Uncharted Waters

by Scott MacKenzie

  It was clear Tenn did not want my company today, and I don’t know for certain that she’s in any kind of trouble. I don’t have a plan, but I decide I need to get a better look. I slowly start to row toward Crazy Lady.

  When I get to the old wooden ship, I notice the fine woodwork framing the port lights, and the curved and beautifully inlayed wooden railing. Only up close can you see what this ship once was. Crazy Lady was once an impressive beautiful ship, and in a way she still is. Perhaps it was not so long ago that this ship was in top condition. It’s amazing how fast a neglected boat withers away; the same can be said about people.

  I give three hard bangs on the side of the hull with the side of my fist.

  I can only hear the gentle slapping of water against the hull. It occurs to me I still have no plan. I don’t know what I’m going to say when someone answers my call.

  I hear signs of life—someone climbing on deck and walking over to where I’m sitting in my skiff. A large middle-aged man with dark hair appears and looks down at me. It’s rare that I am dwarfed by anyone because of how I’m built. But, in this tiny rowboat looking up at this straight-faced stranger, I feel rather small and childlike.

  He looks down at me, and I look up at him, neither of us saying a word for a moment. Perhaps he’s as strange as I am. His eyebrows are almost connected into one, and he has a large jaw and a tiny mouth. His face has no expression. Considering all of my social anxieties, I’m surprisingly calm when another alpha male tries to dominate me. My heart does not quicken. I can hold this stare-off all day and not say a word.

  Finally, the man breaks the silence and speaks. “Who are you?” he asks, his face still blank.

  I must put my oars in the water to keep from drifting away. I don’t rush to answer as it has become very clear this man is not a friendly visitor.

  “I’m here to see Tenn,” I say, choosing to ignore his question.

  “Why, what do you want?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. His accent is neutral, making it hard to tell where he’s from.

  A part of me comes alive. It’s not anxiety, but anger. I do not like this man, and for a moment I dream of standing in my boat and hitting him in his unibrow with my oar, but I’m not a violent man, so I don’t act on the instinct.

  “I’m here to see Tenn,” I repeat, a little slower and louder.

  Again, we’re both silent, still locked in a stare. Then he walks back and disappears, and I can hear him climb down into the cabin.

  A part of me second-guesses who Tenn could be. I’m not naïve; I know very well the sea is lawless, and people disappear all the time. I also know Stan is watching with his binoculars, so I’m not completely on my own.

  I can’t help but speculate what is going on. Will I be greeted by the wrong side of a gun? My brief introduction to the man left me with the impression that he is dangerous. Time passes, and I’m waiting patiently with no anxiety at all. I can sense there may be danger, but I don’t fear death; at least I’ll get out of writing the damn book.

  I hear someone coming, the wooden deck creaking and groaning with every step. I know it’s not Tenn by the weight of the steps. It’s the same unibrowed, dead-faced man.

  “Vince, she has told you she does not want your company today, has she not?” he asks.

  “She did,” I answer honestly.

  “So, why are you here?” he asks. His expression changes for the first time, like he’s accusing me of something.

  “I’m just a friend checking on a friend. Why are you here?”

  “Why we are here and our relationship with Tenn is not your business, Vince.” He opens his mouth to continue but is distracted by someone coming up the steps. This time, I can tell it’s Tenn.

  She appears beside him and leans over the wooden railing. “What’s up, Vince?” There are lines in her forehead that were not there before. She seems stressed and agitated.

  “I wanted to know if you had dinner plans, and your pal here doesn’t seem to want me to talk to you.” I’m pointing my finger at the unibrow man standing next her, but my eyes stay on Tenn.

  “Look, Vince, thanks for the tour, but I don’t want to hang out again, alright? Don’t come back here. I don’t need you checking up on me like this,” she says coldly and out of character.

  “Okay, alright, if that’s what you want, Tenn,” I say in a flat tone.

  I hear the second man coming up the steps. He has red hair, and his face is pocked and scarred. He wears a thick, gold chain outside his flashy shirt. He looks down at me and says nothing. The moment I look into his eyes I sense that he is the more dangerous of the two.

  I look coldly at both men before I slowly row away. I have never been intimidated by another man, and today is no exception. I think they can see that they have no effect on me.

  When I get to my boat, it seems so white and pristine compared to the rough wooden hull of Crazy Lady. I try not to look at Tenn’s boat anchored not so far away. I return to my cabin and try to make sense of things.

  Who are you, Tenn?

  What are you involved in?

  I can’t stop thinking about Tenn pushing me away; her abrasive and direct tone still rings in my ears. I’m feeling a pang of rejection. I don’t think anyone has been as warm and accepting of me as Tenn has over the last few days, and then she shifted gears so abruptly. Her change in tone has rattled me. She was a shining light that I wish I had never felt, because I miss it now that it’s gone.

  There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of me, and behind it is my computer. The whiskey does seem to get in the way more often than not. Somehow, I need to shift gears and start writing. I don’t want to let Kayla down, and I don’t want to let myself down. I have no choice; I have to get something on the page.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  There is a crackle from the VHF radio, and then I hear Stan’s voice.

  “Captain Stan calling Tuuli. Captain Stan calling Tuuli. Over.”

  I pull myself out of the deep seat and walk over to the radio. My eyes are dry and hurt from staring at a screen for so long.

  “Hey, Stan,” I say into the receiver of the radio. My voice cracks as if I haven’t spoken in days.

  “You’re supposed to say over when you finish talking. Over.” His voice comes though clearer this time.

  “Okay . . . over,” I say with a quick press of the button on the microphone.

  “I have some good news. I found the box of cigars. Would you like to come to the beach for a smoke? Over.”

  “Sure.”

  I can hear a little dead air and a sigh. “See you soon. OVER and out,” he says, emphasizing the word.

  I slide the bottle of whiskey off the table and carry it to my skiff. I notice Tenn and her two thugs are not on deck. It’s a beautiful evening, so it’s strange they are not enjoying the weather.

  I pull my little rowboat along the sand with one hand and carry my bottle in the other. Stan has already lit a cigar and is lounged out on his chair in front of his shop on the sandy beach. There is a chair next to him for me.

  “You know you need to be careful with that stuff, Vince,” Stan says, referring to the bottle in my hand.

  I feel myself start to get defensive, and Stan quickly changes the subject.

  “Take a seat. Relax. Here, this is an incredible cigar. You’d pay a hundred dollars for this in Seattle. This is the best you can get, my friend,” he says, handing it to me.

  Stan lights the cigar for me. I can tell he wants to talk but seems to be forcing himself to stay quiet. He stands and disappears for a moment, returning shortly with two glasses. I happen to be drinking from the bottle when I notice them in his hand.

  “We’re not savages,” he says, handing me a glass.

  I can’t help but laugh while he pours the whiskey into our glasses. I’ve noticed people who want to talk about my drinking often have a drink in their hand.

  “So,
how’s the book coming along?” Stan asks after blowing a cloud of cigar smoke over his head.

  I suddenly wish we were still talking about my drinking. Although I don’t think there is anything he could say that would take my focus off Tenn’s boat, anchored in the bay in front of us. The moon is bright, and our boats are motionless in the glassy black water. Save a faint light coming from the stern windows of Crazy Lady, there’s no sign of life.

  “Couldn’t be going better,” I answer with an air of sarcasm.

  Stan laughs off my dismissive answer and again changes the subject. He is obviously trying to avoid the elephant in the harbor.

  “I have a new invention,” Stan says.

  Stan comes up with some crazy ideas. Some are simple and innocent, like a tiny spring-loaded catapult that was intended to stop the squirrels from eating from his bird feeder. He would pull a string, and blammo, the squirrel would take off. It seemed a little mean, but the little squirrels seem to shake it off quickly. Other times, he would come up with grand ideas that involved a robotic arm to do the dishes in his restaurant — I don’t expect that one to come to fruition. Inventing things is his hobby. Usually they are just ideas, but occasionally he attempts to actually build them. I always love when he gets to talking about his next invention, partly because they are amusing, but mostly because of his infectious excitement.

  “What do ya got cooking, Stan? Another Squirrel Launcher?”

  “A pirate Launcher!” he answers without delay.

  “Are pirates getting into your bird feeder?”

  “This is for real, man. This one is going to make me rich. It’s a tool, or a kit, that I can sell to the world-traveling sailor,” Stan says.

  I enjoy this side of Stan; it’s always fun listening to his wild ideas. I take my eyes off Tenn’s boat for the first time and focus on Stan.

  “I’m afraid to ask, but what is a Pirate Launcher?”

  “It’s so simple. It only has two pieces. I can’t believe no one has thought of this before. One piece is a simple chain, the other is a battery-powered motor,” he says as if this would mean something to me. “Oh, and a bomb, so I guess that’s three pieces.”

  We both take a few puffs of our cigars, and I feel a smile form on my face.

  “Okay, I’m intrigued. How does the Pirate Launcher work?” I ask.

  Stan sits on the edge of his chair and waves around his cigar as he speaks. It almost seems like a sales pitch on a late-night infomercial.

  “Imagine. You’re in open water, and you see one of those fast motor boats coming toward you. A few pirates with machine guns and balaclavas pull up to your boat and point their guns right at you. What can you do? You can’t pull out a gun. There are too many and you would surely be shot. You don’t want to bring a knife to a gunfight, and you definitely don’t want to bring a gun to a pirate fight. You need a Pirate Launcher.”

  “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, Stan.”

  “Stay with me, kid. Here’s how it works. You take the Pirate Launcher kit and jump into the water. Ideally, you sneak into the water before they are too close. Once they are beside your boat, you swim underneath theirs and put the chain around their propeller, fasten the battery-powered motor to the bottom, and just turn on the switch.”

  “What happens when you turn on the switch?”

  “Well, the motor powers their boat away. They’ll be confused and assume whoever is at the helm put their motor in gear, but when he does put it in gear to try to get the boat under control, he won’t be able to because the propeller is chained up. I would expect them to be confused and frustrated, and perhaps to even start shooting, but it will be too late because when you turned on the switch, a timer had started counting down, and blammo! The pirates are gone, and you are safe, all thanks to Stan’s Pirate Launcher!”

  “I have concerns,” I respond.

  “It’s flawless,” Stan assures me.

  “I would stick to squirrels, Stan.”

  “Look, let me show you,” Stan says, climbing out of his chair.

  “You’re not serious. You actually built this thing?”

  Stan disappears into his shop. I notice his binoculars next to his chair and pick them up. Even with the bright moon and binoculars, there is nothing to see on Crazy Lady. If it wasn’t for the light coming from the window, there would be no signs of life at all.

  “The Pirate Launcher!” Stans says enthusiastically, holding up a chain and another contraption.

  “Are there explosives in that?” I ask with concern, pointing to the rather heavy-looking contraption he’s putting down in the sand.

  “. . . No . . .”

  The delay in Stan’s answer suggests there are explosives indeed.

  “What is with all the foam?” I ask, referring to the oddly placed red foam pieces wrapped around the chain and motor.

  “I’m trying to get the buoyancy right so it’s easy to handle under water,” Stan says, as if it were a silly question.

  “And here I thought I was the crazy one,” I say to Stan, only half-joking.

  “We’re all a little crazy. Don’t trust anyone who claims different,” Stan says, holding up his glass. “Cheers!” We touch glasses.

  “Cheers, my friend.”

  We both sit back and point our attention out toward the harbor. “I can’t figure out what‘s going on with Tenn out there,” I say.

  “Well, Vince, it seems she has gotten herself involved with something that she shouldn’t be a part of, and doesn’t want us to know what’s going on.” Stan’s excitement has melted into concern.

  “What do you think it could be?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what happens tomorrow. Listen, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, Vince. I don’t like the looks of those guys, so let’s take an easy approach if they’re still around when we wake up.”

  “An easy approach. So, no Pirate Launcher, then?”

  “It’s a prototype, not quite ready for field testing yet. Hey, by the way, thanks for going to town for me. Here is some stuff for your fridge and freezer.”

  Stan gets out of his chair and presents me with a box tightly packed with food.

  “Alright. I’m old, I’m going to bed. Be careful, kid. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Stan stumbles into the dark toward his cabin, leaving me alone on the beach. I don’t rush back. Tenn’s voice echoes in my head. It was clear she didn’t really want to push me away like she had. Perhaps she was trying to protect me from something, or someone. I’m not intimidated by her new companions, but I’ll follow Stan’s advice and keep my distance.

  My eyes are locked on her boat as I put my cigar out in the cold sand. I try to imagine what has brought Tenn and those two thugs together, but speculation is useless. What I know is Tenn was a shining light until these men showed up, and I know these men do not want me around.

  They could be dangerous, and perhaps I should be more careful. Or maybe I’m the dangerous one, and they should be more careful of me. If I find out they are putting Tenn in harm’s way, I will be someone they’ll wish they’d never met.

  I won’t be pushed away so easily.

  Six

  The sun hasn’t risen yet. I can’t sleep and finally decided to give up trying, so I decide to spy on Tenn. There’s been no action save the one time Mr. Unibrow peed over the side of the boat. It feels like it’s been hours I’ve been looking out my port window. I’ve come up with many theories, each one grander than the last.

  My eyes feel heavy, so I lie down and dream about Tenn and I at the mango tree.

  I’m woken by the menacing rumble of the powerboat’s motor, early morning light seeping into the cabin. I was in a deep sleep, so I take a moment before hoisting myself up to look out the window.

  Tenn’s on deck untying the ropes to the speedboat; she doesn’t wave goodbye as they power away. The loud motor echoes off the cliffs, and the wake makes my boat roll back and forth. Tenn wait
s, watching them leave. I press my face against the window, studying her every move. When she turns around, she seems to look me dead in the eyes through my port window, as if she knows I’ve been watching her the entire time. I duck down, afraid of being caught.

  My mind is racing. Tenn and I are alone in Solitude Bay once again, so maybe I’ll have a chance to talk to her. Maybe I can get to the bottom of what’s going on. I sneak up to the window again to have a peek, but she’s gone. I sit down with a thud. I feel very alone; it’s strange how I went years in complete solitude, and just a taste of companionship has me craving more. I went so long without human touch—affection had become something of a distant memory rather than something I longed for. Countless people have come in and out of my life, and for some reason one person came along and completely rewired my brain. I consider for a moment that I may feel like a new man because I’ve thrown my medication overboard; I try not to think about that.

  It’s interesting how leaving your routine can give you perspective. When Tenn commented that my boat lacks character and seems unlived in, she was right. I pride myself on being a minimalist, although it wouldn’t hurt to hang a picture or two. The brightly painted parrot that she gave me looks out of place in the corner; its dark eyes seem to be watching me. I stare at it and consider storing the large figurine away. I don’t need those judging eyes watching my every move. I run my hands through my hair, my mind jumping from thought to thought — maybe I shouldn’t have thrown out my medication, eat something, have a coffee, write your damn book.

  My fridge is full thanks to the food Stan gave me. I don’t think Stan has ever paid me cash for working for him. I’m okay with our arrangement; it works for both of us, I think. Stan will help me with just about anything I need.

  I haven’t made a real breakfast in ages, and I think it’s exactly what needs to happen right now. I decide to grill on the barbeque outside. Before heading up, I put on one of my CDs. 1940s New Orleans-style jazz fills the cabin and plays from the speakers on deck. I cook a morning feast, drink coffee on deck in the hot morning sun, and try to shake off my new obsession anchored only a couple hundred yards away. At the moment, the wind has her boat swung around so I’m looking at the stern. It is obvious that she painted the name herself; you can see her personality in the artistry and color. I notice she has some yellow fuel cans strapped on deck that were not there before.