“Okay,” I answer.
I walk over to the galley to splash my face and rinse my mouth, but when I turn on the faucet, nothing comes out. I don’t know how long my tanks have been empty. Can you live on rum? I wonder. How I feel would make sense if that is how I’ve sustained myself.
Climbing on deck isn’t easy. I feel like a zombie climbing from his grave, and I’m sure that is how I look. I squint at the sun and try to shield my eyes with my forearm. Basic survival instinct begins to kick in. The sun has amplified my thirst and I need water desperately.
Stan is rowing Kayla toward me. Something about how she sits in the tiny rowboat, her colorful clothes, her done-up hair, and her fancy handbag makes her look beautifully out of place. I feel her lovely energy from here.
She turns very carefully, so she won’t tip the boat, to see me. She waves awkwardly, but quickly puts her hand down when the little boat begins to rock. I feel a smile crack my face. There are two people that care for me, rowing to my floating home to see if I’m okay. My chest warms watching Stan carefully row toward me. Although I’m embarrassed of the state I’m in, I want to see them both, especially Stan.
I try to press my hair down with the palm of my hand, as if it would make a difference. Stan rows along my portside. When they see me, they both react with surprise.
“Vince, I know you don’t like unexpected visitors, but you haven’t been easy to get ahold of,” Kayla says as she begins her attempt to get from the skiff to Tuuli’s deck.
I hold her hand, and Stan holds her bum, to steady her as she climbs aboard. She plants her feet on deck and opens her arms for a hug. She wraps me up in her warm and loving embrace.
“Oh, Vince. Sweetheart, what have you done?” she says, almost to herself, and holds me even tighter. It feels good to be in her caring arms and to hear her calming voice.
I look at Stan over her shoulder, standing on deck and politely looking away from us. Kayla releases me from her hug and holds me at arm’s length with her hands on my shoulders.
“You don’t have to write this book, Vince. I should never have put this pressure on you.”
I take a seat on the bench, and Kayla and Stan sit as well. Stan has a water bottle in his hand that catches my eye. He must notice me looking, because he offers it to me. As the cool water flows down my throat, my mind brightens.
“We’ll figure something out. I already got an extension for us,” Kayla adds as I finish drinking all the water in the bottle.
“Thank you,” I say to Stan as I return the empty bottle.
I turn my attention to Kayla sitting next to me. “It’s done,” I tell her.
“What do you mean it’s done?” Kayla asks.
“I finished the book.”
Kayla stands up and looks down at me like she is a grade-school teacher and I’m a troubled student.
“Where is it?” she asks.
“My laptop, in the cabin. It’s ready for edits,” I say. I feel rather accomplished.
“How have you been saving it? I need to look at this,” Kayla says as she climbs into the cabin, leaving me and Stan on deck.
“I thought I lost you. It’s good to see you,” Stan says to me.
“I was about to say the same thing,” I answer.
Stan looks confused by my response.
I look around at Solitude Bay. It’s still beautiful, but something has changed. I’m reminded of an expression: There’s no going home. I’m not sure I belong here anymore, and there’s no going back to how it was. I have no idea what will happen, but something tells me it’s time to leave Solitude Bay.
In the far opposite corner of the bay sits a large old sailboat with two masts. I grab my binoculars to get a better look.
“Who is that?” I ask Stan as I twist the dial to bring the boat into focus.
“Oh, that’s a nice young lady who has been here for about a week. She is very quiet, keeps to herself.”
While Stan speaks, the image in the binoculars becomes clear. Written across the transom of the stern of the wooden sailboat are the words Crazy Lady.
I slowly lower the binoculars and feel a wave of some emotion that is like a confused sea crashing into me.
Kayla is rustling down below. I can hear grumbles of disapproval about not only how I have been living, but also about how I have been saving the document. It’s hard to make out what she is saying, but I hear something about alcohol and a flash drive. Then she says something loud enough for both Stan and I to hear her clearly on deck.
“Moodchieta?”
From: Julia Stevens
To: Vince Stark
Subject: Captain of Crazy Lady
Hello Mr. Stark,
I have wanted to contact you for a while. It has been over a year since the release of your novel, and almost two years since we were both anchored in Solitude Bay. When I heard that your book tour would be stopping in San Francisco, where I live, I couldn’t resist messaging you. I thought it might be strange for you if I just showed up without some warning. I should let you know that I am beyond flattered to have been the muse for such a successful novel, and it would be nice to have my book signed by you. Maybe we can even have a coffee if you are up to it?
I live here in San Francisco half the year and spend the winter months sailing Crazy Lady in the Caribbean. I will be back on the boat by the end of the month, so your timing is perfect.
I saw you every day for that week when I would row to shore. Sometimes you would wave and smile at me like we were old friends, other times you were too focused on your laptop and didn’t notice me. You spoke to yourself, and sometimes shouted. There are some things I heard you shout that I read in the book. Did you know you did that?
Stan took care of you. He tried calling on the radio often, but you would rarely answer. I saw you throw your radio over the side of the boat, which I now realize you thought was the parrot. After that, Stan checked on you daily. You didn’t seem well, so he contacted your agent. The rest is history. I never saw you after that. When the book came out, and I saw right in the description there was mention of a classic sailboat called Crazy Lady and your character was physically the same as me, I was floored, to say the least.
From what I understand you are far from the man I saw, and you are in fine form, but still I respect that you prefer to keep to yourself and understand if you would rather not meet for coffee. I have so many questions and things to tell you. I hope you are willing to meet.
Julia
From: Vince Stark
To: Julia Stevens
Re: Captain of Crazy Lady
I would love to meet you, Julia, as long as you sign my book, too. How about we meet for coffee this coming Sunday?
From: Julia Stevens
To: Vince Stark
RE: Re: Captain of Crazy Lady
That sounds great, Vince. See ya then! : )
I can see the Golden Gate Bridge from my hotel room window. I didn’t sleep well last night in anticipation of my meeting with Julia. I’m determined to make a good impression, so I set my alarm to leave me with enough time for a morning run and a shower. Running in the morning has become something of a routine for me. Ever since I quit drinking, which was on the very day Kayla and Stan found me on my boat, I have taken to exercise more. The better I feel, the better I want to feel. I don’t think I have ever felt so at ease and present. When I run into people I know, they can barely recognize me.
Julia has seen me at my worst, and I’m looking forward to showing her that I’m not that madman anchored in Solitude Bay anymore. I still live a rather solitary life; I have found it easy to be anonymous in a city, and the bigger the city the better. Like Julia, I share my time on land and on the boat. I have a small flat in Paris where I spend most of my summers and return to the Caribbean and live on S.V. Tuuli in the winters.
The book has been turned into a feature film, and needless to say, my money troubles are behind me. When Kayla told me the news that it got picked up by a produc
tion company, she was so excited she could barely get the words out. Usually these things take years to develop, but it happened quickly, and my life is forever changed.
I decided it was time to have a home base that wasn’t floating, and after reading about livable cities around the world, I settled on Paris. I don’t have any friends or acquaintances there, and I had never been before. It was an unusual choice, but it’s worked out well. I keep life as simple as I can. I just write, eat well, and exercise. I also spend a lot of time in cafés. I love listening to people speak French around me. I feel like I’m an extra in dozens of films happening at once. I have just finished my second six-month stretch in Paris, and I’ll be returning to S.V. Tuuli soon.
I finish my coffee and watch the misty fog all but cover the bridge. The entire sky is a deep blue, and the only clouds seem to consume the massive structure. I feel like having another coffee and relaxing here with the clouds and the bridge, but I force myself out the door and hit the pavement.
The run does me good. It’s rarely easy to get going, but as I walk back into my hotel room, I feel like a better version of who I was when I left. I put on the brown button-up shirt that I got new for this meeting, and style my hair in such a way that makes it look like I didn’t. I’m nervous, like this is a date. Of course that’s not what this is.
The ride over is shorter than I thought it would be. I actually ran by the place earlier without realizing it. When I step out of the Uber, I see her in the window, looking down. I sense maybe she saw me, too, and is pretending to read her newspaper. I sense old feelings coming back. I remember crying as I wrote the last words of the book — I loved Tenn, and I mourned her as I would a real person — and here she is, reading a newspaper.
I take a slow, deep, centering breath and pull open the big glass door of the coffee shop. I walk right up to the table, and she doesn’t look up. I can’t tell if she is pretending not to see me standing there or if she really hasn’t noticed me yet. The way her legs are crossed, one shoe hanging off her toe, the way she is pensively biting her lip, and the way her wild, curly blonde hair is a perfect mess, all leave my heart racing. She is a beautiful woman. I guess you could say she is the girl of my dreams.
Finally, she glances up and our eyes meet. We hold eye contact while she stands and holds out her hand and says with a wink, “Hey, darlin’.”
Glossary of Terms
Aft: Any portion of a vessel behind the centerline.
Aground: When a vessel is resting on the seafloor.
Beam reach: Sailing at an angle approximately 90° to the apparent wind, such that the wind is crossing the vessel’s beam.
Becalm: A complete lack of wind, rendering sails useless.
Bow: The front most portion of a vessel.
Bulkhead: A load-bearing wall inside of a vessel. May or may not be watertight, depending on how old the vessel is.
Cockpit: The seating area of a small vessel, from where most of the controls are run.
Companionway: A raised hatch, with a ladder leading below deck.
Death roll: Slang term for a particularly epic capsize or wipeout. Especially when going downwind at speed.
Delirium: An acute mental disturbance characterized by confused thinking and disrupted attention usually accompanied by disordered speech and hallucinations.
Depressive episodes: Characterized by feelings of intense sadness, guilt, fatigue, and irritability. During a depressive period, people with bipolar disorder may lose interest in activities that they previously enjoyed, experience sleeping difficulties, and even have thoughts of suicide.
Dinghy: (1) A small sailing vessel, or (2) a small boat carried by a larger ship to act as a tender.
Downwind: Point of sail 180° from the true wind direction.
Following sea: Wave action that is traveling in the same direction as a ship.
Halyard: The line on a sailboat used to raise, adjust, and lower sails.
Heading: A direction given in degrees on a compass or map.
Heave to: A heavy weather technique designed to stop a vessel but keep her pointed in the correct direction.
Helm: The steering mechanism of a ship, usually referring directly to the tiller or steering wheel.
Hull: The watertight shell and framework of a ship.
Ketch: A sailing vessel with two masts.
Love: An intense feeling of deep affection.
Mania: Characterized by feeling overly excited and even hyper. Periods of mania are sometimes marked by feelings of distraction, irritability, and excessive confidence. People experiencing mania are also more prone to engage in activities.
Mooring: Any permanent structure, or anchor, to which a vessel may be secured.
Murder: The unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another.
Pedestal: A supporting post for the binnacle, or for a steering wheel.
Piracy: An act of criminal activity on the high seas.
Port: Left side of a ship when facing the front or bow.
Porthole: A window.
Psychosis: A severe mental disorder in which thoughts and emotions are so impaired that contact is lost with external reality.
Pulpit: A lookout position featuring a secure railing extending over the bow on the bowsprit of some sailboats.
Rogue wave: A wave that is significantly larger than the present sea state, often coming from an unexpected direction.
Sinking: Present participle of the verb “to sink” of which it is common knowledge among sailors that all boats are sinking, some merely faster than others.
Social anxiety disorder: A fairly common psychological disorder that involves an irrational fear of being watched or judged. The anxiety caused by this disorder can have a major impact on an individual's life.
Spring line: A line securing a vessel to a dock, particularly one that prevents fore and aft movement.
Starboard: Right side of a ship when facing the front or bow.
Stern: The rear-most part of a boat.
Tack: The forwardmost corner of a sail.
Transom: The flat outboard stern structure of a ship from keel to deck.
Windlass: A winch mounted on a horizontal axis used to weigh anchor on larger vessels.
Note from the author
My only dream for this novel is for it to be read, so you have made my dream come true. I can’t imagine going through the journey of writing this book and not having someone else step into the world of Vince and Tenn. I don’t know how much of your precious time you gave to reading this, but I have been working on Unchartered Water on and off for a year of my life, so I assure you that when Tenn died, I mourned her as Vince does. I will miss her dearly.
I should mention a few things about myself that may or not be of interest. First, to say I was a poor student would be an understatement. In my early school years, I would be taken out of class with a few others and we would all take turns reading. I remember clearly, all of us reading the words like they were a list on a page rather than a sentence. I grew up in a small town, and one day my mother took me to the big city for some tests. Following that journey, I was diagnosed with dyslexia. To this day, I don’t know what to make of that. I do remember writing letters and numbers backwards, and for the life of me not understanding how someone could get it right every time, when to me it was a fifty-percent chance of writing the words and letters the correct way. It should be mentioned that I think dyslexia was one of the more fashionable learning disabilities when I was a child in the nineties. There have been others that have been in vogue since then, and I wonder if whatever test I took would have come up with another result if done today. The only reason I tell this story is to reinforce how ridiculous the limitations are that we put on ourselves. Maybe you don’t want to write a novel, or cross an ocean, but whatever it is you dream, don’t be afraid to disrupt the narrative of your life to achieve it.
There are some things in this book I would like to address: addiction, depression, and suicid
e. In respect to addiction and the stereotype of the drunken author, I would like to reinforce this is fiction and any glamorizing of alcoholism is not intentional. I battled to keep the rum out of the story the best I could. Of course, anyone battling rum will sometimes lose.
On the matter of depression and suicide, I would like to again point out that neither are meant to be glamorized. Depression is so common that I feel we are all masters on this subject by a certain stage of life. I have nothing grand to say about the subject of depression. I just wanted it to be known that I want to be a conductor of positivity, and romanticizing any psychiatric condition is not my intention. Suicide is a dangerous subject to write about, and I’m wary to address it now, but it’s in every community worldwide, and in some communities it’s an epidemic. In the United States, it is the tenth leading cause of death, and in some regions of the world it is the leading cause of death. I know someone is reading this that has explored the abyss, and I tell you that even though it feels hopeless now, it will be okay, and there is love and beauty you are yet to discover, so hang on.
I should mention my other novels. My first was an erotic thriller called Madeline’s. It’s a hell of a thing, writing an erotic thriller. I set out with the intention to be dark, unusual, and fantastical. But I also wanted it to by hyper-real in terms of the perspective and voice of the lead male.
My primary goal was not the erotic side in the least; in fact I was completely willing to be off-putting to the reader at times. That novel is told from deep in the mind of the lead, Jack Willow, and for the story to have an ounce of honesty, it couldn’t be told like a pretty little poem. I felt that if I didn’t offend anyone with that novel then I failed; thankfully it has offended many.
I only have one regret, and that is writing Madeline’s under my own name. The initial plan was to write under a pen name, but at the last moment I changed my mind. I don’t know exactly why I did that; I think it is fair to say that the above-mentioned learning disability was one of the reasons. I wanted to show the world I was able to write a full-length, badass novel. Perhaps putting my real name on Madeline’s was simply vanity. I noticed most, if not all, erotic novels were under pen names, and I found it cowardly at the time. I almost felt like it was insulting the reader that took the time out of their life to read my story to not tell them my real name. Whatever the reason, I now regret not going under a pen name. If I ever write anything like that again, it will be anonymous. Maybe I already have.
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