"There's a promise that didn't last,” I said, taking another bite of the sandwich, then talking through it. “I can't remember when we didn't have a boat, and I think I could count on one hand the times she didn't go out with us."
"The boats were her idea, her insistence,” he said, bristling a little. I hadn't meant it as an accusation. “I loved her enough to give up everything for her, and she loved me right back—and that meant loving what I loved, I guess. And for a while there, a big supply of Dramamine, too.” He shook his head. “But if she'd ever asked—once—I'd have given it all up."
Over at the other boat, the kids were throwing little pieces of hot dog bun into the water. Seagulls had already begun to swoop in. “Stop that,” called the mother, laughing. “They'll be all over us.” Dad shook his head, watching the birds gather. For a few minutes neither of us spoke.
"Remember that storm we got caught in?” I said finally. “I think I was eight or so. Remember how dark it got, and the rain and the waves? I was scared to death, but Mom just kept smiling, talking about what an adventure it was, telling me how you were keeping us safe."
"She was scared to death herself, and gave me hell later,” Dad said. “But she never let it show, did she?"
"She was a good sport, like you said."
"A good woman.” He nodded. “We were lucky to have her."
Laughter echoed across the water, as the gulls swooped and cried. Boats passed along the channel, their wakes rocking us softly. One of the fishermen stood up and began to reel in his line, then slowed and stopped, sat down again. Soon we finished our sandwiches, pulled up the anchor, and headed off again.
After that, I kept our speed a little slower—not quite coasting, still not talking much, but not rushing the way we had. Dad offered me a beer and then cracked it open for himself after I shook my head. At one point, he put his hand on my shoulder, the way I'd put mine on his. There was thought and effort behind it, but the weight felt odd.
It must have felt odd to him, too. After a few seconds, he let it drop.
* * * *
By five p.m., we'd made Southport and taken a quick walk around the town—an old fishing village turned into a couple of cross streets of shops and restaurants and sleepy cottages. Back at the marina, Dad settled down for a while on the long chaise at the stern of the boat, reading a dog-eared copy of one of those Travis McGees, A Tan and Sandy Silence. While he read, I slipped down to take a shower, and as I dressed, I heard his voice through the hatch, talking to someone else. “Just the night,” he said, and “Down from Morehead,” and “My son's a big-city reporter and a fine one.” I pulled on my shirt, stepped up on deck.
"And here he is now,” Dad announced as I came up.
In the slip beside us was an older boat, as big as ours but nowhere near as sleek, though Dad would praise it later as a classic. A woman stood on deck, maybe ten years or so younger than Dad, chatting amiably across the thin dock.
"Phyllis Stackley,” she told me, with a little wave. She had that distinguished look that some older women get: confident, almost regal, but wearing it easily. To the manor born, to the manor settled. Her skirt was a swirl of pastels, and she wore a white top. Casual, but elegant. “And this is my husband Dennis,” she said, and a man emerged at her side. I hadn't noticed him before. He'd been just inside the transom—stocky and stern where his wife seemed thin and playful. He was graying at the temples, and he gave a curt nod.
"Won't you two handsome men come join us for a cocktail?” asked Phyllis.
"Only if we can bring over our own drinks,” Dad said before I could wave off the invitation.
"It's a deal,” she said brightly.
"Are you sure?” I asked, directing my question at Dennis. I thought I'd glimpsed a reaction from him, something a little sullen or sour. But he greeted my question with a smile. “Certainly, certainly,” he said. “It wouldn't be a party without guests."
"That's what I always say,” said Phyllis. “We'll get some cheese and crackers. Come over when you're ready.” She disappeared into their cabin. Her husband gave a quick look our way—that same look I'd glimpsed before—and followed behind her.
"Maybe we shouldn't intrude,” I told Dad, already up at the bar of our own boat.
"Just a drink and then we'll come back and make dinner.” He was pouring us a couple of bourbons. Woodford Reserve on the rocks. “Too good to mix,” he explained and gave me a generous pour.
"One'll be enough, if that's the way you're making them,” I laughed.
"Never skimp,” he said. A lesson there, too. I didn't mention that it contradicted another of his aphorisms: “Everything in moderation.” We stepped across to the other boat—right foot first for balance, I remembered, just in time.
Never skimp overruled everything in moderation, as it turned out. One drink wasn't enough. But Dad was having a good time, and I hated to spoil it.
He and Phyllis had really hit it off, and they sat at the stern talking and laughing. She kept encouraging her husband to keep everyone's glass filled, and Dennis topped off Dad's drink with bourbon from their own bar—"No need to keep stepping over to your boat,” he said—and made his wife one vodka tonic after another.
"He puts a new wedge of lime in for each round,” she said. “That way we both always know how many I've had.” There were four curls of lime in her glass already.
"My wife was always two drinks, never less, never more,” said Dad, already on his third. “She always liked to keep her wits about her, and speaking of wit . . .” He told a story then about one of Mom's April Fool's jokes: something about clocks and calendars and the previous day's newspaper. He'd already been talking about Mom, and beaming all the while: how they'd met, how long they'd been together, how much she loved crosswords and books and gardening. Despite his gray hair and the creases in his face, he seemed boyish and spry. At one point, I'd stepped over to our boat for a jacket and to “check my messages at the office"—really just seeing if any bites had come back on my résumés before the end of the week—and when I came back, Dad was talking about how proud they had been of me, too. He even mentioned a local award I'd won, one that I was surprised he knew about.
Through all of it, Phyllis listened with rapt attention—laughed and sighed at all the right places, sincerely, it seemed to me. It reminded me of something Dad had told me: You'll always be remembered as a fine conversationalist if you let the other person do all the talking. Tonight he was holding court, enjoying the attention and even opening up a little. When he talked about Mom's cancer and how it had devastated her, how it had devastated both of them, he talked about it with a frankness and emotion he'd never shared with me.
"You poor dear man,” said Phyllis, putting her hand on his arm.
Dennis had stayed quiet beside me through all the talk, but as his wife touched my father's arm, he let off a little grunt and shifted in his chair.
"You say you're from Delaware?” I asked, trying to pull him into the conversation.
"The real Wilmington,” he said with a brisk little laugh, and then Phyllis jumped in.
"Dennis is an old sourpuss,” she said. “Don't mind him. He always makes that joke, every time we come through here."
"You come here often?"
"Winters in Florida,” he told me, “so twice a year, once on the way down each fall, and then again on the way up in late spring."
"Since Dennis retired,” said Phyllis, “we've become nautical wanderers, following wherever the current draws us.” As she turned back toward my father, a little of her drink sloshed out on the deck.
"Honey,” Dennis said, a quick caution.
"Oh, Dennis,” she said, “it's fiberglass. It'll wash easy.” She leaned toward Dad again. “I have to admit, I never enjoyed boating, and this wasn't how I imagined retirement at all. No, I saw travel in Europe and Asia, not salty air and seasickness. And don't get me started on what the humidity does to my hair."
"Seasickness,” Dad said.
/> "The worst,” she said. “I'm bad in a car, so imagine what being on the water does to me. But Dennis loves his boats, and I love him, so . . .” She stood up and gave a little dance, just the smallest little shimmy, holding her arms out wide and shaking them. “Now,” she said, “I can take the rolling waves and the curves, and I can sleep through the whole night no matter how the boat rocks. . . ."
Watching her, I thought of a gypsy dance—something about that word wanderer, maybe, and that skirt she wore, muted but still colorful. If she'd had bracelets on, they would've jangled, but thin plastic bands clung to each arm instead, the ones that people wear for some charity or cause. Dad and I had worn them ourselves—the breast cancer that had taken Mom. Our bracelets had been the color of Phyllis's, and I wondered if Dad had made the same connection.
Dennis himself didn't seem to soften when his wife said, “Dennis loves his boats, and I love him.” He just stared at the spot of vodka tonic growing sticky on the deck. But Dad clapped lightly as she danced. Still, even though he gave a broad smile, I could tell that something hid behind it. The moment was bittersweet at best.
"Your wife's quite a charmer,” I said to Dennis, trying to draw him into the conversation again.
"Yes, she is,” he said. “Always some damn scene like this.” He took another sip of his drink.
Phyllis had finished her dance as we talked and plopped back down beside Dad, both of them laughing. Neither of them had heard her husband.
* * * *
Dad showered while I pan-grilled a couple of steaks on the cooktop. Dennis had gone down into the cabin of his own boat after our drinks, but Phyllis stayed on deck. “Smells good,” she called out about the sizzling steaks.
"Come join us,” I said, but I think she could tell it was just idle politeness on my part. She waved off the invitation.
"We'll just see you tomorrow,” she said, and then she stood, weaving slightly, and moved unsteadily across the deck toward the hatch that led down into their cabin. En route, she paused to grab the bottle of vodka and raised it toward me, as if tipping a glass my way—warm and cheerful. But a couple of moments after she'd gone below, I heard different tones, she and her husband talking. The conversation wasn't loud, but I thought I detected an undercurrent of anger. Fortunately, whatever was happening there stopped before Dad came up from his shower.
While we sat on the dinette and dug into our steaks and talked about the plan for the next day, Dad kept looking over at the other boat, longingly, it seemed to me.
"A beauty, isn't she?” he said at one point, out of nowhere.
"How's that?"
"The Bertram,” he said, and I thought he blushed, but it may have been all he'd had to drink. “That boat is a true classic. You wouldn't believe it, but it probably cost nearly as much as this one. They just don't make ‘em like that anymore."
Not just longing, but that loneliness again, too. Wistful, appreciative. I realized for the first time, awkwardly, that he would probably date again and might someday find someone else, and I wondered what she'd be like, how similar to Mom, how different. I was glad again that the voices on the other boat had died down.
Soon, the alcohol and the big steak took their toll. While I cleaned up our plates, Dad stretched out on that long chaise at the stern again, trying to read under the lights from the dock. But every few moments he'd nod off and then jerk himself awake. “Tough to see out here,” he said finally. “I'm gonna go down,” and he took his book back to his berth.
There was a bar just across the small harbor and sounds of a big crowd echoing across the water, and I went over for a while to see who I might meet. No one waiting for me back in Virginia, after all, no one serious at least, so why not? I did end up talking with a couple of women, but when they asked where I was from and what I did, I realized my heart just wasn't in it. After two drinks, I headed back for the boat and sat out on the stern under the stars, listening to the lap of the waves and to the small ripples of conversation from the other boats docked throughout the marina. From down in the cabin, I heard an occasional snore from Dad.
Another memory came back to me: Dad and me arriving home after a fishing trip, returning with a cooler full of spot and croaker, and then me standing beside Mom in the kitchen while she cleaned them. “Did you have a good time?” she'd asked, and I'd shrugged. I hadn't. “What did you boys talk about?” And another shrug from me.
"Dad told me I wasn't baiting the hook right,” I said finally. He had kept trying to show me what to do and how to cast the line right. We'd both ended up frustrated. “I just couldn't do it."
"Well, maybe there's a lot your father doesn't know how to do, either,” she said, after a moment. “Sometimes he tries, and he doesn't get it right, either. You think he might've been trying to do something he didn't know how to do very well?"
But I just shook my head. “No,” I said. “He already knew how to do it all.” When he baited the hook, he'd done it just right, and he'd cast out his line with the perfect flick of the wrist. There had been a time when I'd been in awe of everything he could do, but that day I'd felt suffocated by it, and soon after I'd begun to resent it.
Mom had the bigger picture. Most days, even now, I still couldn't see it.
When I went down to bed, I saw that Dad's book was still stretched across his chest and his mouth hung slightly open. As quietly as I could, I converted the galley table into another berth the way he'd shown me, but it took awhile for sleep to come, and even then it was restless, thinking about Dad and his life and what was ahead for him, and then about my own uncertain future.
About six a.m., barely daybreak, I thought I heard a voice again from the Bertram beside us, and then I definitely heard someone cranking it up and pulling it out of its slip, heading back toward Delaware or at least somewhere else. Our boat rose and fell slightly with the wake from their boat, and soon I drifted back to sleep.
* * * *
Dad was eating cereal when I got up, almost to the end of the book he'd left open on his chest the night before. I poured my own bowl, and as we sat together, I caught him a couple of times looking at the empty slip beside us, but he didn't say anything about the boat being gone and neither did I.
When it was time to head out, he handed me a credit card to go settle up with the harbor master. I took it—no need for an argument—and planned to use my own, same as I always did when he offered. Dad began straightening things around the boat, prepping for the trip home.
In the office, two young men—college-aged kids working summer jobs, khaki shorts and polo shirts with the marina's logo—huddled over a CB radio. I caught the tail end of the words on the other end, “no attempt to resuscitate,” and then a squawk and dull static.
"Man,” said one of the kids, shaking his head. He had a scruffy beard.
The CB radio squawked again, another staticky voice: “Closest dockage is Oceana Marina. Give me your ETA and I'll—"
The other, clean-cut and well tanned, had caught sight of me and turned down the volume, then stepped up to the counter. The first looked disappointed and leaned his head down lower toward the speaker.
"Yes, sir,” he said. “How can I help you?"
"One night's dockage,” I told him. “The blue boat there. I Dream of Doris.” I pointed through the window. Dad had brought out his camera and was snapping a few photos of the docks.
"Yes, sir,” said the kid behind the counter. His nametag said Patrick. “It's a dollar seventy-five a foot,” he said. “What size is your boat again?"
I realized I didn't know. Thirty-something, I figured. “Thirty-three,” I said—the age at which I'd gotten the job I'd just lost.
"Fifty-seven, seventy-five,” Patrick said, and I started to hand him my credit card, but the thought of being jobless made me suddenly cautious. Practicality won out over principles. I reluctantly handed him Dad's instead.
"Dude,” said the bearded one, standing up. “Vodka and Dramamine.” He shook his head. His nametag was
upside down. Billy, it said. “I mean, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to know you're not supposed to mix that stuff, do you? Not that much of it, I mean, and especially old people."
"You shouldn't mix it at any age,” said Patrick, and then under his breath, “and you can't call our customers old."
"They were old,” he said. “That's just a fact, Jack."
"The boat that was docked next to us,” I said. “The Bertram. Is that who you're talking about?” I glanced out at Dad again. He was looking up at me now through the window. I gave a quick wave, held up a finger.
"There's been . . . a drowning,” Patrick said, aiming for a solemn tone and respectful pause. He sounded like a TV anchorman.
"Vodka and D is just not a mixed drink,” Billy said—to me this time. “But you know, I wonder. If you mixed vodka and Dramamine and Red Bull, would it all counteract itself?"
"How did you hear about this?” I asked Patrick.
"We've been listening to the Coast Guard, and I have a buddy from school who's working at the state park up at Carolina Beach. He's been following the whole thing."
"How did it happen?” I asked—going into reporter mode. Who, what, where, when, why?
"It's effed up,” said Billy and then caught sight of Patrick's glare. “I mean screwed up—the story that's coming across the radio. The Coast Guard said the people had been drinking all night and then they were out on the waterway early this morning and they got into a fight and then the boat turned and the lady—” He made a movement with his hand like diving off a diving board. “They should've just stayed here until they sobered up."
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