Water Lessons

by Chadwick Wall

  "It was one big, unexpected leap," Jim said. "But I'm definitely hyped. I'm giving it all I've got."

  "I bet you liked the shop, Jim," Kathleen said, her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands, widening her eyes at him.

  Jim shot a glance at the old man, who suddenly seemed ill at ease, almost nervous. "I've got a great setup out there, I really do."

  "Don't worry, Walt," Kathleen said, her eyes twinkling. "You can relax. I won't mention that very object of careless expenditure that rests inside that warehouse."

  Everyone laughed, including the Commodore.

  "So are you liking New England, Jim? Starting to get scared off?" Kathleen said. "Between its fast pace and the winters?"

  "I am takin' to it just fine so far, ma'am."

  Jim felt himself wince. He didn't know anymore whether or not he was a liar. In a way he had uttered the truth. And in a way, he knew he had said something quite different.

  "Please omit the 'ma'am'. I feel like I'm aging two years every time I hear it!"

  "Sorry, Kathleen. It's a hard trait of mine to unlearn."

  "You call your mother 'ma'am', and even forty-year-old waitresses, am I right?"

  "From time to time."

  "How are your parents, by the way?"

  Jim paused and inhaled slowly, as if stopping before a broad river within his own soul he must traverse. He sensed a fog of sadness descend upon him as the faces of the couple who created him appeared in his mind. Part of him still felt like he had abandoned them, betrayed them.

  "They're better, and the same. Saw 'em a few months ago in Folsom, when I went for my truck." Jim loved how, unlike her daughter, Kathleen often asked about his family. "Dad's business was hurting. Hurricane knocked out a good portion of those offshore wells. Mom's still deep into her church functions. She tells me every day how New Orleans—where she's originally from, not Folsom—isn't what it used to be. How depressing things have become, and how depressed many are in that whole area. As for Mississippi, where my father's from—wind damage crushed that whole lower part of the state…"

  "You have a brother, right? How's he taking it all?" Kathleen said after a pause. The soft motherly humanity, the genuine concern radiated from her hazel eyes.

  Jim remembered working with his brother years ago, and how his brother had hoped they would work together again after the storm, selling home renovations and repairs and working storm insurance claims. The money would have come much easier, but Jim knew he must leave New Orleans…

  "Paul and I have at times been at odds, but we were always close. He and my parents, especially my father, haven't gotten along for many years. Now I don't get to speak with him as much. But lots of my New Orleans news I get from Paul. He runs a big roofing operation off St. Charles Avenue. Slate roofs, asbestos, terra cotta roofs, all sorts. He's quite the businessman. Hit the point where he turns business away."

  "That's great, Jim. I'm glad they're all right," Kathleen said.

  A flurry of images cascaded through his mind—images of the flooded graves of his ancestors in cemeteries and mausoleums across the city and in the surge-leveled graveyards of Waveland on the Mississippi Coast, images of bloated bodies drifting in the dark toxic filth of Mid-City streets, of the teenage boy waking there in the Baton Rouge shelter as Jim laid the wool blanket on him. The submerged horror and pain rose from deep within him like bile.

  His family emerged unharmed, but the pain and damage wreaked by the storm on that area was incalculable. Was there any evacuee who had prospered more after the storm than he had? Jim knew that he would have to earn his many recent months of good fortune. Surely no one suspected the bitter guilt he felt.

  Kathleen must have read his face, and sensed his unease. "I'll say it again." She clapped her hands. "I just can't believe you and Maureen lived just a few miles from each other, for almost a whole year, and went out in the city all the time and never met!"

  Jim glanced at Maureen. The features he so loved impressed him as always, but he could detect no hint of mood or emotion. She just stared back at him, expressionless, as she often did. Then she smiled wryly, ever so slightly.

  "They were meant to meet here. Right, Walt?" Kathleen reached over and laid her hand on her husband's.

  "Jimmy was fated to meet my little girl up here," Walter said. "So he'd join our tribe, become a seafaring New Englander like us. And run the shop with me! Now let's bring out that lobster salad!"

  Walter slid back his chair and prepared to rise but Kathleen beat him to it, making a start toward the refrigerator. Maureen did not budge, and glanced at Jim with the strongest look of ennui. Jim gritted his teeth, and for a second caught himself wishing Maureen carried the same spirit of Kathleen Henretty that Sunday morning decades before.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Avalon plowed forth through the choppy blue, its forty-two foot fiberglass hull slicing the Nantucket Sound like a saber. At the sloop's helm, the old man smiled, one hand clasping the wooden wheel, the other cradling his pipe to his mouth.

  Jim stood beside him, absorbing his every word. He tried not to look out at the water too much, for fear the other three would notice his shuddering. At least he didn't feel another panic attack approaching. The one months ago on the Sound had embarrassed him deeply. No one ever spoke of it.

  Halfway toward the bow, Kathleen retied a line to the mast. Maureen lay on a beach towel on the foredeck in search of her perennially elusive tan. Every few minutes, she would launch into a complaint regarding the vessel's ceaseless jerking and bumping and the poorly chosen day for an expedition. Jim could only discern some of Maureen's words, as the crash and hiss of the waves and the blast of the wind mostly devoured her rants.

  Kathleen tied down another line and joined the two men under the canopy. She wedged her smiling face between them and squeezed each man's shoulder. "How are my two boys?"

  Jim turned toward the swim-suited Kathleen, ensuring his eyes did not drift down to her prodigious bosom or her flat midriff.

  "This is the life," he said.

  She nodded. For the past few hours, she and Walter had smothered him with nautical instruction. Jim smiled and closed his eyes for a moment. He was learning at the hands of the Commodore with his career at the helm. And was learning from Kathleen with her two decades of sailing and crewing, often in the Figawi regattas.

  Walter turned over the wheel to Jim and commenced a tutorial on steering, then on ancient methods of navigation based on sextants and stars. He spoke of the use of logs, and finally on the advent of global positioning systems and how they had extinguished much of the thrill and excitement of sailing.

  "In the old days, sonny boy," the Commodore took a pull off of his pipe and exhaled, then looked Jim hard in the eyes, "when the night skies were clouded over or when the logs were ruined or lost, one had to reach his destination by the use of dead reckoning."

  "I've heard you use the term… doesn't that mean blind conjecture?"

  "It's more along the lines of guessing at your current position based on a previous fix, or location, then factoring in your speed, your elapsed time, your course, without regard to the stars or the damned GPS. Logs and maps can be used, but pure dead reckoning, I like to think, would be done without any of that."

  "Sounds like no easy feat," Jim said.

  "When done well," Walter said, "it's the mark of a good navigator. Imagine our own Navy men in World War II, drifting in lifeboats, under a cloudy nighttime sky, no rescue in sight. If a sailor could make his way to land based on a kind of dead reckoning, which animals strangely have in great measure, he was a captain indeed. Remember Jack Kennedy in the Solomons? When a Japanese destroyer rammed his PT-109 one night in half? And no lifeboat, no radar or logs, but he got his men at last to dry land. He didn't just get to shore by luck! These days, his little brother doesn't have to use such desperate methods when he races Mya—his schooner—against me in the Figawi every year!"

  A few feet away, Kathleen snicke
red from her spot on one of cockpit's two padded couches. After the Commodore quizzed Jim on the appropriate use of the wheel and on general tacking and piloting, he took a seat, draping his arm casually about Kathleen's neck. Jim kept both hands on the wheel and whistled a giddy tune.

  Walter sat up straight. "Hey, let's check on our girl. How are the sun's rays this fine day, Maureen?" he yelled.

  Jim glanced past the mast at the bikini-clad brightness of his girlfriend sprawled on the towel. She yelled something unintelligible. Jim screamed the Commodore's inquiry verbatim.

  "Too cold! And the sea's way too choppy!" Maureen shot back. "But the sun's just fine. The sun isn't the problem!"

  "Oh, Maureen," Jim shook his head and sighed. "Sweet Maureen."

  "You've got your hands full with that one, Jim," Kathleen said. "You're on your own. Think of it as a sort of… dead reckoning."

  "It'll build character, my man," Walter said. "She'll put hair on your chest! Now tack a bit starboard."

  Jim turned the wheel. The boat swung slowly to the right.

  "Is that the Vineyard over there?" Jim pointed at the dark mass barely visible on the horizon.

  "Many miles away, but yes, boy," the old man said. "And over there in that direction, you have the Elizabeth Islands."

  For a few minutes only the rush of the wind and water disturbed the silence. The seated couple was set on allowing their young apprentice to enjoy his time at the helm. But Jim's thoughts had returned to those dark sluggish waters in the New Orleans streets. Just for an instant, Jim shuddered at the sight of the dancing waves. He hoped no one noticed his mounting anxiety.

  The Commodore rose to his feet, his joints creaking. "I'm so old! Say, let me take the helm just a second, lad. We need that halyard retied. Not the one Kathleen was on, but that other one there. Knot it again for me." Walter pointed at the mast. "Then you can take the helm back and I'll pour out some of our daily grog!"

  Jim scampered up onto the deck and ambled over to the mast. He unfastened the line and reknotted it with care, then yanked it hard.

  "Make sure it's taut!" the Commodore yelled. "Now come back, get your wheel, mate!"

  Jim rushed toward the cockpit, his topsiders holding firm on the deck. He smiled as he stepped sideways toward the halyard. This was a day to remember. He was learning from two masters, and he would have the helm the entire leg home.

  He looked up just as Kathleen and Walter shouted something in unison. The heavy metal bar swung mercilessly like some medieval mace. Jim soundlessly gasped in horror and raised his arm seconds before it would have bashed his face. The velocity of the boom, like a sack from a linebacker, knocked Jim several feet across the deck.

  Somewhere near him sounded two pleading female voices and the commanding but frantic bellowing of a male as Jim flipped over the lifelines. The broad dome of blue sky and white clouds and taut white sails spun in a great swirling mix above. Then came the cold shock of the water.

  The dark vacuum of the deep crushed all about. A bloated body drifted past. Then he recognized the sounds: the indiscernible prayers and pleas from Freddy's parched lips as he spoke in his sleep. The still-hot shingles seared Jim's back as the gunshots and sirens and shouts sliced through the unforgiving dusk. Overhead, the spinning blades of the medevac chopper. Moments later, his vision locked with a volunteer's bloodshot, watery gaze in the Baton Rouge shelter.

  Jim felt a strong tug on his arm. Grandma Laforet's panicked face hovered above his own. When she increased pressure on his right arm, Jim's body became smaller, like a child's. A violent force yanked Jim forth to the surface of the cold Nantucket Sound. A heartbeat later he caught sight of bright sunshine and cresting waves. From the distance came the sounds of clapping and cheers.

  Hands gripped him under his armpits. Someone was in the water with him. Jim rapidly blinked the salty brine from his eyes. A foot from his face waited the beautiful visage of Kathleen Henretty, straining with exertion, the eyes flashing with fear, then crinkling with humor.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Henretty beach house resounded that Friday night with chatter and laughter. No doubt, Jim was the talk of the party. Though none of the guests had ever met him, Jim seemed the harbinger of Walter's resurgence as naval hero and lord of the high seas.

  "So I hear, Walter," said Nate Barnes, a retired doctor, "that against the pleas of your wife and daughter, you relinquished the helm, dived in, and saved young Jim? Kathleen deftly secures the boom, reties the knot, then brings the vessel around by motor to retrieve you two guys while you tread water. Is that right?"

  "I heard one laughable version tonight that had Jim as unconscious," Maureen said, "with Walter reviving him back on deck."

  Kathleen shook her head and said, "Someone tonight actually heard at the party that the men had climbed back aboard just as I spied a great white shark cutting the water toward them."

  "I've got one better," Maureen said. "One guest even heard that the 'drowning' and 'helpless' Jim and I had been saved by Dad, who in a flash swam a full two hundred feet out across the Sound."

  At all of these tales, the old man had clapped his hands and laughed and howled with delight, while Maureen and her mother shook their heads with disbelief.

  Jim looked down at his feet, a gesture which he realized might have brought him into contact with the swiveling boom in the first place. Soon he felt awkward at all of the attention, as the heat built within his cheeks and on his brow.

  The old man pointed out Jim's ruddy face with great glee. However, as the accounts grew bolder, more distorted, even scurrilous, Jim could not help indulging in fits of belly laughs until his eyes watered. Even Maureen occasionally snickered, there at his side.

  "By the end of the night," Jim said to the jeering crowd while raising his glass of bourbon, "I will learn that the muscle-bound Walter executed a double backflip into the water, punched a great white in the nose and then saved me, Maureen, and Kathleen from a circling school of sharks!"

  Walter roared with laughter.

  Jim raised his other hand to gather the room's attention. "Let's give credit where credit is due. I had foolishly removed my vest. It was Kathleen who jumped in after me, while Commodore brought around the boat. Here's to her heroic act!" Jim raised his glass and the guests cheered.

  "No worries," Kathleen said. In a red form-fitting dress, she looked like a starlet at the Oscars. "But I don't want it happening again! Like your mom says," and she put an imaginary phone to her mouth, "'Jimmy, watch out for that swinging boom!'"

  Further laughter ensued.

  "Now, everyone, do enjoy yourselves," Walter said. "No more worrying about Jim!"

  "I'm worried about how red the poor boy is getting!" Kathleen smiled across the room at Jim. After a final round of laughter, Walter and Kathleen resumed their mixing, each working a different side of the room.

  "I'm glad to know you're cool with all the teasing and attention," Maureen said. "Now come with me. Meet some more of our guests."

  Maureen grabbed Jim's shoulder and steered him through the crowd. A few partygoers greeted him. One intoxicated man slapped him on the back and slurred something indiscernible. Soon Jim recognized Maureen's sister and brother.

  "Davie, how are you? It's been about a month!" Jim stretched out a hand to Davie, a tall, athletic boy of eighteen with melancholy eyes.

  Davie, his face drooping with gloom, was a bit slow to shake hands. "'Sup, Jimmy."

  Davie was clad in his light blue basketball jersey, a silver herringbone chain around his neck.

  Jim caught a subtle trace of Davie's usual "cologne" or "eau de Vermont" as Jim had once dubbed the cannabis scent while on a homeward drive with Maureen. He turned to the sister. "And how are you, Abbey? How's the writing coming?"

  "A little slow with school and all that. How's yours?" Abbey said, her eyes on the floor. She was always less reticent than her brother. A gifted girl, the sixteen-year-old Abbey had been writing since age five, like Jim himsel
f. Abbey's warm eyes were either scanning her surroundings or leveled at her feet.

  "I'm busy, too. Lots of work, lots of living," Jim said. "The writing's coming slower than I'd like it to. I'll have a whole lot more to write about soon, if I may prophesy."

  "Your muse here will give you lots of inspiration," Abbey said. "And gray hair."

  "Shush, Abbey!" Maureen hissed.

  Maureen put a hand on his shoulder, and they melted back into the crowd. An unfamiliar couple entered Jim's line of sight. Tall and in their mid-thirties, the man sported longish blonde wavy hair. She wore the very same style, but down to her shoulders. Neither smiled, but their expressionless gaze rested on Jim. All about them hung a thick air of imperiousness.

  Before Maureen could commence introductions, the man held out his hand. "Jack Spaulding. And you are Cajunman?"

  Jim couldn't repress a smile. He shook hands with the man, whose pompous air seemed to have melted away. "Jim Scoresby."

  "I've heard good things."

  Maureen waded in. "This is Mom's and Dad's friend, he and his entire family, going years back. They live on the Cape, in Chatham."

  "Spaulding. I've heard that surname around these parts," Jim said. "In high places. Y'all do go way back."

  Jack Spaulding grinned and motioned to the woman at his side. "Jim, meet my girlfriend, Natasha Boyle."

  "Howdy," she nodded, blinking frequently and smiling ever so slowly.

  Jim detected a hint of curiosity in her look. "Friends of the Henrettys? Then y'all are friends of mine."

  "I hear you're getting into sails?" Jack spoke with a bit of the lilt Jim had heard throughout eastern Massachusetts.

  "I'm learning from the best." Jim raised and stomped one foot. "The Commodore's reputation precedes him. And I'm in the best portion of the country to learn the craft."

  "You're dead on, man," Jack said. "Florida may be the ideal in many ways, but if you love history and you're more of a sailing purist, then you want to learn it here. Despite that we may get only five navigable months."