Uncharted Waters

by Scott MacKenzie

  Behind her shoulder is a port window where I can see outside. A familiar boat is entering the bay. Once a week this packed tour boat comes to Solitude Bay. It’s great for Stan’s business, and he knows when they are coming, how many there are. “It’s like fishing with a net,” Stan says. The tour must play the same music every time because, without fail, the same song is playing every time they enter the harbor.

  “Valerie, ohhh Valerie,” the Amy Winehouse chorus plays as loud as ever, and the man at the helm speaks into a P.A., giving the same spiel he does every time.

  Tenn and I both stand and look out the port windows. As the tour boat passes by, we watch a group of girls in their early twenties take selfies with their phones. This is an annoying breed of tourist, the young people who travel the world so they can brag about where they have been. They seem to think that the more countries they have under their belt, the more accomplished they are. They simply fly around the world and take selfies, and somehow this is bettering themselves — I will never understand it.

  Tenn is standing on the steps with half of her body outside so she can see them better. “Hey losers,” Tenn says with a smile and a wave. A few tourists notice her and wave back. Tenn climbs down and returns to her seat.

  -

  “Why are you a lone wolf, Vince?” she asks me.

  “I could ask you the same,” I say, the wake from the tour boat causing us to rise and fall. I can tell right away that Tenn is an easy guest to have. She certainly doesn’t need to be entertained.

  “Do you mind if I check out your Jay-Z boat?” she asks. Tenn doesn’t wait for an answer and starts walking around, opening doors and peeking around corners.

  “Wow, it looks so new. How long have you had her?” she asks.

  “About eight years now.”

  Tenn looks concerned. She takes off her large sunhat and sets it aside. “There are no signs of life here. Not a single picture, not a single plant. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful boat, but it looks barely lived in. It looks brand new.” She speaks to me like a mother speaks to a young child who doesn’t understand the world.

  I’m unsure how to respond; I’m a little offended, but I try not to show it. Tenn is rummaging through drawers around my navigation station and inspecting the cluster of electronic instruments and screens, which makes me uneasy. She’s a stranger, and I don’t want her messing with my electronics or going through my things.

  “Everything okay over there?” I ask, sitting high in my seat.

  She doesn’t answer. The stereo clicks on — it’s a familiar sound. I have a collection of CDs that are a series of 1940s and ‘50s New Orleans’ jazz music. There is an old-timey radio announcer that tells a story between each song. I listen to it often; it keeps me company in the evenings. At the moment it feels silly and slightly revealing.

  “What the heck is this?” Tenn asks, poking her head up.

  I stand up in protest, and she detects my uneasiness. The sound of an old radio announcer is introducing the opening song, saying something about driving down lover’s lane in a blue Chevy.

  “No, Vince. This is fantastic. You sit your butt down,” she orders.

  I obey her command. The radio announcer finishes his long, animated introduction and then a trumpet, piano, and drums fill the cabin with the sounds of New Orleans. An unusual soundtrack for our tropical setting. I don’t think I’ve ever played these CDs while the sun was up. Tenn has the stereo louder than I normally would have it.

  “I really like it,” she shouts over the music.

  Tenn begins to make herself at home in my galley, and I’m beginning to feel unbearably invaded. I try to intervene with her inspection, but she carries on around me. She starts dancing with a spatula in her hand, pushes me away, and begins to use it as a baton. She giggles and dances around the cabin like a character from a silent movie. During a trumpet solo she pretends to blow into the spatula. When the song ends, she bows. I clap after an awkward delay.

  “Well done,” I say in response to her performance.

  I rifle through my CDs and find my one and only Bob Marely album. “This might be a better fit,” I say.

  Tenn walks back into the galley with confidence and ease. “Now, what am I going to make you for lunch?” she asks, more to herself than me.

  She opens my fridge and finds what’s left of the fish I cleaned last night. She is completely at ease here. She doesn’t walk around the cabin — she floats. We are very much opposite souls. I must be staring at her, because she jolts to a stop when she catches my eyes.

  “You’re a mystery to me, Vince,” she says, echoing the thoughts I’m having about her.

  She puts the fish on the cutting board and washes her hands in the small sink. Her eyes are in a suspicious squint while she towels off her wet hands. “What did you do in Seattle?”

  “I worked in the railyards.”

  She looks around the boat, clearly wondering how I went from the railyard to this. “I assume you came down here and bought the boat after the divorce?”

  “I bought the boat in Seattle and sailed it here. Yes, after the divorce.”

  “Wow, you sailed here all the way from Seattle? Impressive. What was your ex-wife like? What did she do?”

  I feel my guard come up. I’m enjoying Tenn’s company, but she’s testing my boundaries.

  I don’t answer her; I can feel my hospitality melting away. My body language shows my discomfort.

  Tenn puts down the towel and raises both of her hands as if I were pointing a weapon at her. “Wow, don’t ask about the ex, got it,” she says in reaction to my silent protest.

  Bob Marley is doing his best to ease the tension, but not even he can seem to fix this moment. It’s been years since I’ve seen Lydia, and I haven’t spoken to her since the divorce. I changed my email because her friends and family were bombarding me with hateful messages, so we don’t even have each other’s contact information. She is very much gone from my life, but she manages to come up in my mind occasionally, and it is always an unwelcome thought. I didn’t walk out on my wife; I escaped a bad marriage.

  “I’ll tell you what, Vince Stark. If you don’t ask me about my ex, I won’t ask you about yours,” she says in a soft voice.

  “Deal,” I answer, although now I’m slightly curious about the ex-husband.

  “So, what do you do with your time here in Solitude Bay?” she asks, changing the subject.

  I scratch the back of my neck and think about how to respond to her simple question without seeming dreadfully boring. I’ve been anchored here for nearly a year, but it doesn’t feel that long. I want to tell her I’m doing something valuable with my time. Aside from the energy it takes to keep this boat in nice condition and occasionally helping Stan, I don’t do a hell of a lot. Once in a while I work on other people’s boats. I look around and see my guitar hidden in the forward cabin on my bed.

  “I play guitar,” I answer. I’m instantly embarrassed for some reason. I don’t play my guitar that often. It’s an old but familiar feeling, wanting to impress a girl like Tenn.

  “It looks like a nice guitar,” she says as she rifles through my pantry.

  Tenn does a little dance like she just scored a touchdown. She’s bringing an energy to this boat that it’s never seen before.

  “I’m trying not to get too excited here, but I’m seeing a blender, ice — very impressive that you have an ice machine by the way — lots of limes, triple sec, and salt.” She’s frozen, crouched down, waiting for me to relieve her of this suspense. “Tell me you have some…” She waits, her arms waving to indicate the suspense that hovers in the air. Of course I know what she’s referring to.

  I lean way over and open a hatch, pulling out a rather large dusty bottle of Jose Cuervo. I flip the bottle and hand it to her like an offering to a queen.

  Taking the bottle from my hand, she squeals, “Are you kidding me?”

  “What about your grandma’s famous iced tea?” I ask playf
ully.

  “Grandma was a drunk.”

  We make eye contact and Tenn laughs wildly. It’s mildly amusing that she said her grandmother was a drunk, but it’s her wild laugh that’s infectious. I laugh in response; it starts with a chuckle, and then my whole body shakes. It feels like I’m starting a motor that hasn’t been run in years, each chuckle a yank on the pull start. I’m laughing, and I’m losing control. I don’t know what’s funny, I’m unsure how this began, but its been years since I’ve laughed like this.

  I don’t think Tenn knows how this started either, but we’re feeding off each other. It occurs to me that this may be what friendship is — sharing laughter.

  When she starts the blender, the spell is broken; the sound of the blade grinding the ice drowns out my laughing and Bob Marley. I let out a sigh and wonder what just happened. It’s an odd thing to laugh with a stranger. I’m almost left feeling a little embarrassed for some reason.

  The blender stops grinding, and Tenn works away at two margaritas. She is dancing, and when she cuts the lime her hips shake. She twirls before she rims the glasses with salt. I watch with a smile on my face. I feel like I’ve already had a margarita. Maybe the best part of a good drink is the part where you give in and decide to open the bottle; I often question the aftereffects.

  “Cheers!” she says as she presents me with her concoction. I noticed she was generous with my tequila, so I brace myself.

  “Cheers,” I answer.

  Our glasses touch, and we both wince when we take a sip. It’s a little strong considering we haven’t had lunch yet. Tenn swings around and sits across from me, looking me dead in the eyes.

  “So, what are you into?” she asks.

  I consider the vague question. It shouldn’t be so hard to answer, but it makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m not the kind of guy that people feel comfortable talking to, so I’m not used to this.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  “You’re not great with people, are you?” she questions.

  “No, not really,” I answer truthfully.

  “You’ve been living alone on this boat for how long?”

  “I moved onto this boat the day I bought her eight years ago in Seattle.”

  I think of the day I nearly drained my account and bought my boat. It was at the Seattle boat show, she was brand new, and I simply told the sales lady, “I’ll take her.” For such a large purchase, it was remarkably easy. I actually sailed it away from the boat show at the end of the weekend. I’ll never forget the feeling of sailing this large luxury sailboat into the harbor for the first time. I literally had no possessions at that time, except the clothes I was wearing and a small suitcase I was living out of at a hotel. For anyone else it would have been a foolish choice, but as I was sailing away from the Seattle skyline, I knew deep in my heart it was the right move.

  “Wow, that is one hell of a journey. Have you ever had any crew with you along the way?”

  “I seem to manage well enough alone,” I say.

  Tenn puts her feet up on the bench and lies down on her side. I remain sitting up, my hands folded in my lap, while she is draped on the sofa like a Sunday morning house cat. It looks like this is her home and I’m the guest.

  “Vince, you know what I think? I think you feel most alone when you are with people. The more people, the more alone you feel.”

  “Maybe you are a clairvoyant,” I state with a touch of sarcasm.

  Tenn seems to be thinking about something. Her margarita is nearly gone; so is mine.

  “You know what, Vince? I hate small talk. Tell me something about yourself you’ve never told anyone.” She sits cross-legged with her elbows on the table, holding her nearly empty margarita under her chin, eyes wide.

  I take a slow breath. I decide to play along and search for something to say. I try to think back to my life in Seattle — the tequila is helping me remember. I close my eyes and let my mind wander. I usually think about what I’m going to say before I talk, but for some reason the words just flow out. I close my eyes and answer her question.

  “In my early twenties I ran a marathon. I felt like my life was rather unimpressive, and if I could finish that race then I would have at least done something with my time. I told myself I didn’t care about how fast I finished, that I would even walk if I had to. I had never run that distance before, so my only goal was to finish the race.

  “When I started running, everything changed. I ran the entire thing as fast as I could. I had tears in my eyes at the end. The last few miles I waddled like a cinematic villain, wincing in pain with every step. The finish line was inside a stadium, and there were thousands of people smiling and cheering. I crossed the finish line feeling a sense of accomplishment I had never felt before. I knew I had physically hurt myself, but it was worth it. I made it, and I ran hard the entire way.

  “Then it happened. I was surrounded by the other runners who had just completed the race, and they were being hugged and high-fived by their loved ones. I waddled my tired legs through the crowd — there was so much love, but none of it was directed at me. There was no one to meet me at the finish line. I pushed through all the celebration, walked out of the stadium, and got on a bus — alone. I was still out of breath, looking out the window wishing I could share this moment with someone. My wife at the time didn’t show any interest, so I didn’t want to ask her to be there. That was a lonely feeling, being on that city bus on my way to my empty apartment like nothing had happened.”

  I open my eyes.

  I don’t think I’ve ever said so much to anyone, ever. I’m looking at Tenn, and she is looking back at me. The Bob Marley CD has finished and there is nothing but the sounds of the bay splashing against the side of the hull. The boat rocks back and forth, causing something to clank above.

  I stand and make my way to the galley.

  “Stop,” Tenn demands.

  “Stop?”

  She shimmies along the bench and stands in front of me. I take a step back, but it’s too late. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me in, hugging me. My arms float in the air while Tenn’s are tight around me. She’s forceful but not aggressive. She cups her hand on the back of my neck and gets even closer, laying her head against my chest. I look down to see her eyes are closed and she’s smiling peacefully. My floating arms slowly fall and wrap around her. I don’t have the commitment and inhibition that Tenn has, but I can see her smile brighten. I get more comfortable and I feel my stiff shoulders relax, my elbows fall, and my eyes close. She makes subtle changes that tell me what I’m doing is okay. I feel a calmness wash over me, my heart slows, and my breaths come easy. She smells natural, beautiful, and feminine, with a touch of coconut coming from the skin on her shoulders and neck. She readjusts to get as close as possible.

  Just when I begin to truly lose myself in the moment, she releases her hold and I open my eyes. She keeps the energy of the moment by putting her hands on my shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she says with a smile.

  Her hands slide off my shoulders, and she exhales before walking into the galley. Tenn then claps her hands, the spell I’m under breaks, and I’m able to move again. I feel slightly confused by the hug, but there is no question it felt good. It’s like she fixed something inside me I forgot was broken.

  She takes the rest of the fish Stan gave me and begins to make a beautiful meal. She insists that I continue with my work while she cooks, but there’s no way I’ll be able to focus on writing while she is just feet away clanking pots and singing along to Bob Marley. It takes effort for me to relax while someone I just met is cooking in my galley, but I seem to be able to read a little in between breaks of telling her where things are.

  We have our lunch on deck in the fresh midday breeze. When we are done, I carry the dishes below and begin rinsing off the plates.

  “So, what do you want to do today, darlin’? Can you give me a little tour?” She shouts down to me from the deck.

  I star
e at my closed laptop and my reading glasses on the table. I have a novel to write. But I can see that my new neighbor is going to be a distraction. She’s a strange and lovely soul, but if I’m going to get this done, I need to be alone. Writing is a solitary affair. It’s been nice to talk and laugh with Tenn, and I must admit, when she hugged me it was like she changed my DNA for the better. But I have work to do.

  The task of writing aside, I can’t go from being a complete recluse to sharing all my time with someone. I’ve gotten used to going it alone. It does feel nice having her on the boat, but I think I need to set boundaries.

  I wash a plate and stare at my laptop, trying to think of a nice way I can tell Tenn that I would rather be alone.

  “I should probably stay here and get some work done,” I shout back to her.

  I wait for an answer, but I don’t get one. I put the plate on the drying rack and think of how I can gently push her away. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. I just met this woman. She crashed into my boat, and into my life; I’m pumping the brakes on this friendship.

  “Tenn?”

  Silence is my only response. I peek around the corner to where she had been sitting on deck, but she is nowhere to be seen. I make my way up the steps and still see no sign of her. Once on deck, I see that she’s on her paddleboard, rowing away.

  “Thanks for lunch, darlin’,” she shouts.

  Although I was just trying to figure out a polite way to ask her to leave, I can’t say I’m relieved she left so abruptly. I raise my hand and wave goodbye.

  I retreat back down to my cabin and sit in my normal spot. I have been alone in the middle of the ocean for weeks at a time on this boat, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as alone as I do now. I shuffle over to the port window to see if I can still see her rowing away. Even though she’s gone a fair distance, I fear her seeing me peeking out the little window and I quickly duck down.