That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  I missed Lori, feeling her warmth next to me. Hugging. Cuddling. There’s this song from a show that Lori and I went to years back called “The Golden Apple.” A musical based on the Iliad and the Odyssey, if you can believe it. We used to sing it duet style, like Ulysses and Penelope did in the show:

  It’s the going home together when your work is thru,

  Someone asks you “howde” do and how’d it go today?

  It’s the knowing someone’s there when you climb up the stair,

  Who always seems to know all the things you’re going to say.

  Feeling wanted. Loved. If you’ve got that, you’ve got the world. Emma kept that feeling and that kept Emma alive. Her thoughts of Damon were not vague. For her, Damon was right there, everyday. Her thoughts of him gave her an aura. Every day she was on that lip-smacking voyage with her lover. And wore those earrings every June to memorialize the journey of body and mind. Emma spoke of nothing else, as if the rest of her life meant nothing. I wonder if she ever married Damon or had his children.

  I wondered, too, that if I had a brain rewired like Emma’s what it would be that played on my tape loop. All I could come up with is one terrible storm I had sailed through, or more accurately, how I felt pulling into a safe harbor. And I was alone through all of that. What the hell does that say about my life? I have to rethink this whole nostalgia-laden memory thing of my sailing alone while my family stayed shore side. Hell, I never even took my kids. Was sailing back then an escape from my real life —which actually wasn’t all that bad? Before sailing, before kids, I was simply a machinist working on lathes and millers, precision machining steel to make prototypes for tool makers or some inventor. They were wonderful days. The smell of a machine shop sticks in my mind. Whenever I smell fat burning, I think of standing in front of a lathe watching lazy streams of smoke coming from lubricated steel. Can’t imagine my endless tape loop being the daily grind of running a machine shop.

  When I bought the machine shop from an old Dane named Gersten Myers, I had pictured myself working with a team of machinists, opening the shop at eight, closing at five. It didn’t work out that way. As the owner, it was up to me to drum up enough business to keep things going. Of course during the war years—Korea and then Vietnam—business came to me. But after the war, competition was like weeds in a flower garden. I was away most of the time. Alone except for meetings with potential clients. I’d hit the road Sunday night, returning on Thursday with a bunch of orders, repeating that whirlwind week after week just to stay ahead of the curve. Not like Ivan and Doris and their beloved candy store.

  I don’t miss Sunset, but I do miss having people around who knew my name, although I must admit that it boiled down to a precious few. Some of the Sunset’s more vacuous clients assigned names to people rather than try to remember them. For instance, in the eyes of Samuel Guttman, I was his son Isaac. I played along. I wasn’t the only one lonely. We all were. The anticipation of visiting day helped to ameliorate loneliness. But when the day ended, loneliness came back with a vengeance.

  I caught myself wallowing in self-pity, the precursor of depression. Why not just enjoy all the folderol around me instead of looking backward? Past is something we can’t change so why live in it? I got up off that bench and joined the crowd. I smiled at people and they smiled back. My step quickened when I caught sight of an ice cream shop. A double dip of cherry vanilla and I was on my way, licking the glorious dripping of cream, dabbing a blob from my nose, as happy as a kid at a carnival. On the way back to the boat, I stopped in a toy store and bought a stuffed bear about the size of a small dog. The nose-studded teenaged clerk asked, “Is this, like, for one of your grandkids?”

  I replied, “Actually, it’s for me. I don’t think that you can ever be too old to have a stuffie.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

  THURSDAY, JULY 19

  I cast off the mooring at 0900 hours, heading for Cuttyhunk, the westernmost island of the Elizabeth Chain. The prevailing southwest wind at 15-plus knots didn’t disappoint. Set to a broad reach and pulling on all sails, That Good Night moved along at a steady eight knots. The sea conditions were a bit choppy but that only added to the joy of feeling this yacht perform at its best. We sailors call it having a bone in our teeth.

  I made Cuttyhunk Island before noon. I could have kept going, but Cuttyhunk has always been close to my heart and I’d be damned if I would pass it by. I anchored outside the harbor to avoid another crowded mooring field, using my dinghy to visit the island for lunch and a good walk around. When I returned to the boat, there was another boat anchored nearby. A young woman was sitting on the foredeck busily talking on a cell phone. I caught her saying, “I did it. I did it all by myself. My first solo voyage. Anchoring and everything.”

  I returned the dinghy to its davits and sat back in the cockpit with one of the books I had purchased in Annapolis, Robert Olmsted’s A Coal Black Horse. I started reading it back in Henlopen Harbor and was more than halfway through. It was a remarkable novel set in the time of the Civil War. I looked up to see the young woman looking over my way. I waved. She waved back.

  “Nice day,” I said.

  She answered, “It is, quite remarkable.”

  “What makes it remarkable?” I asked, wanting the conversation to grow.

  “Oh,” she said, “it just is. I solo sailed all the way from the Sakonnet River.”

  “Congratulations,” I replied.

  “My husband encouraged me to go off on my own,” She said proudly.

  “Good man,” I said, giving thumbs up.

  “Yes, he is,” she said. A slight wind shift caused our boats to drift apart. “Have a good one,” she said. I waved a goodbye.

  A sailor’s vignette. Actually, I had hoped to invite her over for dinner and some conversation, but decided that her solo sailing deserved a solo celebration.

  FRIDAY, JULY 20

  It’s only been less than a month since I escaped Sunset and here I am leaving at sunrise, heading northeast through Buzzard Bay. How about a Sunrise Day Care Center as part of a Sunset Home. Why not?

  Weather cooperated once again with steady winds out of the southwest. That Good Night could do well in eighteen to twenty knots without reefing, but as the wind piped up, I took in the jib, set the staysail and furled some main. I’m not into fighting with the wind. Whenever I did that I lost. Like the time I was hit broadside with a gust falling off the Palisades. I was heading north on the Hudson River, just south of the George Washington Bridge when I was slammed. If it wasn’t for the lifeline encircling the cockpit, I’d have been pitched into the water, never to be seen again. As it turned out, my tiny boat and I survived. Lesson learned.

  Entering the Cape Cod Canal, I was required to drop sail; motoring only is the rule for the canal. Cruising along at five knots I watched cyclists and folks walking along the path that ran the length of the canal. Here it was unfolding before me, the simple joy of doing simple things. As I see it, that’s the essence of life. I watched people watching me.

  Exiting the Canal I tied up at Sandwich Marina, a rather crowded nondescript harbor on the east end of the canal. I arrived at 1500 hours, went below, and took a long nap with Agatha, the name I had chosen for my stuffy. After my nap, I spent time with navigation. My plan was to head north to Boston, stay a few days then beeline it for Bob’s place in Maine. I called Constitution Marina for reservations. The weather forecast was calling for deteriorating conditions with a cold front on the way. I’d like to make Boston before that. Enjoy some city comforts.

  SATURDAY, JULY 21

  The storm hit on my approach to Boston harbor. With darkening skies in the distance, I had already furled the jib and dropped the main. Torrential wind-driven rain cut visibility to near zero. Lightning bolts crackled and boomed. Bow to the wind, I throttled back with enough steerage to maintain position; entering this busy harbor in the midst of a storm would be shear madness. Buffeted
by wind and slapped by water, That Good Night took it all in stride as the thunderstorm swept eastward leaving the delicious scent of cool fresh clean air. I throttled up and entered the harbor.

  To my right, busy Logan International airport. To my left, a dramatic view of Boston’s skyline. Water taxis zipping about. An outbound tug-escorted tanker lumbers by. Small recreational boats dart about. Our country’s history glides beneath my keel.

  At the far end of the harbor, I swung north and entered Constitution Marina. I was fortunate to get assigned to one of the last remaining slips which was located deep in the marina. It took a bit of maneuvering and some help from eager docking boys to get That Good Night tied up. My stern was sticking out three or more feet beyond the dock with just enough under my keel not to ground out. Old Ironsides, which was berthed next door to the marina, presented a stunning scene with her rigging back-dropped against a darkening sky. Maybe I could get tickets for a Red Sox game or whatever, but for now, I’m staying put. It’s been a long day.

  TUESDAY, JULY 24

  I’m in Portsmouth, New Hampshire tied up to the town dock. I spent three days in Boston and took no time to keep up my writing. Actually, my three days was a lifetime. I am renewed. My soul is at peace. My head is lofty. My body is no longer eighty-four years old. I’m young at heart. The world is beautiful. You guessed: I met a wonderful woman. That’s all I can report because I simply am not poetic enough to capture or convey what occurred. If you’ve ever been in love then you know what I’m talking about. If not, no words will attach themselves to what it’s like.

  I’ll take time today to refresh my stores and refresh my water supply. Plenty of diesel fuel, so I’ll not worry about that.

  ABIGAIL’S INTERRUPTION

  This is Abigail writing. Pardon my interruption, but Charlie’s account of his time in Boston needs some explanation. I can understand his being awestruck by the entire episode because I’m feeling quite the same way. But perhaps his reticence is a bit unfair to you, the reader. What occurred in Boston is a slice of life that needs to be told. And so, I’ll give it my best shot to describe what Charlie and I experienced.

  I was on a photo assignment for the National Geographic trying to capture the comings and goings at Constitutional Marina, a recreational boat basin just south of the berth of the famous ship Constitution. My objective for one of the shots was to place a ghostly image of Old Ironsides as backdrop for a stealthy French racer that was tied up at the marina. I had arrived at the marina just before dawn, hoping to capture the shot using first light to accentuate the silhouette of this famous Revolutionary War vessel. I had perched myself on the edge of a wobbly finger dock, snapped the photo, lost my balance, and wound up chest deep in water and ankle deep in mud. Luckily, with my right arm stretched high above my head, I saved my freakishly expensive camera. The bad news was I was stuck there. One false move and it was good-bye to my Hasselblad HeDII-50. That’s when I met Charlie or better put, Charlie met me.

  “Don’t move,” a stern, gravelly commanding voice came from somewhere behind me. I couldn’t turn around without losing my balance. “I’ll get you out of there. It’ll just take a moment.” I heard some grunting. “I’m getting my dinghy,” the voice said. More grunting followed. “I just have to lower the damn thing, you just be patient.” Of course, I had no choice other than to be patient and to trust that the spasms in my arm muscles would disappear before assigning my camera to a watery demise. To ease the strain, I fixed my index finger on the exposure button and, twisting my aching arm, took a series of random shots. I heard some soft splashing which I took to be oars. And then, there he was peering over the side of a bulky inflatable boat.

  What hit me immediately were clear blue, spirited eyes; they will stay with me for the rest of my life. I lowered my arm slightly, handing my camera to Charlie. He took it as one might take a child. “Nice camera,” he said, laying it gingerly on top of a life preserver in the dinghy’s bow. Charlie said, “I think it would be easier if we walk you over to my boat and get you out from there.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I responded, “but it would be easier if I just swam. Which is your boat?”

  Charlie pointed to a high transom two docks down. “That Good Night,” he said.

  I reached the transom platform just as Charlie pulled up. He instructed me to hang on while he tied up the dinghy and got onboard which, with camera in hand, he did with practiced ease. After stowing my camera in the cockpit, Charlie returned to the transom platform to help me on board. As I struggled to climb a small ladder attached to the swim platform, his fingers wrapped around my wrists like vises and with a fast move, he had me on the swim platform in a snap. I weigh one-hundred-thirty pounds which, to Charlie, apparently seemed like nothing at all. Of course, I was soaking wet, embarrassingly so with a clinging T-shirt and a translucent linen skirt. Once safely in the cockpit, Charlie disappeared down below, returning with a large thick terry towel—oh, for the time of gallantry. He suggested we go down below, offering me a warm shower, a cup of hot coffee and breakfast. “How do you take your eggs?” he asked.

  I’d been on a sailboat only once, thanks to a college boyfriend who thought sailing was the most wonderful thing after fraternity parties. I, on the other hand, felt like I was in prison with thoughts of drowning. But being in Charlie’s boat was far from being in a prison. Coming aboard was like entering a different world, an elegant world with pricey woods, brilliant chrome and soft upholstery.

  The shower, located in the captain’s cabin, was full sized. I couldn’t understand where all the hot water was coming from, but come it did and within minutes, Boston harbor grime swirled down the drain. As I was toweling off, I heard Charlie call out, “Use the robe, we need to wash your clothes.” Wrapped in plush terry cloth, I left the captain’s cabin, taking a few steps into the main salon. The table was neatly set with a pot of coffee, orange juice, china plates, solid flatware and colorful place mats. Charlie was at the stove, fussing. A destroyed egg was on the floor, another on the counter. “I keep breaking the yokes,” Charlie declared. I eased up to his side and gently took over.

  “Let me,” I said. “You get the flour, I’ll do the eggs.” Charlie handed me the spatula.

  “I can do scrambled, but sunny side up doesn’t work with broken yokes. Damn eggs,” Charlie said, grabbing a towel.

  “Cabin sole,” he said while bending to kneel and clean up the mess. “It’s the cabin sole,” he grunted, “not the floor.”

  We ate eggs, bacon, and toast. Drank cold orange juice and steaming coffee. Charlie answered my questions about sailing with a nomenclature that included halyards, sheets, mast and boom, self-tailing jib, port and starboard, aft, and a whole lot of stuff dealing with navigation. I talked about my work in photography, my degree in women’s studies, to which Charlie laughed and said he’d been studying that for years and should have earned his PhD by now. I asked Charlie if his crew was off somewhere.

  “No crew. I guess that surprises you, an old man alone on a boat?”

  “Hemingway would’ve understood,” I said.

  “Maybe he would. But I don’t plan to fish. Never did. I guess I just like to go places by boat. Everything looks different, more romantic than arriving by car.”

  Charlie went on for some time talking about his sailing adventures. He told me that he was on his last sail, but never mentioned, as you have read, about being in a nursing home and how he escaped and all that. To me, Charlie was a sailor whose life was full of romance and challenges. He was the kind of man I dreamed of meeting. Adventurous, full of moxie. I guessed his age to be mid to late seventies—isn’t that today’s sixties? I’m forty-three and sometimes I feel like I’m ninety. I didn’t dare ask Charlie his age, so, when I read in his journal that he was eighty-four, I was really surprised. But pleasantly so. I mean how many women my age can claim to have had a wonderful and quite memorable romance with a man nearly twice her age?

  It may be a bit shocking to some. But
here was a sensitive, intelligent, witty man, strong in stature, eyes of crystal blue, tough but gentle hands, caring and, well…How can I put it other than I fell in love with Charlie? I just did. It’s not all that complicated and maybe if we would have been together more than three days, things would have fallen apart. As it was, we enjoyed Boston, we counted stars through the hatch while lying on his bed, and we ate great meals—some on board, with me doing the cooking of course, and some on land. We drank wine and on our last night together, Charlie uncorked a great bottle of champagne. I must admit that I’m a little surprised that he didn’t reveal his age or about his going through the ordeal of living in a nursing home. But I understand why he held back on that stuff. Knowing Charlie, he probably stuck that stuff back in his psyche; I mean, why carry that weight around when life can be so light and airy?

  Could I imagine spending the rest of my life with Charlie, or should I say the rest of his? I’ll give that a probability. I would have sailed off with him in a heartbeat, but he never extended the invitation.

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 24, 2138 hours.