“What time is it?” I ask.
“Are you late for an appointment?”
“Very funny,” I say as I pull myself up from the seat.
I feel like a child without a care in the world. I sit up straight to look out the port side window. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see, as if I slept so long that there would be a large sign that says, “Welcome to Azores.” There is about a four-foot swell, and the big blue sky gives promise for the day.
“I’m going to make bread often. Fresh bread keeps the crew happy,” Tenn says as she fires up the oven.
“Fresh bread sounds delightful.” I give her a genuine smile. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
“So much better! Sorry about that, boy that really got me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bad for so long,” Tenn says, still focused on making bread.
“It happens to the best of us. That should be the end of it. So, did you drug me, take off my clothes, and steal my watch?” I ask with a playful confusion.
“Yep,” she says with a glimmering smile.
“Fair enough. I’m going to need the pocket watch back though. I need it to keep track of our position. I don’t remember anything. I guess I barely slept for four days straight while you were under the weather.”
“You were out cold. Your alarm was going off — it’s loud as hell and even woke me up on deck. When I came down, you looked so peaceful that I didn’t have the heart to wake you. So I made you a little more comfortable and stayed on watch for the night. When the wind came up early this morning, I killed the motor and set the sails. Now here we are.”
“Well, thank you. I must admit I feel better. I’ll have to show you how to keep track of our dead reckoning position,” I say as I slide onto the padded seat in front of the chart table.
I update our position based on our speed, time, and heading. On one hand, it is tremendously satisfying to make a new point on the chart that shows our progress. On the other hand, it is daunting to see how much distance lies ahead. I sit back and force myself to be present in this lovely morning rather than let my mind get lost in the vastness of the voyage.
“Coffee?” Tenn offers me a mug that I take with both hands.
“Thank you.”
I can smell the flour and dough, the coffee is perfect, and Bob Marley is the perfect soundtrack. This sailing experience is so completely different from what I’m accustomed to. Not because the boat is not my own, but because I have a companion.
Tenn fills the cabin with life. She fills me with life. The sounds, smells, and tastes are all completely new to me. Someone to share the experience with is entirely new. It pulls out a version of myself that I didn’t realize existed. She is bringing me back to life. She certainly has brought this boat back to life.
As beautiful as Crazy Lady is, she could easily have been an abandoned dream left to be scrapped, but Tenn has brought her back to life with all the love and care she has given her.
All the shelves and railings are a mastery of carpentry, all the wood in the cabin is made into decorative carvings and shapes anywhere possible. If there is a surface where the carpenter could take his carving tool and make something more interesting, he took full advantage.
I reach for the captain’s log that I noticed was sitting on a shelf. I open it to see that there have been no entries. It’s a beautiful book that suits the boat perfectly, leather-backed with the look of an antique.
We are establishing our routines. In the mornings I update the chart, and Tenn makes bread—a lovely way to start the day. I struggle to remember today’s date but, after some thought, I figure it out. I turn to the page of the captain’s log, May 19th, 2019. I reach for the pen, but it dawns on me that I am not the captain. Tenn is the captain of Crazy Lady, and it is she who should complete the daily logs.
“Hey, Captain,” I say to Tenn, who just slid the pan into the hot oven.
“What’s up?”
“You should be the one writing in this book.”
Tenn looks at the open book on the chart table. “Do I have to?” she asks.
“Of course not, but you must have bought it for a reason. You can just write a few things each day. It will be nice to have, to look back on this trip one day. It’s amazing how all these days can melt into each other. You can keep it short and sweet. Just little notes on what happened. Like baking bread and sleeping in.”
“I might just do that,” she answers.
I close the book and put it neatly back on the shelf.
The music has stopped playing. I slide off my chair and look out of the open companionway to the deck. The sun is strong and seems to make the teak deck radiate its energy. The wood railing is hot on my hands when I pull myself up. I slowly drink my coffee and look out over the vast sea.
We are five days at sea, and with every mile further from land, I feel more at ease. Tenn sings the chorus of a Bob Marley song, slowly and sweetly, while she stays busy below.
Fourteen
It is day seven of our passage, and we have been going back and forth between motoring and sailing. We’re never completely without wind, but if we’re going to make it across the Atlantic in a reasonable amount of time, we have no choice but to use the motor from time to time. Today is an idyllic sunny day, Tenn has the music blaring, and we are slowly sailing along through the gentle sea. We’re not moving very quickly, and if the wind doesn’t pick up, we’ll have to fire up the motor.
I made some calculations and we can motor about half the distance with the amount of fuel onboard. But we both hate to do it, only firing it up when the wind isn’t strong enough to push us along. I’m on deck and Tenn is below, dancing and singing to one of the jazz CDs which I salvaged from my sunken boat that amazingly still works. It’s funny to me how loud and boisterous we are, in contrast to the serene ocean that surrounds us. I’m lying down on my bench, tapping my foot to the quick beat of the music. Tenn sings loudly, making up her own words to the instrumental music.
It’s hard not to get lost in a daydream on days like this. I usually have pleasant daydreams while sailing, but today the thought of Lydia keeps creeping in.
Tenn is so completely different from my ex-wife. I’m often told Lydia is a classic narcissist, but I think that oversimplifies her. She had a habit of deflating me. I can count on my fingers the number of conversations we had that weren’t about her. She would speak to me as if she were being interviewed. She smoked long, skinny cigarettes constantly. The apartment had ashtrays everywhere, with lipstick-coated cigarette butts. When I picture Lydia she is always smoking, and her straight jet-black hair frames her face as though she were some avant-garde artist. There were times I was sure she was a sociopath. I basically married an unempathetic, narcissistic, sociopathic mean lady that dreamed of internet fame. It’s not that she didn’t have a tuning fork when it came to others; in fact she was very sharp. It’s that she would only recognize someone else’s feelings if it could somehow benefit her. She really was an ice queen.
I was careful not to let her know about the book I was writing until I was basically done. If she had known what I was doing, she would have sabotaged any hopes of completing the novel. Once the money started coming in, and a little validation came my way, it drove her mad. She took over all the social media and did countless interviews claiming she was responsible for most of the book. At the few events we attended, she would treat me like a king when there was an audience, seeming like such a lovely woman when the cameras were rolling. The moment we were back in the hotel room, she would flip like a switch.
And she did achieve some level of fame. She was savvy and gained a considerable following, so much so that she took almost everything and left me for a guy I worked with and someone I thought was a friend. She was able to villainize me to her followers. That had to be a tough sell, but she took her time and pulled it off. She demonized me and victimized herself. She was built for this game, and I was not.
Even though the marriage was
hell, I wouldn’t leave my wife. I am not a man that walks out on my family. Her leaving me was a gift. I knew, sitting at that table, that she had planned it for a very long time. I also knew she would control everything that happened from that point forward. Lydia is a very powerful person, and I am a mess.
The following months were not pleasant. She made me out to be an abusive man, and my odd behavior and lack of response didn’t help. We were in and out of court. Lydia was so convincing she had the whole room sympathizing with her. My doctor was still experimenting with different meds during that time, and I was far from my best. She took me for almost everything, but to be honest, I was just happy I didn’t get locked up after she was done with me.
I’ll never forgive my friend for what he did, but I know he was, and perhaps still is, under her spell. I always knew he was a shady character, but I never dreamed this level of betrayal was inside him. It took time to shake that off.
I spent a good year living on my boat, knocking around the Pacific Northwest, trying to find myself. Trying to learn how to live again.
I’m still trying to learn how to live, how to feel, how to share a moment with another person.
It’s interesting that when I’m with Tenn, none of this matters. I’m not measured or guarded, and I don’t feel judged.
Tenn steps on deck and begins to pretend to play the saxophone. I’m grateful to be pulled out of my daydream and I clap along to encourage her performance. She takes it up a notch by standing on the bench, continuing her saxophone solo with more excitement. I sit up and pretend to play the drums. She’s clearly delighted by my participation, and as the music intensifies, so does our performance. The song has a fast tempo and it’s building. We’re laughing and playing our imaginary instruments with all our hearts.
The music comes to an abrupt stop right as the song was about to really get going. Both Tenn and I look rather silly with our imaginary instruments now that the music is gone, with only the sound of the ocean slapping against the hull.
“Aw man, right when it was getting good,” Tenn says as she hops down from the bench.
We both share a laugh in response to our silly performance. Tenn has many different laughs, and she uses them all the time. I don’t think I have ever met someone who laughs so much. When she really gets going, it’s loud and nasal, followed by a high-pitched sound as she quickly inhales. I love when that happens. I’m careful not to comment on her laugh because I don’t want her to become self-conscious of it.
I lost my mother at a young age, but one of the few lessons I remember is to never make fun of someone’s laugh. My mother was a woman of few words, and I only have a handful of memories of her. We were on a city bus, and I was very young. I was watching all the strangers, trying to find a place to look that avoided eye contact with another person. I passed the time by making up stories in my head about my fellow bus riders. All the passengers were expressionless and stared into nothing — except for one. A strangely dressed lady was laughing while reading her book. Her laugh was loud and ridiculous, something between a cackle and a squeal. Nobody seemed to notice but me. I mimicked her, I may have pointed, and she stopped laughing. When we got off the bus, my mother scolded me. She bent down to my level and pointed in my face and said, “Vincent, never, ever, make fun of someone’s laugh. You will make them feel like they aren’t doing it right, and they will stop laughing.”
That always stuck with me. I feel like even telling Tenn I love her laugh is a bad idea. It brings me so much joy that I don’t dare trifle with it. I just join in and laugh with her.
“I can’t get it to work,” Tenn shouts from below.
“Alright, let me take a look,” I answer, joining her.
I have a hunch that we have drained the battery, and when I investigate further, I can see that is indeed what has happened.
“We need to start the motor to recharge the battery,” I say as I make my way to where the ignition is located on deck.
This has been our routine. When the batteries are low, we run the motor to charge them back up, but this is the first time we let them completely drain. I try to hide my concern. If the motor doesn’t start, we will have a problem.
I smile at Tenn before I turn the key.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I answer, surprised she can sense my concern.
There’s one battery that’s only used to start this big old motor. I pray it has enough juice to get it going. I turn the key, and it groans, chugs, and spits. I can feel the energy of the battery depleting while the motor struggles. Finally, just when I thought it wasn’t going to happen, it starts up, chugging along.
“We’re all good,” I reassure Tenn.
She plunks herself down on the bench, clearly frustrated that we have to run the loud motor. I sit next to her, and we slowly get used to the loud rumble that we’ll have to tolerate for at least the next couple of hours while it charges the batteries.
We both lounge under the hot sun. Flying fish have been landing on our deck over the past couple of days, and it seems a school of them have decided to use our foredeck as a landing pad. Tenn hustles up to the foredeck to save them, throwing them back into the water. It’s comical to watch her throw them overboard right as new ones land at her feet. I laugh as she struggles to save the fish. When she’s satisfied that no more are going to come, she returns to her spot next to me.
“Good job,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
I have been wanting to talk to Tenn about Sylvester. We haven’t said a word about her ex-husband dying at my hands. I know it was us or him, and I know she harbors no ill will toward me. But she still had a history with him. He is gone and so is Jesse, and for that I am relieved, but I want to make sure she is handling things okay. I feel like asking about Sylvester would be too on the nose, so I ask about Jesse instead.
“So, what was the deal with Jesse?”
She doesn’t answer right away. We haven’t spoken about the recent past since we began our passage, and her silence makes me feel that I might have made a mistake bringing it up.
“Jesse, Jesse, Jesse,” she says, as if to herself. “I can tell you he was a hothead, always the first to get into fights at the club. Sylvester never liked him — I can’t imagine anyone did. But he was good to have on your side. Anytime there was a car bomb or a suspicious fire in New York, you could bet he was behind it. That was his thing.” She looks over at me to gauge my reaction.
“That explains a few things.”
“Yeah, your boat going up in flames had his name all over it. But Sylvester was the one who made all the calls. There was always a power struggle, and I wasn’t surprised when Sylvester said he killed Jesse.”
I nod my head but don’t say a word.
“Vince?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
I dip my chin down and close my eyes. I’m not certain what she is referring to, but she continues and confirms my suspicion.
“He would have killed us both if you hadn’t done what you did.”
“I’m not a violent man,” I say, looking her in the eye.
“I know, Vince. I know you’re not. You’re a good man, Mr. Stark,” she says with slight smile that brightens the mood.
We both sit in silence, and then a sound from the motor causes us both to leap to our feet. It’s a high-pitched squeal, and it smells like an electrical fire. I race to see what happened and discover white smoke billowing from the starter motor. If I don’t stop it, there’s a risk of fire, and that is the worst thing that can happen when alone at sea. But I also know that stopping the motor means we will no longer have a motor for the rest of this passage. It also means that we won’t be able to charge the batteries that have been charging Tenn’s smartphone.
I kill the motor. I have no choice. And I’m very aware of what I have just done.
“That’s not good, is it, darlin’?” Tenn asks.
“No, it’s not,” I say ca
lmly.
“Can you fix it?”
“Even if I could, the battery isn’t strong enough to start the motor. Looks like we’ll be sailing across the Atlantic like our ancestors did. No motor and no batteries.”
We both stay quiet for a moment. Then Tenn looks down at her smartphone.
“Bah! My phone died.”
I make my way down to the paper chart at the penciled-in line I have been drawing in, showing our route. There is a tiny line showing the distance we have traveled, and a lot of large open space between it and our destination. We have barely begun, and we’ve already lost our engine and electronic navigation. I look at Tenn, who seems unbothered. I decide I can’t think of anyone I would rather be lost at sea with than her.
Fifteen
“This is a nightmare!” I say it loud enough so Tenn can hear me from her usual hang-out spot on deck.
“What?” she says with false innocence.
I’m looking into the portside lazarette — the storage area where junk has been stacked on top of junk. I was told this is where I might find some fishing equipment. What I’m seeing is a rat’s nest of ropes, nets, traps, and buoys all knotted together.
Tenn comes over to look at what caused my reaction. “Okay, that’s pretty bad,” she admits. “Good luck, darlin’,” she says as she pats me on the back. “It’s only day nine, I’m sure you will get it organized before we get there.”
I don’t respond, letting her disappear into the cabin below. There’s been very little wind since we escaped the Bermuda Triangle which is precisely why I didn’t want to take the rhumb line route.
With that aside, I feel like she’s enjoying my company as much as I’m enjoying hers. She’s been very playful, and we seem to be in physical contact often. When we’re lying around, our feet will touch. When we are cooking or cleaning, we constantly touch the other’s arm or back as we work together. I’m obsessed with our connection and addicted to her touch. We alternate night watches, so we’re rarely in bed at the same time, but when we both catch an afternoon nap, we cuddle as if we’re young lovers. I’ll forgive her for leaving this lazarette in such a state.
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