“Start up the motor, crazy lady. I’ll pull up the anchor,” I tell her as I climb back onto her boat.
I make my way to the bow and start pulling up the anchor. It only takes a moment before it’s locked in place and we are ready to move. I don’t think the anchor was even touching the sandy bottom of the bay.
The motor groans, spits, and smokes before, finally, chugging along. The black smoke it creates looks evil in contrast to the lush surroundings. She pops her head up and smiles. She almost looks surprised that the motor started at all. She playfully makes her way to the wheel and puts the motor in gear. I’m pointing in the direction we should be heading — away from my boat.
When we reach the other side of the bay, I motion for her to stop. I drop the anchor and watch as it plummets down to the bottom of the clear water. After tying it off, I wave at her to back up. She does, and the anchor digs deep into the sand. Her anchor is set. I give her a thumbs-up and she kills the motor.
“I think you need a tune-up,” I say, referring to her unhealthy motor.
“A deal is a deal. Come on down below and let’s get that cut cleaned up.”
I follow her down the steps to the inside of her floating wooden home. I call it a home because that’s what it seems to be. It looks more like a summer cottage than it does a boat. There are plants and paintings hanging everywhere. It looks something like one of those bohemian stores you find in a hippy town. Her kitchen is massive compared to mine. There’s pots hanging, a basket with fruit attached to the counter, spices, and even fresh flowers in a vase. This old wooden boat could look like a pirate ship, but it isn’t sinister enough. It smells like flowers and incense. This is a girl’s apartment. It’s an artist’s home.
“You paint?” I ask. It’s a silly question because freshly painted canvasses and paint brushes are everywhere. All the paintings have a tropical theme.
“I paint,” she answers, then gives me an easy smile. “Sit here,” she orders lightly.
I take a seat. There are multiple blankets on the cushions, and the heavy pillows swallow me. Her seats are far more comfortable than the ones on my boat, which is frustrating considering my modern boat is worth about three hundred thousand dollars, and her boat is probably worth three thousand. It’s not uncommon for people to get these old boats for free because they need so much damn work.
She disappears down a very narrow passage on the port side that I suspect leads to the stateroom where she sleeps. The old, dark wood creaks and moans under the weight of her steps. After some rustling around, she returns, now wearing a colorful sundress. She sits cross-legged on the soft, cushions next to me and looks at my cut, leaning forward into my personal space and squinting her blue eyes.
“Okay, this might sting a little,” she says, dabbing my small wound. It does sting, but I try not to show it. She is concentrating on what she is doing but, for a moment, our eyes meet. Because we’re so close, it causes a brief moment of awkwardness for both of us. I smile, and she smiles, then returns her attention to cleaning up the cut above my eye.
“So, should I call you crazy lady, or do you have name?” I ask.
“My name is Tenn,” she answers.
“Tenn?”
“Yup. Like Tennessee. That’s where I’m from.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Tenn. My name is Vince.”
Tenn is putting a bandage over my cut, and she’s very focused on what she is doing.
“You don’t look like a Vince,” she says.
“Oh no?”
Tenn sits back and looks at her handy bandage work. “Not bad, not bad at all. You should keep that on for a couple of days,” she says. Tenn stands and walks into the kitchen, turns on the stove, and puts a kettle on the burner. “So, Vince, where ya headed?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
She turns to face me. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You must be heading somewhere.”
“I’ve been here for a while. I have no plans to sail anywhere.”
“So, you’re just hanging out in this bay, alone?”
“Yeah, for now. I’ve been sailing from island to island for years. I like it here, so I’m in no rush to push on. How about you? Where are you headed?”
“I’m sailing around the world,” she says casually.
I’ve seen enough world travelers to know she is not one of them. World-traveling boats can be spotted from afar. Crossing oceans is not a casual affair, and this boat is barely outfitted for island hopping, never mind circumnavigating the globe.
Tenn makes two instant coffees and passes one to me. “Is black okay?” she asks.
“That’s fine,” I tell her.
“What’s your last name?” Tenn sits down at the table, resting her chin on her fist.
“Stark.” I take a quick sip of hot coffee.
“Vince Stark. Interesting.” She looks away.
“Is it?” I wonder if she’s figured out I’m an author.
“I’m something of a clairvoyant, and I think I have you figured out, Mr. Stark,” she says, her lips in a half smile.
“Okay, try me.”
“You are the youngest sibling,” she says.
“Nope.”
“Middle child?”
“Nope.”
“Of course you’re the oldest,” she says.
“Actually, no. I’m an only child,” I tell her.
“Interesting.” She nods her head like that means something.
“Who’s Lydia?” she asks, pointing to the tattoo on my chest.
“My ex-wife.”
She laughs. “Oh, I have one of those, too. Aren’t they the worst?”
I take a big gulp of the coffee that has cooled enough to drink quickly.
“I don’t detect an accent, so I’m thinking you’re from Portland, Oregon,” she says, moving her hands between us like she is helping along a stream of energy.
“Seattle.”
“So close. Okay, let me guess how old you are. Thirty-six?”
I’m thirty-seven, but I want her to have this moment, so I answer with a white lie. “Correct.”
Tenn slaps my knee and stands. “I think we should be friends.”
“What?”
“We’re a good match. I can tell.”
Tenn is smiling, her eyes caring. She’s clearly an eccentric who’s very far from being clairvoyant. She looks away from me and starts to water a plant. I must admit I like it here, and as odd as Tenn is, she’s entertaining to be with. I sit back and watch her move around this magical floating room. She’s full of life, has an optimistic kind of energy, and lots of careless ambition. She is very much the opposite of me. I sense I should say something rather than just sit here drinking my coffee and staring at her.
“So Tenn…” I start before I’m quickly interrupted.
“Oh no, you ruined it! That was a perfect comfortable silence. You don’t have anything to say, you just got uncomfortable.” Tenn points her finger at me while she speaks.
I lean back in defense, unsure what to say, or if I should say anything at all. Tenn puts her coffee to her lips and keeps her eyes on me. “It’s too late, you ruined it. Say something.”
I put my coffee mug on the table and take a deep breath. I laugh lightly to myself, and it occurs to me how little I laugh these days. It has something to do with getting older; some folks forget how to laugh entirely. When I was younger, I promised myself I would not be one of those tired old men who are unimpressed with everything, although I fear I may be on that path. I think it has something to do with people letting you down over the years. I’m feeling envious of Tenn’s childlike joy, but I don’t feel I have the luxury to be the same. I have to survive. I have to write. I have to leave.
“I’m going to go,” I say. I stand up and make my way to the steps that will take me back up to the deck.
“So, you’re going to hang out alone in your boat over there and I’m going to hang out alone in my boat here?” she asks.
I think about the bestselling novel I must write, the one that supposedly already exists. This child in a woman’s body is a distraction I don’t need. In fact, as entertaining as Tenn is, I’m not totally sure I like her. She carelessly damaged my boat, and now she’s prying her way into my life.
“I’m going to go,” I repeat. “Thanks for the coffee, and be more careful next time you anchor.”
I make my way up the steps to the deck where the late morning sun is beating down on the wood of the old boat. I take a moment to admire the woodwork of the pedestal and the large wooden wheel in the center of the cockpit. It looks like it could be a pirate ship, or even a Bristol antique if it were better taken care of. The bench seats on either side of the wheel are just long enough to stretch out on for sleeping under the stars. This is a large boat that was built for a small crew, maybe a husband and wife, or a pirate and his wench. The big steering wheel has dowels and is wrapped in rope in places. I have an urge to stand at the pedestal and grab the wheel to feel the smooth wood, but it’s time for me to leave, and I begin to climb down the ladder hanging off the transom to where my skiff is tied up.
It’s not easy getting into the boat because the deck of Crazy Lady is so high from the water and the ladder I have to rely on is rickety and small. Tenn appears just as I’m untying my skiff and ready to row away.
“So, what’s there to do around here?” she asks.
“Stan’s. It’s the only restaurant in town. If you’re looking for nightlife, you’re on the wrong side of the island.”
I know Tenn won’t be going to Stan’s. I know this because sailors are the cheapest people in existence, myself included. We don’t want to go back to real jobs and generally have a small amount of money to live on that we want to stretch as long as possible. At the moment, I’m doing pretty good with my little advance, and I can make that stretch for over a year if I’m really careful. So I know Tenn won’t be spending her money at restaurants. I’m still facing Tenn as I row away. She’s now sitting at the edge of her boat watching me.
“How about I make you lunch, Mr. Stark?” Tenn asks as I slowly paddle away.
She’s swinging her legs playfully, and her arms are draped lazily over the railing. I can tell she doesn’t like being alone. I, on the other hand, do like to be alone. At least I think I do. I need to be alone if I’m ever going to finish this book.
“I’ll come to your boat this afternoon. I’ll make you lunch as a thank you. It’s the least I can do,” she shouts.
I don’t answer. She smiles playfully and holds eye contact as I row away. I look away, but every time I look up, she’s still looking right at me.
“Is this one of your comfortable silences?” I shout.
Tenn waves her arms in disappointment. “You ruined it, Stark,” she shouts back.
With that, she stands and puts her back to me. The wind is blowing her summer dress against her, showing her form. It’s a beautiful sight, I must admit. The late morning sun makes Solitude Bay glow. In the center of the bay is a carefree soul in a bright summer dress standing on a pirate ship.
Two
I stare at a blinking cursor on the blank white screen of my laptop. I feel like my laptop is a life-support machine keeping me alive; my heart beats every time the cursor blinks. I am frozen. I do not have a thought. I feel nothing. Somehow, I’m supposed to write an entire novel. A story about love? I’m not qualified to write about the subject, but I suppose nobody has to know that.
The cursor hypnotizes me into a dream. I think about my days living in Seattle and what it was like to work during the night and sleep during the day. I was a ghost working the graveyard shift. I felt like I was trapped in that damn railyard, and I felt like I didn’t deserve anything more. In fact, I didn’t feel like I deserved what I had.
I didn’t have a vehicle back then so I walked everywhere. I didn’t have to walk through the dangerous streets on my way to work every night, but I did. I thought it would be a good death if I were mugged and left for dead. I was in a dark place; I genuinely did not want to live any longer.
Suicide has too many complications — it becomes about everyone else. So, if I saw a dangerous-looking character, I would cross the street and walk close, hoping they would end it all swiftly. More often than not, my potential murderer would ask if I was all right.
You alright, man?
I guess it is a slight exaggeration to say I actively wanted to die at the time; more accurately, I was tired of living. My wife hated me. Her family despised me, and all her close friends loathed me. Many of my coworkers felt the same. I’d had a few friends at some point, but they had long since disappeared. I slept during the day and spent evenings with my hateful wife. We would sit on the couch of our little apartment, eating take-out or delivery, watch TV, and quietly hate each other.
On Sundays, her parents would come to our apartment for dinner; I cooked. My mother-in-law was brutal, truly an awful lady. My father-in-law was a mixture of indifference and disappointment. When he had a few drinks, he was simply miserable. Sometimes my lovely wife would have her girlfriends over, and I would try to be as quiet as possible to not give them any ammunition to use against me. It was social warfare in that little apartment, and I was enemy number one to them all.
To be honest, to this day I don’t know why I was so hated, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I tried to stay away from that awful little apartment as much as I could.
I went to the gym almost every evening before work. I would change into my coveralls after my work-out, and they would stay on until I got home the next morning. I lived in those damn things.
I usually finished my work well before my night shift was over, so I would find an empty railcar and hide out for the rest of the night. I would pull out my laptop and write. I didn’t know what I was doing; it was just something I needed to do. I needed to escape. Imagine a grown blue-collar man writing a love story on his night shift in a cold, dark railcar. I was aware I was being a fool, so I kept it secret.
I’m not sure if my wife actively hated me, but I know there was no love. There was no love in my life anywhere. I read somewhere that you could die without human touch. I don’t know if that’s true, but I know I felt like I was slowly dying. Those years were dark and friendless and lasted too long.
But here I am, years later, and I’m a different person. At least, I’m a different version of myself, a better version, I think. Instead of that awful little apartment, I’m in this lovely boat, in a beautiful setting. Alone.
Knock, knock, knock.
It seems my book will have to wait.
“Hey, Vince! It’s me, Tenn!” she shouts.
I slowly close my laptop, take off my glasses, and set them on the table.
“Come on, darlin’. We have a date, remember?”
I make my way up the steps to the sunny deck of my boat. Tenn is standing on a paddleboard with a long paddle in her hand. She’s in the same dress but has added a large floppy sunhat, large sunglasses, and a duffle bag, which hangs from her back. When she smiles, her teeth are bright white against her glowing tanned skin.
“Hey, Tenn,” I greet her. My soft tone doesn’t match her enthusiasm.
“Whatchya up to?” she asks, standing confidently on the large floating board.
“Just trying to get some work done.”
“Work?” Tenn questions as she struggles to grab the ladder I put down for her. When she gains her footing, she props herself up to my level and continues. “You work from your boat? What do you do for work, darlin’?”
I take her hand and help her get on deck, ignoring her question. I haven’t told anyone about my writing since I left the dock in Seattle. One time, Stan asked for the contact information of a family member in case of an emergency. I don’t have any family, so I gave him Kayla’s business card. When he read it, I explained I wrote a book, and she was my agent and friend. He shrugged, put the card in his pocket, and never brought it up again.
“
Wow, look at you. This is a fancy boat. Are you rich or something?” she asks as she surveys my vessel.
“Far from it,” I answer defensively.
“This looks like a Jay-Z boat. You must have done something right,” she remarks.
It’s odd to have someone on my boat. It makes me uneasy; I can’t remember the last time I had a lady on the boat. Save Stan, this might be the first time I’ve had a guest since I arrived in Solitude Bay. She walks right past me and climbs down into the cabin as if she has been here a thousand times. I follow her down and take a seat in my usual spot. Tenn takes off her bag and takes a seat, too. She runs her hands along the smooth wood of the table that is between us.
“I don’t have much food on my boat at the moment, so I thought I would supply the refreshments,” she says.
Tenn pulls out a glass pitcher, a couple of lemons, and some teabags from her bag.
“This is how my grandmother used to make iced tea. You just put the tea bags in the water and leave it in the sun all day.”
Tenn gets up and makes herself comfortable in my galley. She fills the jug with water, adds the tea bags, then climbs up to the sunny deck and sets it down on the cockpit table. I can see her every move from where I sit below, see how she smiles at the glass jar and taps it on the side. She twirls the long way around, causing her dress to whip around before making her way back down into the cabin of my boat.
She returns to her seat and seems to be sizing up my floating home and me.
“So, where did you sail in from, Tenn?” I ask.
“Grenada was where I was last. I’ve been living on Crazy Lady for a year now, I sat out hurricane season in Venezuela, and now I’m preparing to cross the Atlantic,” she says casually.
I can’t tell if she is serious or not. Although I don’t know Tenn, I can tell she’s not ready to cross an ocean. I’m surprised she has made it here from Venezuela on her own. I consider asking why she wants to sail across the Atlantic, or how much experience she has, but I leave it alone. The worst part of sailing is having old know-it-all white men patronize you, and I don’t want to be that guy, so I bite my tongue.
Uncharted Waters Page 3