That Good Night (12 page)

I went back to Catlin's place. He was sitting on his back porch diddling with an electronic gizmo. A Black Lab sat next to him
.

“Is that the dog that ate the locater?” I asked Catlin
.

Without looking up, his fingers working like a typist on steroids, he said, “Like goat, man. Kingdom eats anything.”

“Who's Bob?”

I watched Catlin's fingers slow to a crawl then pick up again. “A kid I used to like tease in the eighth grade.”

Too slick. “Look Catlin, you know something. In fact, I think that you know a lot. Let's just say that Charlie is out there. He might be sick, in trouble. Don't you think it best to find him? Get him the help he needs? It's not like he's going to prison.”

Catlin stopped messing with his phone. “It's just like prison. And Charlie can take care of himself. Now leave me alone. I'm not
going to say one more word to you.”

Catlin went back to his electronic wonder and remained mum. I wanted to choke the little bastard but at the same time I envied Charlie for having such a devoted friend. Lambert must be something special. But, a fugitive, nonetheless
.

I caught Ashley as she was just leaving. I was direct. “You know something that you're not telling me. Catlin said I should talk to you. Why is that?”

“Catlin's just a friend.”

“I really don't care what he is. What I care about is you telling me the truth. Did you help Charlie Lambert escape?”

Ashley turned her baby blues on me like they were two Colt 45's. “I said before, I liked Mr. Lambert. He was a beam of light in this place. If I did help him escape, I wouldn't tell you or anybody else. But, the fact is, I didn't. He didn't need me to get out of this place. So let me alone. I have stuff to do.” Ashley turned on her heels and marched away
.

The sailing thing bugged me. It didn't make sense. An eighty-four year old doesn't just leap on a boat and go sailing. Maybe on a cruise ship. And where the hell would the money come from?

I went back into the nursing home, signed in, and went to visit Emma. She was sitting quietly in the Sun Room with Ashley. I approached quietly
.

“Hello, Emma. Remember me? I'm one of Charlie Lambert's friends.”

Without a hitch, Emma started her tale of her and Damon's sail to the Azores. She ended by saying, “We left from Annapolis, like Mr. Lambert.” My eyes popped
.

“From Annapolis,” I repeated back. But Emma's eyes were closed. Story over
.

It took only two days to get the boat ready to go: buying charts and a few doodads, a neat folding knife that looked like it could cut steel, an Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon (EPIRB), which I would use only in a dire emergency, a self-inflatable vest, foul weather gear, boots, a few strobe lights, a stack of books, and a whole lot of other things. I also made my way to a clothing store where I bought a complete wardrobe of clothes befitting a seasoned yachtsman including some warmer clothes for when I reached Fundy. I took time to become entirely familiar with the boat's electronics, mechanicals, and deck layout. Saving me the hassle of outfitting the boat, Roslyn agreed that I could use the linens, dishes, utensils, and cookware as long as they could be replaced with money from the escrow. While I busied myself, a fellow from the yard prepared
That Good Night
for cruising, including filling the fuel and water tanks, changing the filters, installing a new impeller in the water pump, checking the rigging and just making sure that everything was in order. In addition, at Baxter's suggestion, he installed a well-hidden safe behind one of the starboard lockers.

I spent my last night at the marina joining folks from the marina at a bring-a-plate cookout. I brought a six-pack of cherry Jell-O.

It was a marvelous way to kick off my voyage. I would leave the next day.

I left Annapolis at 0530 hrs on a cloudless day with light winds out of the southwest. I'm celebrating our nation's independence with my own. I could use some fireworks. I woke up that morning like an excited kid ready to go fishing with his grandpa. I brewed coffee, toasted some raisin bread, had a glass of orange juice, made two peanut and jelly sandwiches for later, and cleaned the galley to a sparkle.

“Senile, my ass,” I said aloud with the final swipe of cloth over the gleaming stainless steel stove top, all burners off. Old Charlie Lambert was fit and ready to take off. I was no longer in my eighties. I was in my thirties, full of piss and vinegar, determination and hope.

Dutifully, I went down my checklist: stow everything, check engine oil, inspect the water separator, eyeball the bilge for any water, turn off propane, turn off shore power and disconnect power cord stowing same in aft locker, switch on navigation system, auto pilot, radar, instruments, activate VHF and get weather report, start engine and check engine instruments. Who wouldn't be excited?

While I was untying the fore and aft spring lines, Baxter showed up. “It's pretty early for you, isn't it?” I greeted my new friend.

“Yes, it is,” he responded. “But I couldn't let you leave without
a fair sailing farewell and this,” he said, handing me a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne. “And don't drink it alone.”

“Don't worry,” I said, thanking him. “I'll save this for just the right moment.”

“I'm sure you will,” he said. “Any problems out there, let me know.”

“There is one favor I need to ask before heading out,” I said

“Go right ahead and ask.”

“There's a guy on my trail about the nursing home stuff. An Insurance investigator,” I added. “I'm not sure, but he might show up here.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” Baxter assured me. “Don't worry about it, Charlie, just go sailing.”

“Just is case you need to contact me, I'll give you my phone number.”

Baxter wrote it down on the back of one of his business cards. We shook hands.

Baxter offered to handle the docking lines while I stowed the bottle and prepared to leave. While I positioned myself at the helm, Baxter cast off the lines, carefully tossing them on board. A nudge of the bow thruster with a touch of forward prop had me clear of the dock and heading for the channel that would take me into the Chesapeake Bay and north, to my first overnight at Chesapeake City, a distance of about 50 nautical miles. With light air, I let the engine do its job pushing us along at six knots.

When I first got the idea of getting out of Sunset, I dreamed of going back north to familiar sailing grounds. I gave no thought beyond that. Get to Maine and maybe to Nova Scotia, then go from there. While the yard was working on preparing
the boat, I studied charts. It was simple enough. Sail to Maine via the Upper Chesapeake Bay, the Delaware Canal and River, sail north off the New Jersey Coast, visit New York Harbor, East River to Long Island Sound, transit the Buzzards Bay Canal, stopover in Boston, Portsmouth, Portland, and finally visit Bob. I figured that the voyage would take two or three weeks depending how fit I was to put in long hours and maybe even an overnight. Plus, of course, factor in weather. The navigation was pretty straightforward, with no real hazards to be concerned about, except for inept boaters or being smashed by a freighter as I could be crossing numerous sea lanes. I vowed to just go and enjoy myself.

There was a chart plotter on this boat, a high-tech gizmo that rivals Cat's fancy cell phone. This amazing device is supposed to tell me where I am, where I came from, where I'm going, how to get there and what time I might expect to arrive. With the push of a few buttons, it'll even tell me where the marinas are and what I may expect in terms of locating grocery stores or restaurants. It's a great gadget for a man who goes to get something, and then once he gets there, stands empty-minded. On this first leg to Chesapeake City, I discovered myself looking at the thing like a kid glued to a television set. My choice was either turn it off or discipline myself. I chose the latter. I kept a paper chart close at hand and, as I used to do years ago, plotted a fix every hour.

Sailing a great boat is like the music of Bach; a certain busyness that makes pure sense. Really simple when you get down to it, but very complex, too—still water runs deep so they say. That's how it often was machining precision parts. With specs in the thousandth of an inch, it takes great machinery, expert
operators and a respect for materials. Here we have the shape of the boat, the cut of the sails, a few ropes that adjust this and that with wind, and water as friends when you work with them and enemies if you don't.

Having motored all the way, I anchored mid-afternoon in a cut off the canal across from Chesapeake City. A push of a button and the anchor chain rattled out of its locker and in a few minutes I was hooked. No need to scramble up in the foredeck to drop an anchor like I used to.
Used to
. Those two words echoed around Sunset like a mantra. Used to swim, dance, cook, clean, plant gardens, take out the garbage, make love. All those simple and not so simple things we
used to
do and took for granted, or complained about or wished we didn't have to do some of them. But garbage does accumulate, weeds grow, kids scrape their knees, and lust, well, let's just say that
used to
does apply. But then again, I felt a real ache looking back at that gal in Annapolis. I hadn't felt that way for years.

You know, every young adult should have to spend time in a nursing home—sleepovers for the sake of learning that the simple day-to-day stuff is what underscores being alive. What I noticed was that visitors came and went as fast as they could. And I bet a dime to a dollar that when they left, they said to each other that they would never in a million years want to wind up in a place like that. So it's okay for a loved one, but not for them. Now what does that say about love? I admit that people like Emma need a place to be. For her, Sunset is forever being on a cruise ship. But the moans one hears bouncing around the place are real. These soft and pathetic drones are the new underscore of people wound down to their lowest common denominator. They deserve our pity.

I didn't think any of this when I anchored, but let me be clear, my experience at Sunset lies just below the surface of my consciousness, and now and then it bobs up to take a gulp of my freedom. I don't like it, but that's the way it is.

Once the anchor was set, I patted myself on the back for my first day solo sailing. No one knew where I was, no one cared—except the damned insurance company. I was in command of my life and I felt like I would live forever. I went down below, poured a glass of scotch, went back up to the cockpit, and toasted the sailing gods.

I slid back into the old sailing routine of years past: Anchor, switch on or off appropriate electric panel switches; drink a scotch in the cockpit; go below and do tomorrow's navigation; check the weather report; check the boat's essentials; have another scotch; and make dinner. The galley in this boat is full-blown. My other boats had an alcohol two-burner stove top.
That Good Night
has a four burner stove and an oven all fired by propane. A few clicks of switches and knobs and the galley stove fired up, just like at home. Unlike at home, I'm paying particular attention to turning the thing off when I'm done cooking.

I thought about uncorking Baxter's gift of champagne, but decided to wait until I had someone to share it with. Maybe Bob, once I reached Maine. Thanks to Evan and Carol, I was able to select a handsome tenderloin, some canned potatoes that I fried in olive oil, and a can of corn. For dessert, I dug into some fresh sweet cherries. Accompanying it all was a glass, or maybe two, of Cabernet. Cooking, eating, and clean-up took about an hour. I ended my first night sailing sitting in the cockpit watching the sun slip away, then retired down below.

Here might be a good place to describe the head, or
bathroom, as it is referred to on land: vanity, shower, toilet, Corian counter top, hot and cold running water. Did I miss my old boat with a tiny sink, small toilet, cold water only and no shower? No, I did not!

I lay in bed looking through the clear hatch at a star-filled sky. My mind wanted to take me on an anxious ride about being hounded by that insurance investigator. But those dark thoughts disappeared once the fireworks began. Kicking off with booms, cracks, and thunderous roars, lighting the sky with flurries of colorful falling stars, this pyrotechnic show was just what I needed. For old Charlie, for all us octogenarians who can still smell the roses. I missed Lori. Very much. While she wasn't much of a sailor, when she was onboard, she was a great companion to have on board. We'd snuggle after a day sailing, our bodies sharing the stored-up warmth of a sunny day, our minds softened by the gentle rocking of the boat, wearing love like an old woolen sweater. I have my photograph of Lori hung from the starboard bulk head where I can see it every time I come below. I had my wallet sized photo blown-up and framed in Annapolis. Sometimes she appears so distant, so faraway that I have to work at it to get her back. Other times, she's just there, right in front of me, smiling, and content with being together. But we're not together. She's dead and I'm close behind. When she appears to me, I go on as if she's right there next to me. I even talk to her. But the sadness lingers, like a low-lying, soft, dark cloud.

Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 5, 1852 hours
.

Spending July 4
^th
weekend driving from Upstate New York to Annapolis, Maryland is no way to celebrate our nation's independence. But duty calls. When I get near water, I start shaking. I hate the stuff. Nearly drowned in a YWCA swimming pool when I was eight. Give me a Kansas cornfield any day. But work is work. Annapolis is all about water. There's got to be fifty marinas, thousands of boats, plus the Naval Academy. The big question of the day was how does an old man with apparently no money get to Annapolis, buy a boat and sail off on the briny sea? Or maybe just buy a boat and live life dockside. Many do
.