Uncharted Waters

by Scott MacKenzie

  “Okay, Vince, we don’t have to talk about it,” Kayla says in a calming tone. She knows she has pushed as hard as she can.

  I’m flying high above Saturna Island in a small four-seater plane. This is the home stretch of my journey. I can see my boat right where I left it, anchored in Solitude Bay. I’m the only boat in the bay, and that’s just how I like it. The cliffs on either side of Solitude Bay frame the translucent blue water, and where the rocky cliffs allow, there are white sand beaches and palm trees. I struggle to take a picture of her, but I’m too slow. We pass quickly, and the bay disappears behind the dramatic green mountains whose peaks seem to almost scrape the bottom of the plane.

  We are flying to the other side of the island where the airstrip is located, and it could not be more different from Solitude Bay. There are resorts, restaurants, and all the amenities you could dream of. The streets are crowded with tourists, and the bays are littered with boats. It amazes me how fast we pass over Saturna Island and reach the other side. Crossing the island is a long journey on a motorcycle.

  The small plane screams along, taking us around the last of the mountains, hugging the south shore. It’s a dramatic entrance; this is probably the angle the resorts take their publicity photos from. All the resorts, bars, and restaurants are tucked into a south-facing valley. A white sand beach extends from one end to the other. Tourists are everywhere, activity is everywhere. I travel to this part of the island from time to time when I need something I can’t get from the little village of Solitude Bay.

  We touch down. I’m almost home. So close, yet so far away. I’ve taken four planes to get here, and now I have at least an hour on a rickety old motorcycle on a road that would be better described as a bumpy trail. As I step out of the little plane and onto the dirt airstrip, the tropical air fills my lungs and the Caribbean sun fills me with life. I’m the only passenger on the little plane, and the pilot hands me my bag, welcoming me home. It’s a long walk to town where I stored my motorcycle. It didn’t seem so far a week ago, but all the traveling has made my legs feel weak.

  The shed where my motorcycle is kept is through an alley and behind a shop. I didn’t leave it at the airport because that’s asking for trouble. The young locals are not dangerous criminals, but they are mischievous, and they’re known for taking vehicles on joy rides. I have an acquaintance who is happy to let me store my bike in his shed behind his shop from time to time. I repay the favor in the form of rum.

  I’ve been questioning if I have it in me to make this leg of the journey. The bike feels heavier than it should. I got this tired old bike as payment for some work I did on a local’s boat. For the most part, that’s how I’ve been getting by for the last year. Boats always need repair, and some folks would rather throw money at these things than get their hands dirty.

  After some internal debate, I decide to make the journey on the rough trail over the mountains to the north island where I call home. Around the halfway mark there’s a nice grassy area with a mango tree where I usually rest and take in the lush Caribbean view, but I want to get this journey over with so I motor past the familiar open field and push on toward home.

  The village is a stark contrast from the south island. It’s sleepy but not rundown. There are tourists here, too, but very few of them. The only way to reach this area is by sea plane, boat, charter tour, or, of course, the little-known road I just traveled. On occasion, Solitude Bay is full of boats at anchor. I prefer it when I have the bay to myself, but I know I don’t live alone in the world. I grumble and complain, but it’s good for Stan’s business.

  Stan’s a young man who happens to live inside a very old body, which is not an uncommon thing in these parts. He’s spry and his eyes are bright, and his wrinkled brown skin has seen many suns. He owns and runs the one and only restaurant in the village which is aptly named Stan’s. I’ve lived here long enough to call him a friend. When it’s busy enough, I help out at the restaurant, or make a run to the south island to pick up supplies for him.

  Little A-frame huts that can be rented are nestled on the hill, sloping up and away from the ocean. A tiny general store — which is most often closed — sells dry goods amongst other essentials, and is also owned by Stan. Save a few colorful bungalows in the hills, there is not much else.

  It’s with good reason that I’ve not sailed on since I arrived almost a year ago. It’s truly stunning, the natural beauty beyond compare. Palm trees and other colorful tropical plants are wild and ungroomed. The paths are crude and make the area look like a tropical campground rather than a manicured village.

  I make my way down a familiar trail toward the beach and sink my feet into the fine white sand of Solitude Bay. I drop my bag beside me, and it lands with a thud.

  I’ve made it.

  The water is a color that only something divine could create, so still and clear. So clear in fact, there are times boats appear to be floating on air.

  There she is, my vessel, my home. Tuuli. She’s a fifty-foot sailboat. I remember the day I bought her in Seattle. She seemed massive and maybe even frightened me slightly. Now, as I look at her from the shore of Solitude Bay, she looks much smaller. She needs me, and I need her.

  I feel a calm wash over me, the same feeling everyone gets when they finally get home from an exhausting journey.

  “Back already?” The voice from over my shoulder is Stan.

  “Hey Stan, what did I miss?”

  “Oh, not much. It’s been quiet. The harbor has mostly been empty. How was your trip?” Stan sounds like he just woke from a nap.

  “Let’s just say I’m happy to be home,” I tell him.

  Stan looks at me suspiciously. “Have you been taking your medicine?”

  I find myself looking at my feet. I’ve become very close with Stan, and we’ve spent a considerable amount of time together here in Solitude Bay. There have been times where we were the only two people here for days on end. There is no television, no internet, and electricity is intermittent. Stan knows more about me than friends I’ve known my entire life, and he’s become somewhat of a father figure. The truth is, I haven’t been taking my meds like I should be, and I know, somehow, he can tell. I feel the early sparks of anxiety as I search for the words to explain myself. Stan senses my uneasiness and doesn’t push the issue.

  “I pulled up more fish than I can eat. Hang on, I have something for you.” Stan runs away then returns with a beautiful fresh-caught fish and holds it up, offering it to me.

  “Wow, thank you. Did you want to come to the boat for dinner?” I ask.

  “No, no. I’ll see you tomorrow. Vince, you know what happens when you don’t take your medicine. I’m just looking out for you, my friend. We look out for each other on the water. I’ll leave my radio on tonight in case you need anything.” Stan shakes my hand and slaps me on the back.

  I bid him a good night and pull my skiff from the tall grass down to the water. I row myself, my bag, and my fish through the glassy water toward my boat. It’s late evening, and the blue and green colors are taken over by the orange and red of a sunset. I set my bag on the deck and hang my fish off the back of the boat.

  I am home.

  I quickly clean the fish Stan gave me and light the barbeque mounted on the side of the deck. I’m craving a decent meal before I call it a night and catch up on much-needed sleep. I make some coconut rice to go with the whitefish, and then I finally sit down to eat.

  The water is so calm that the boat barely moves. The sun is almost completely behind the mountain, but I haven’t turned on any lights yet. Sitting on the deck of an anchored sailboat in the dark is a unique feeling. I’m protected from the dangerous land-dwellers, but also tired. It’s a perfect night, and I’m enjoying the feelings of peace and gratitude. Somehow, I don’t feel the stress of the impossible burden that awaits.

  I packed lightly for my trip to Seattle. I’m meticulous, so I begin unpacking and putting things in their place.

  I shake a bottle of pi
lls.

  I stare at them as if deep in thought, but in truth there are no thoughts. I roll the pills around in the bottle. There are feelings swirling around me like annoying flying insects. My thoughts are hovering above my head like a cartoon storm cloud. I am an empty shell. Thoughts and feelings are waiting just outside of my skin. How long they will wait for me is a growing concern.

  I squeeze the bottle in a tight fist. These pills are the reason you can’t write. The thought comes from the cloud above me.

  I leave the cabin below and climb up on deck. The evening air is warm, and the moon casts a white glow over the bay. I extend my hand over the water and hold the bottle of pills tight in my fist.

  Let them go.

  I take a deep breath.

  I need to write.

  I need to be able to feel again.

  I have just about mustered up the courage to open my hand and let the pills fall into the sea, but something grabs my attention.

  Another boat is entering the harbor.

  I have a habit of spying on boats nearby. I think everyone who is anchored in a harbor does the same whenever there’s a newcomer.

  With only the moon lighting the bay, it’s difficult to see the details of the boat. It’s clear that it’s an old wooden sailboat, but I can’t see anyone aboard. At least I had a few hours alone, and hopefully they’re just stopping for the night and will push on tomorrow. I hate the idle chit-chat that comes with meeting new people.

  The boat looks ghostly in the moonlight. My eyes are fixated on the wooden ship, my arm still extended over the edge of my boat, the pills still in my fist. I open my hand and let them go.

  I feel a devilish smile form on my lips. Who do we have here? I think, still looking at the old ship motoring into the bay.

  I go below and close all the hatches. There’s nothing like sliding into your own bed after being away from home. I am self-aware enough to realize I’m feeling different since I stopped the meds. That I’m beginning to feel again. What has been living just outside me is slowly finding its way back into my skin. My thoughts that were a cloud have become a storm with lightning and thunder. I am alive.

  I’m terrified of what I’ll wake up to tomorrow morning. For the moment, however, I’m too tired to address anything. My bed has a weighted blanket that holds me down and calms me. My eyes close, and my mouth tips up in an easy smile. I think about being on the New York Times Best Sellers list and my agent telling me how proud she is of me. A very gentle rise and fall of the water rocks me into relaxation.

  I wonder what the first line of my book will be. I want it to be something odd and memorable, like Slaughterhouse Five’s last line, “Poo-te-weet.” I let my imagination wander and come up with my first line. It’s the hardest part, writing the first line. I’ll make a mockery of it and come up with something silly to break the ice. Something that is just a mess of vowels and consonants that says I don’t give a fuck about the first line of the book. It’s just one of many, and to be honest, all that matters is that something gets written. One sentence after another, and before you know it, you are lost in a world that seems to already exist. It’s almost as if I have found a new place, discovered a new world, rather than created something.

  One line after another, and before you know it, something happens.

  Before I drift off to sleep, I decide on the last line of this straight-up romance. A nonsense word that somehow encompasses the feeling I want to evoke with the reader. I’ll type it first thing in the morning so I don’t forget it; sleep is finding me quickly. I think I say the word out loud before I enter a dreamless sleep.

  Moodchieta.

  One

  Moodchieta.

  The silly word is still echoing in my head as the first light of day begins brightening the pale wood of my cabin. I turn away from the windows and pull the weighted blanket over my head to try to find sleep again.

  Bang!

  I throw the blanket off me in reaction to my boat’s sudden movement and the painful grinding sound. The boat has just been struck by something. Either I lost my anchor and have drifted to shore, or another boat and I have collided.

  I jolt out of bed and make my way up the steps to investigate. Instantly, I see what has happened. There’s a boat pushed up against me, and something is caught between us, creating an awful grinding noise.

  I step on deck to investigate and discover a woman looking up to where our sail rigging is tangled. She looks baffled and scared.

  The rise and fall of the waves causes whatever is caught between our boats to grind violently. I can feel the unnatural movement in my boat with the awful sound as if my boat is being attacked by this intruder and my vessel is wincing in pain.

  “You scratched my anchor,” she yells over to me.

  I look down from the tangled rigging and make eye contact with her. She has curly, dirty-blonde hair, blue eyes, and her skin is tanned. The moment we make eye contact, I feel her fear, fatigue, and inexperience.

  “You scratched my anchor. Caddy Shack, just a little joke. Do you speak English, darlin’? Where ya from?”

  Looking up at the sail rigging, I see where we are caught and make a quick decision as to what I will do to untangle the wires high above.

  “Pass me your halyard,” I say to the woman.

  “What’s a halyard?” she asks.

  I look into her eyes again and see she isn’t joking.

  “Come over here and crank this winch when I say.”

  She steps off her tired, old, wooden ship and onto my clean, modern vessel. I begin to climb the mast, almost to the top, where the two ships are tangled. I’m inches from where the cables and stays are snagged, and I feel it wanting to break. Both of our boats are howling like animals caught in snares.

  Carefully, I wrap the rope around.

  “Okay, crank it,” I shout to her below. She turns the crank, pulling the rope in. As I hoped would happen, we become untangled. Her heavy, old boat begins to drift away, and my mast begins to angle down. Now, only the halyard line, which I have wrapped around both our masts, is holding us together, and the pull from her boat is causing my lighter boat to lean over.

  “Okay, release it slowly,” I shout down to her. “Slowly!” I yell again.

  I see her fumbling around, and I know my fate — it isn’t good. She doesn’t release the rope slowly; she lets it go free, and everything snaps. My mast swings back and catapults me into the air. I crash feet-first into the water below. I don’t think I’m injured, and swimming to the surface is not difficult. Once I emerge, I turn to see my unwelcome guest holding her hands to her mouth in guilt. I sense some heat over my left eye, and when I touch it, I realize I’m bleeding.

  Splash!

  She has jumped into the water and is frantically swimming toward me.

  “Oh my god, are you okay? Can you swim?” she asks, treading water close to me. She reaches her hand over to my left eye and sweeps my hair away. “That is a deep cut. We need to take care of that,” she says with concern.

  I’m completely baffled as to why she’s in the water with me. She could have thrown me a life jacket or a rope. But she’s decided to throw herself into the water instead. She has a way about her that makes me unable to shout at her, but I want to.

  “It’s not going to be easy getting back onto the boat. You should have put down a ladder instead of jumping into the water,” I say while slowly treading water.

  Her hair is pushed back, exposing her fresh face. Her blue eyes shine. She has an odd allure that, even in this unusual moment, I can detect.

  “Also, your boat is drifting away,” I say, tilting my head slightly in the direction of her vessel.

  She chirps a noise of concern and starts splashing toward her boat. I take a moment, but I know I’m going to help her. There’s no way she’ll be able to climb up onto her large boat, so I swim to where my skiff is tied and climb in. As I row toward her, it’s clear she’s beginning to realize she can’t climb up into her b
oat.

  “Hang on. I’ll climb up and put down the ladder,” I tell her as I hoist myself up. Even from my skiff, it’s difficult to climb up the rather high freeboard of her ship.

  The morning sun has heated the old wood, and it feels good under my arms. Once on deck, I take a quick survey of her boat. It has character, every handrail curved and carved. The wheel looks like something from an old pirate ship. It looks like a fairy tale, but I’m a sailor, and I’m struggling to understand how this old thing can even float.

  “Hey darlin’!” she shouts from below.

  I lower the ladder from the back of the boat, and she climbs in. I sit down and take a moment while she takes off her wet t-shirt. She is wearing a yellow bikini that looks like it’s from the 1960s. I look away in an effort to be respectful while she towels herself off. I’m unsure of what to do or what to say. I have spent so much time alone that my social skills have become dulled. I don’t feel the need to be angry with her for putting my boat in danger anymore. Most mariners love nothing more than to beat their chest and tell other sailors what they are doing wrong. I don’t want to scold her, the moment has passed, and it’s time for me to leave.

  “Don’t drop your anchor so close this time,” I tell her as I begin to climb down to my tiny rowboat.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “I’m going back to see how badly you damaged my boat.”

  She takes a few steps toward me and leans in. A strand of curly hair falls in front of her face and her eyebrows raise. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll fix up that cut above your eye and you can help me set anchor.” She speaks with a mix of tenderness and frankness.

  “You need help anchoring?” I ask her.

  “No, I don’t need your help, and you can probably take care of that cut yourself, too. I just thought we could give each other a hand. Are you always such a dickhead?”

  I’m trying to leave quickly only because I don’t know what to say to this woman, but the truth is, she’s intriguing. Standing on the ladder off the stern, I can see the name of her boat painted across the transom. In faded red letters it reads, Crazy Lady.