That Good Night (8 page)

Bob and I checked into the Annapolis Marriot Waterfront. Our entrance into this grand and luxurious hotel dressed as we were with Bob carrying a grubby gym bag and I with an army duffle slung over my shoulder caused a few stares. Even so, the staff was courteous and very helpful. Not having a credit card, I was asked for a fifty-dollar-a-day deposit for any charges I might incur. “How long will you be staying,” the desk clerk asked. I told him that I was uncertain, maybe a few days. I'd let him know tomorrow. I handed over two fifty dollar bills.

Over dinner of tenderloin steaks finished with a demi-glace sauce, I tried to convince Bob to join me, maybe sell the truck and head out to sea, but he declined. He was hell-bent to get back to Maine as if his damn island would float away if he wasn't there to keep it anchored.

“It's summer,” he told me. “Time to get my wood in, else it'll be a damn cold winter.” I countered that there's no cold winter in the Caribbean, but he didn't buy it.

“A cold, snowy day reminds us how lucky it is to be alive,” he said. I looked at him like he was nuts.

The bedside alarm jangled me awake at 2:30 a.m.

“Go back to sleep,” Bob said. “I'm off. Going to beat the traffic.” The last words I heard were “Good luck.” Bob was gone—terse goodbyes were another hallmark of Maine Man. I heard the door click shut but wasn't sure whether I was awake or dreaming. Bob said nothing about leaving this early before we went to bed. But that's the kind of thing Bob did. I had been dreaming about walking on a path I couldn't see or feel. I was lost, alone and there was no sound except the squishing of rubber clogs scuffling along a terrazzo tiled floor. Bob's interruption had me sweating. Where the hell was I?

I lay awake and listened. I wanted to be certain that squeaky clogs or moans, or wheezes, or the hum of fluorescents, or other dreadful sounds of Sunset were residual, not reality. Do freed prisoners have echoes like this? I couldn't say, only guess that they did. Surely, I wasn't afflicted with PTSD. No, not that at all. It was more like needing to be sure I was where I was. I reached over to the other side of the bed. Feeling the rough canvass of my duffle bag gave me assurance that I was who I was and where I ought to be. Comforted, I fell back to sleep.

Earlier when I had flashed my passport to the Marriott receptionist, it struck me that my identity had to be proven. It felt good. At Sunset, no one asked for a credit card, or a driver's
license, or anything else to prove that I was really me. I was a stranger to no one. There was never a reason to prove to anyone that I was who I said I was. Sometimes I felt like I was already dead. No one knew my history. During my first few weeks at Sunset, I must have told people who I was a hundred times over. I soon realized that it did no good. What really counts is people knowing who you are, not needing to be told who you are. And at Sunset, people just didn't know each other. There simply was no history to any of us. New patients would often be seen clutching a purse or having a back pocket bulge with a wallet. They were ready to show their identity. But no one ever asked, and in time the wallets and purses were left in dresser drawers. That's where I left mine. I never thought I would need it. How wonderful it is that now I do. The irony is, since I'm a missing person who wants to keep it that way, hiding my identity is important. I can't just walk into a bank and deposit my money. I have no idea about registering the boat. If I get sick or need help, my cover would be blown. Even so, the suspense of the possibility of being discovered is far better than living in limbo.

When I was running the machine works, I'd escape the tensions of managing the business by solo sailing, usually going away for three weeks or more. No cell phones back then, only pay phones when you could find one on shore. Single handing a sail boat leaves little time to fret about being alone, but at an anchorage or snugly tied up in a remote harbor, that was a different story. I wanted to share the sunsets, the cry of the gulls, a soaring eagle, starlit skies. After a week or so of self-pity, the stabs of loneliness lessened. When not at sea, I spent my nights plotting the next day's course, writing, reading, and sitting above decks for hours watching stars slowly dance across the
sky. When my cruise was over, I had as much trouble citifying as I had in gaining my sea legs.

I awoke to a sliver of sunlight sneaking around the drawn curtain. With Bob gone, the room felt empty. Following my ablutions and a solid breakfast of eggs with bacon, wheat toast, coffee and orange juice, I had a taxi drop me off at Annapolis Yacht Brokers. A silver Mercedes sat to the left. To the right, was a Beemer sports car, roof down. The brokerage was housed in a grayed cedar shake building overlooking Annapolis Harbor. A yard-armed flag pole with a fluttering U.S. flag accompanied by pennants stood neatly on a manicured patch of grass to the right of a brick walkway bordered with red and white geraniums. An iconoclastic rusting anchor sat stoically at the base of the pole which was encircled by white painted rocks.

Duffle bag slung over my shoulder, I grabbed the brass dolphin-shaped door handle, swung the door open and strutted into the lobby. To my right was a wall covered with photos of full-suited sailing boats, each seemingly competing for how far they could heel before wind slammed them into the ocean. To my left were two large windows framing the boat-filled harbor. Between the windows was a navy blue wall on which were hung two old bronze ports, with mirrors replacing their glasses. Below the ports stood a shiny brass pedestal complete with compass, iron-ball magnetic compensators, and a brightly varnished wooden-spoked ship's wheel befitting a square rigger of which there was none among the high-masted, shiny fiberglass fleet resting in the harbor. I was approached by a gorgeous, healthy young woman.

“I'm Kristen. How may I help you?” she asked smiling.

How I wished I could tell her that she already had helped, just by spilling youth like warm honey. If she only knew how her
appearance struck deep into my carnal memories.
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together, youth is full of pleasure, age is full of pain, Youth I do adore thee, age I do abhor thee
. My mind sang Shakespeare as she awaited my answer. I wanted to tell her about Suzy Mae, my first girlfriend. I was twelve years old. About Lori and how we danced to the marvelous and joyous rhythms of youthful romance and marital bliss. About the myths of sex and age. Instead of all that, I said, “I'm here to buy a yacht.”

More appropriate to mucking out stalls than visiting a yacht brokerage, the loose fitting Wranglers, T-shirt, and Wellington boots that I purchased at Fat Joe's hardly matched the standard yachty look of khaki, polo shirt, and Docksiders. Add to that an army drab green duffle bag draped over my shoulder, I signaled either being incredibly rich or incredibly nuts, or maybe both. Kristen didn't seem to care which. With a courteous wave of her hand, she said, “Follow me.”

“With pleasure,” I responded.

Ascending an open staircase bracketed by banisters of taut, stout manila ropes, my eyes centered on the sweet swing of Kristen's youthful hips. Flickers of lusty memories flitted by too quickly before an annoying crick in my left knee interrupted them. Kristen led me to a quietly appointed conference room done up in maroons, browns and, of course, navy blue. Like a jewelry display case full of glittering baubles, a large bay window looked down on the boat-filled harbor. Leather-covered captain chairs surrounded a polished mahogany oval table which reflected a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. “Someone will be right with you,” Kristen said. “May I get you a cup of coffee or perhaps a Coke?” she asked. I declined and she left the room, adding “Baxter will be with you shortly.”

Baxter Hymlaw entered the room looking more like a tugboat salesman than a yacht broker. He was big—more movable ballast than helmsman. My guess is that he carried two-hundred-twenty pounds, on a six-foot-plus frame. He had a massive amount of self-determined red hair. Thick, black framed eyeglasses magnified his light blue eyes. Probably in his early thirties. Following a shake of hands accompanied by a quiet introduction, he motioned for me to take a seat.

I sat my duffle bag on a chair and slowly pushed it close to the table, treating the action as if I were seating my partner. In a way, I was. Baxter's cocked head, his blank stare signaled
nutcase
. I wasn't so sure of him either. He had a name fitting a yacht broker and the khaki/polo shirt/loafers to boot. But nothing else fit. Mutual uncertainty. We sat opposite each other, me facing the framed window overlooking the bobbing boats below, Baxter looking at me.

“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

During our journey from Upstate New York to Annapolis, Bob and I had spent hours talking about the ideal boat for a single-handed octogenarian. Bob thought a 32-footer would be ideal. I disagreed. Forty or more was what I had in mind. Our list of must-haves included full keel, sloop rigged, auto everything, a substantial dodger and bimini with detachable cockpit curtains, a short mast, powerful engine, lots of room below, and built like a brick shit-house. That's the description I gave to Baxter. He wrote it all down on a legal pad. “Add a generator, cabin heat, a fully equipped galley including refrigeration, a no-nonsense navigation station, and radar,” I stated.

“Power winches, perhaps. And power furler for both jib and main?” Baxter asked, working his Montblanc.

“Yes,” I answered, adding, “and a powerful double acting windlass. I want to avoid going forward up on deck as much as I can; it can be dangerous up there. And one more thing: leaving port you know the weather that you're heading into, sea conditions and all that. What you don't know is how the weather will be on the return, especially if you're out cruising. What I need is a boat that'll get me back, that'll know what to do if caught in a storm. Battleship built with the amenities of a Fifth Avenue penthouse. That's it,” I concluded.

Baxter took a moment to finish writing before looking up. He sat back in his arm chair and asked seriously, “How much are you willing to spend?”

“You tell me,” I answered.

Baxter slowly laid his pen on the yellow pad and sat back. “Let's start over. How about telling me what you want to do with this boat. With this changing economy, there are a lot of options out there. Many that fit everything you just mentioned. But finding the right one is what's important here.”

We talked for over an hour. Besides talking with Bob, this was the first real conversation I'd had since selling my machining company. Forget all those one-sided conversations with my kids and the judge and all the nonsense at Sunset. I was back in the saddle making a deal. Baxter was a good listener. I talked way too much. I prattled on like a kid overflowing with dreams and wonders. How I needed to run before the wind, feel the sting of salt-spray, watch sunrises and sunsets, view the stars, enjoy ports of call, and eat boat food. I told too many tales of my previous sailing days. Of Fundy tides, Atlantic swells, tricky harbor entrances, storms at sea, seeing whales and porpoises, and meeting other sailors. I even turned to Masefield, quoting his famous line:
I must go down to
the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky
. With nods and smiles, Baxter was right there with me in the cockpit through it all.
Boat food
got a big grin. A kindred spirit. Sailors can spot them a mile away. When I ran out of steam, Baxter puckered up his face and said with kid-like enthusiasm,

“Come over to the window.” He stood and turned toward the harbor. “Let's look at some boats.”

I came around the table and stood next to him. “Take a look around and point out to me the boats that catch your eye.”

I looked down at the docks with a kid in a candy-store smile of anticipation and delight.

“That one,” I pointed, “the third dock from the end.”

“What do you like about her?” he asked.

“Great sheer, coach cabin, substantial, I'd trust her. And, by her looks, I'd say full keel with a skeg rudder.”

“It's a Morris. Good call but not for sale. Keep looking.”

I scanned the docks, my eyes jumping past the pretty. I wanted handsome. Traditional.

“There,” I said, pointing to a boat tied up to the finger dock of the furthest pier to our right. “Solid boat, powerful rig—I bet she'd tame a seaway.”

Baxter said, “An Island Packet 460. A lot of boat. And it'll get you through a storm. Good eye and she's for sale. We might need to add a few things, though. Wanna take a look?” I grabbed my duffle bag and off we went. The boat sat quietly at the end of the pier, patiently waiting for the right sailor to board her and sail to places unknown. Baxter lagged behind, giving me an unobstructed view of the boat. He didn't need to sell the boat, that would take care of itself. He knew that I, just like most sailors, was buying far more than a boat. I was buying an extension of
myself, a place to house my soul. I was buying adventure.

My first boat was about seven inches long. My brother whacked it together from pieces of scrap wood. He gave it to me for my seventh birthday. He cut a point on the front end as the bow and nailed a smaller piece on the top to represent a cabin. There was no helm, per se, but he did hollow out a small depression near the stern to represent a cockpit. The hull was a shiny blue, the cabin a bright yellow and a red stripe was painted along the gunnels. As kids, we lived on the top of a mountain. No lakes up there, but when it rained the drainage ditch in front of our house became a raging river hell-bent on getting down the mountainside in quick order. With all that running water, I'd get out there and float anything handy down that maniacal sluice. And I did just that the day after my birthday when a thunderous storm swept through. I set the boat into the water and mentally cast off for parts unknown. The unknown turned out to be a storm drain that swallowed my little boat in one mighty gulp. And that was that. But the memory of sailing to far-off places lingers, not the disaster. The rush I got seeing that boat take off stuck with me. No matter that I was born and raised on a mountain top, I was a sailor from that day forward. And now, here I am, eighty-four years old about to jump on that boat again for another go around, avoiding storm drains the best I could.