail to the deck. I turned towards her. “That is… if it’s alright? I mean, if you want to go back in…”
She interrupted me with a grin and a shake of the head. I went back to dropping canvas. The boat was still moving forward with an easy motion, tracking straight. I casually went forward and deployed my anchor and about 50 feet of chain.
With the sails all stowed and everything put in order, it was time to slow down even more. I jumped into the cockpit. “That’s better,” I said with a smile. “I’ll take that glass of wine now.”
Candice jumped up and said, “Well, let me be a good barkeep and pour that for you, sir.”
She went below and I looked around the deck. Something was missing. I glanced all around and finally looked up the rig towards the sky. I saw the sun’s bright reflection bouncing off Venus. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t the light I expected to see.
I called down to Candice, “If you please. The electrical panel to starboard, on the right side of the boat, you’ll find a switch labeled anchor. Throw it, please.”
Three seconds later the masthead was aglow with white light, 360 degrees around, visible for miles. Five seconds after that, Candice came up with our wine. She sat next to me and grabbed the blanket so we could share, covering our legs. She sat close. I didn’t mind and the wine was good.
We sat back, and enjoyed the spectacular, clear evening and each other’s company. It’s tough to be on a boat, with a night so clear, stars shining bright, and not ultimately talk about it.
Candice knew little about celestial bodies, which was fine. A navigator by trade, it gave me plenty to talk about. She did know the Big Dipper, but I guess most everyone does. It has to be the most recognizable constellation in the northern hemisphere; much the way the Southern Cross is below the equator.
I told her, “Follow the seven stars of the Big Dipper, starting with the first star of the handle. Stop with the sixth star and study the distance between the sixth and seventh star.”
“Okay,” she said. “Got it.”
“Now follow onto the seventh star, but keep going in the same direction for about five times the length of the distance between the sixth and seventh star. You should see a small star, sitting by its lonesome.”
I gave her a few moments to study the sky before asking, “Do you see it? It’s right there,” I said trying to help by pointing a finger.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so. That little star there?” She pointed with me.
“Yup! That one.”
“What about it? Looks pretty insignificant.”
“Not really,” I said. “Congratulations. You located Polaris.”
“Really? That little star has a name?”
“Yup, but most refer to it as the North Star.”
“That’s the North Star?” she said in astonishment. “That little thing?”
“Yup!” I said. “That little thing. Not exactly insignificant, huh?”
We continued to have wine and conversation until the bottles were empty and the chatter used up. We reduced ourselves to enjoying the silence underneath the stars. A deeper chill began to set in and I got us another blanket. Between the two blankets and our shared body heat we were plenty warm. The quiet continued and Candice took more of a snuggling posture. I put my arm around her and allowed her to settle in. She was asleep in no time.
I looked down at her and smiled, laughed inside. Expect the unexpected. I was happy things worked out the way they did. I tilted my head back and found Venus, still the brightest thing in the sky. I closed my eyes.
Startled, my eyes flew open and my heart skipped a beat. The sound of thunder got my immediate attention. I looked around. Candice was still asleep. I heard it again. It made no sense. The sky was as we left it, perfectly clear. I heard it again. Then I realized ... it wasn’t thunder. It was the same muffler roar that woke me up earlier that morning. Yes, that’s exactly what it sounded like but made no sense, not out in the middle of the bay. I looked towards the sky and found shooting stars, two of them. They were flying across the heavens, one bright white, the other a fiery red. I watched as they stretched across the black, starry sky until they disappeared over the horizon.
I smiled and said, “Love you, brother.”
I looked down at Candice, pulled her in a bit closer and shut my eyes.
Thirteen
I was hungry. A half-eaten Subway sandwich from the day before was in the fridge. Perfect. It was a little soggy from the oil and vinegar, but it was tasty and hit the spot. The only improvement would have been a generous splash of Crystal hot sauce, but I found my only bottle almost empty. There was just enough in the bottom of the bottle to piss you off. I stood there trying to shake whatever was left out of the bottle. Dribble … Dribble. “Crap!”
I stood in the express checkout line behind a couple of tourists at the Piggly Wiggly. Miss Marge was behind the register. I had three bottles of Crystal in my hand. Marge saw me in line and offered a private wink.
Marge is my next door neighbor. She keeps an eye on my place while I’m out of town. We never discuss it, but I keep an eye out for her place too. She’s a sweet, single gal, a retired widow, comfortable in her skin and where she is in life. A great combination.
“Three bottles? Really? That’s all you need?” Marge asked as she scanned the items.
“Yep. That’ll do for now,” I said. “I needed some twenty minutes ago, but I was out. Hate it when that happens.”
“Hey,” Marge added, “that Candice girl came by to see you yesterday. You were gone, or I assumed you were. Your truck wasn’t in the drive.”
“It mustn’t have been too important,” I said. “She didn’t call.”
“I don’t know. She sat in her car for a while then went to knock at the back door.”
I didn’t say anything but thought, Wonder what she wanted?
“She really likes you, you know?”
“She’s a great friend,” I said smiling. “I’m quite fond of her.”
“As fond of her, as she is of you?”
“Come on now, Marge. Give me
a break. You’re as bad as the gals at Miss Gloria’s.” Miss Gloria’s parlor is the hotbed of local intelligence and personal beauty.
“Well, I do get my hair done there.”
“Okay, I got to run. Besides, you have folks waiting to check out.”
As I walked away Marge took one last shot, “I’m jus’ say’n, Nigel. You can’t ignore the obvious.”
I didn’t turn around as I headed to the door, but smiled as I said loud enough for her to hear, “Love you too, Marge.” The doors slid open and closed behind me as I walked out into the warmth of the sunshine.
I decided to take a right out of the parking lot and drive down to Jetty Park, do a fly-by and see what was going on, cruise through and check out the license tags. I like to see where folks are visiting from.
The lot was almost full. Many of the usual suspects were there, the locals that like to fish the jetty rocks. I also saw plates from Wisconsin, Ontario, and even one from Montana. Man, you’re a long way from home. I lifted my head and looked towards the fishing pier. It isn’t big, like those that stretch way out over the water. It pokes out a few feet over the seawall.
A crowd had gathered on the pier. They were watching some goings-on over the side. That usually means someone has hooked into something good. But they weren’t looking out over the water, they were focused on the rocks behind the seawall.
Curiosity got the best of me. I got out of my truck.
Indeed a big fish had been caught, a shark. It was about a five to five-and-a-half foot reef shark. Someone had hooked it, but how it made it over the seawall and into the shallow tidal pool was a mystery.
I assessed the situation. There was a guy with the fish, trying to return it to the bay. He was limited in size and strength but that didn’t keep him from staying with it. He was working alone despite an ample supply of able-bodied men that were watching from the pier. They were content to be bystanders while this great fish was about to die. Pussies, each and every one of them.
I immediately made my way down the rocks towards the pool and fish. I looked up towards the pier and said, to no particular person, “It’s just a fish, not like a rabid dog, dammit. It’s not going to bite you out of spite. For Christ’s sake, was nobody going to help this guy?”