17. You Don’t Drive Boats
You Don’t Drive Boats
Josie
Wyatt and I fall into a new daily routine over the next few weeks.
One that includes my morning walks and nightly bingeing of a drama about first responders.
Plus twice-weekly PT visits where I wait in the car to avoid Dr. Parminder.
Every spare moment I get, I’m cramming sailing information like I’m studying for the most important exam of my life.
I’m still waiting to actually get on the boat though.
Sometimes I wake up with boat terminology on my lips: aft, windward, keel, starboard, tacking, lines.
Of all the vocabulary words I’ve learned, my favorite is baggywrinkle. Which sounds like a hobbit name but is actually a protective cover to prevent rope chafing and looks a little like a Muppet.
Wyatt just rolls his eyes when I ask about his baggywrinkles and tells me to stop studying things I don’t need to know. To which I challenge him to actually take me on his boat.
But the morning Wyatt promised we could finally get on the boat, I catch something in the garage trap.
A small creature is huddled toward the back of the wire trip, and it takes me walking right up and squinting at the mess of matted grayish-brown fur to realize it’s a dog.
It cowers, but when I carefully open the trap and reach in, the little dog lets me pull him or her out. It can’t weigh more than ten pounds.
“Wow,” I say, holding it firmly but away from my body. “You smell terrible.”
It starts to shake.
“But that’s okay!” I amend. “We can handle smelly. Have you been living out here all this time, you poor thing?”
Obviously, I don’t expect the dog to answer, and I have no idea what, exactly, I’m going to do now that I’ve caught him. Her? I can only hope Wyatt doesn’t freak out. Because by the time I’ve carried it to the house, I’m already feeling protective over this stinky little pup.
“What is that?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. Probably at the smell. But maybe also at what looks like a shaking ball of matted fur with buggy eyes.
“I told you something was living in your garage! This is the something,” I tell him in my most told-you-so voice. Because Wyatt absolutely didn’t believe me when I told him there was a creature out there. Now I’m holding the stinky proof. “It’s a dog.”
“Looks like trash.”
I gasp, pulling the dog closer to my chest before the smell makes me hold it out again. “Don’t call him or her trash! Do you have an old towel? I’m taking it to the vet.”
Wyatt gets to his feet with a frown and a heavy sigh. “I’m going with you.”
Turns out the garage dog is a girl. And underneath the fur the vet shaved completely off, she’s a little bigger than a Chihuahua with a broader snout and eyes that bug out a like a pug or Boston terrier.
Thankfully without the snorty breathing noises, which might have brought back too many pig memories.
Despite needing a flea dip (shudder) and a full round of vaccinations, the vet says she’s in pretty good shape. And that based on the scarring on her belly, she thinks the dog has likely been spayed but never microchipped.
“Do you want to take her to the shelter or are you planning to adopt her?” Dr. Stephens asks.
“Adopt,” I say, just as Wyatt says, “Shelter.”
We glare at each other.
“It’s a high-kill shelter,” Dr. Stephens says, looking between us. “And in summer, they usually get pretty full.”
I give Wyatt my best pleading eyes, the dog curled against my chest. I’m not sure whether she looks better or worse bald. She definitely is not going to win any doggy beauty pageants. She looks at Wyatt, too, then starts to shake again.
“Fine. But we’ll have to figure out what to do with her while we’re on the trip. A dog is not going with us,” he says.
We’ll see , I think.
By the time we get home after we’ve stopped for pet supplies, I’ve picked a name that makes Wyatt roll his eyes. Which tells me it’s perfect.
“I’ve decided on her name. Meet Jib-Jabberwocky— Princess Jib-Jabberwocky.”
“It’s too long,” Wyatt complains. “You must have been reading too many Alice in Wonderland retellings along with your sailing books.”
“It’s her name. It can’t be changed.”
“You just decided this, what—five minutes ago?”
“Ten.”
“Fine. But we’ll call her Jib for short,” Wyatt says when I reject his suggestions of Spot (she has no spots), Belle (ironic, he says, because she’s so ugly—which makes me smack his arm), and Garbage (since I found her when taking out the trash).
And though he acts like the little dog is ridiculous and keeps grumbling about it, when I leave Jib alone with him so I can make dinner, I come back to find her curled up in his lap with one of his big hands lightly stroking her back, the tiniest of smiles on his face.
Because of Jib, we don’t get on the boat for the first time until the next morning.
And despite what Wyatt said about her not coming with us, the little dog is apparently used to boats because she hops right up with no hesitation, sniffing everything before she scampers below deck like she owns the place.
“Looks like I’m the only real newbie here,” I say.
“Not for long. Also, I prefer the term rookie .”
Wyatt turns out to be an excellent tour guide. I mean, I wouldn’t tell him to quit his day job for the pay, but even with the boot, he moves effortlessly around the deck, pointing out various boat things I’ve only read about or seen in videos so far.
When I interrupt with questions, which mostly consist of me pointing to things and saying, “What’s that?” he is shockingly patient.
“There are so many ropes,” I say.
Wyatt coughs behind his hand. I’m pretty sure to hide a laugh. “Yes, Josie. Ropes— rigging —are a really important part of most boats. Especially sailboats.”
“Thanks, smart guy. When do we go inside?”
“Right now,” he says. Then, faster than seems wise given his boot, he disappears through the opening leading down below. I don’t hear a crash or grunt, only a dull thud.
Still, I lean down quickly. “Are you okay?”
It takes me a moment to adjust to the dim light down there, but Wyatt’s face is shockingly close to mine. The smile he’s wearing is even more shocking. Apparently, all I needed to make him smile was get the man on a boat.
“I’m fine. Now, get down here, Rookie.”
Did Wyatt just give me a nickname?
I like it. Maybe too much.
I’m much slower than he was descending what I’d describe as a stair-ladder, but a moment later, I’m inside. Wyatt is still smiling, casually leaning against a counter.
“This is the saloon,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “A.k.a. the living room, dining room, and galley.”
I’m already moving around the galley, peering inside the tiny oven and running my fingers over the miniature burners.
“Good thing those weren’t hot,” Wyatt says.
“Why would they be hot right now?”
“Maybe I was making soup while waiting for you to climb down.”
“I wasn’t that slow,” I say. “Is soup something you eat a lot of on the boat?”
Wyatt leans over, opening one cabinet, then another. He makes a face as he pulls out a can, frowning at the labels. “One of the things. But we’ll need to restock. I think they stopped selling this brand in the nineties.”
“I can make up a menu,” I say, opening another cabinet. This one contains only spiderwebs. I close it quickly. “And if something isn’t as easy to make with this setup, you can tell me.”
“Sounds like a plan. We’ll also stop at various marinas with restaurants. There are some great ones along the way.”
Probably ones Wyatt ate at with his uncle.
He sets the can back on the shelf and closes the cabinet door slowly, resting his palm flat against the wood for just a moment.
Both corners of his mouth are turned down.
A few weeks ago, I might have just thought this was his normal grumpy—or IBS—face, but now it seems like something else.
“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask. “I mean, the cabin?”
I hadn’t thought about the sleeping arrangements before now and am relieved when Wyatt says, “There are two. The first is right through here. After you.”
The first cabin we see is right off the saloon. There are two berths, or beds, a dressing table or desk between them. The walls are lined with little built-in shelves and cabinets, and there are narrow windows all along the top.
“Cozy,” I say.
“This is where I slept,” Wyatt says. “And where I’ll sleep. Unless you decide you’d rather have this cabin. Lady’s choice.”
“Can you fit?” I ask. It’s not exactly cramped, but Wyatt is large and has to duck through the doorways.
“Well enough.”
The other cabin is at the front, and we stop to look at the engine and the head, or bathroom, on the way.
Everything feels so small, especially with Wyatt’s big body putting off heat like an engine.
He’s everywhere, and with every step and movement, our arms brush or our hands touch or our hips slide against each other.
You’re going to have to survive three, maybe four weeks of this , I realize.
It will be the most delicious—and dangerous—kind of torture.
“This little hallway is known as the captain’s quarters,” Wyatt says, stopping just outside the second cabin’s open door. “Some people hire a captain to sail the boat. I’d never do it, but if I did, they would sleep here.”
He pats a flat, shelflike area, which I suppose could be a bed if there were a tiny mattress.
“It would have to be a short captain,” I say.
“Perfect for you if you don’t like this cabin.”
“As I keep trying to tell you, I’m not short.”
Wyatt stretches to his full height, which means his head touches the ceiling. Looking down his nose at me, he says, “Okay. You’re not short.”
“Shut up, Sasquatch.”
I walk ahead of him into the second cabin, which has barely a shoebox to stand in because the whole thing is bed . Probably a double? Like the other cabin, there are small windows along the top of the walls and various storage cubbies.
Wyatt is suddenly behind me, and the small room seems even smaller. And hotter. Literally and figuratively. There’s no escape either, with him blocking the whole doorway and his Wyattness suffocating me.
Just like there will be no escape for the weeks you’re on this boat with him.
“How comfortable are these beds?” I ask. “I mean berths.”
“Either one is fine. Try it out.”
I do, if only to get some space from Wyatt. But lying in a bed while looking at him standing just a foot away does nothing to help.
“Not bad,” I say. Sweat beads on my forehead. “Is there AC on this thing?”
“There is, but we won’t run it much. It uses up a lot of power, so we’ll run it for a few hours later in the day, then turn it off at night. Some of the windows open, but they’ll just let humidity in. And mosquitoes.”
“Wow. You’re really selling me on this.”
Wyatt stretches his arms up, grasping the doorway as he leans forward, grinning. His biceps strain against his sleeves, and I wish I could slap him with some kind of fine whenever he does something like this.
“Too bad you already entered into an agreement,” he says. “There’s no getting out now, even if you wanted to. You’re stuck with me.”
The thing that bothers me most about this is that I think I want to be.
“When can we actually go out?” I ask when we’re back on deck and I can breathe again. Even if it’s humid summer Virginia air.
“We could motor out anytime. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable actually sailing until I’ve got this thing off.” Wyatt nods down at his boot.
“Like now?” I ask, and Wyatt surprises me with another full smile. They’re going to lose value if he keeps giving them out at this rate.
“If you want.”
“I want!”
My squeal and hand clapping wake up Jib, who barks once like she’s telling me to keep it down and then promptly goes back to sleep.
That is, until Wyatt starts the motor. Then she bolts awake and stands at the very front like she’s recreating her own Titanic moment as we cast off and pull away from the dock.
“I’ll never let go,” I say in a falsely high voice.
Wyatt snorts. “Are you going to quote bad movies about boats or the ocean the whole time?”
“Like maybe ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat’? Or ‘The sea was angry that day, my friend’?”
“Yes, like that. But what’s the second one from?”
“ Seinfeld . My parents’ favorite, and they indoctrinated me early.
Ever watch it?” He shakes his head, and I tsk .
“You’re missing out on a big piece of nineties pop culture.
That quote is from a classic episode where George lies about being a marine biologist and Kramer hits golf balls into the ocean and—you know what?
Never mind. Maybe sometime I’ll indoctrinate you. ”
“You know Jaws inspired the name of the boat,” Wyatt says, and when I look confused, he says, “After Quint. The shark hunter. QUINTessential . Get it?”
“Huh. I always thought his name was Quin.”
“Nope. Quint.”
“Did your uncle name her?” I ask.
“The previous owner. It’s bad luck to change a boat’s name, but thankfully, my uncle loved Jaws .”
Wyatt goes quiet after this, and I get distracted as we head out of the little cove and into Dividing Creek. I only know the name because I have a chartbook I’ve been studying along with another book I got from Amazon about the Intracoastal Waterway.
We pass docks and see a few other smaller boats tooling around. I’m fully baking in the sun by the time we reach the mouth of Dividing Creek and see the open water of the bay.
Normally, this is where we’d shut off the motor and sail, Wyatt says, but not today.
“Neither of us is wearing sunscreen, and we don’t have drinking water.”
“Boo,” I say, even as I’m wiping sweat from my forehead. He’s right. But I already love being on the water.
“If you’d like, we can start going out daily. If not hoisting the sails, I can at least show you some things and teach you to pilot.”
“I’ll get to drive the boat?” I ask.
Wyatt raises his brows. “Absolutely. There’s no way I can do it the whole time. Just...don’t call it driving again. Piloting, steering, or navigating. Not driving.”
Wyatt lets me help tie up as we return to the dock, which I manage, even though it turns out to be a lot more stressful than I thought it would be. I have a feeling I’m quickly going to find that my book and video knowledge barely scratches the surface of preparing me for the trip.
When we get inside, an Amazon truck rumbles down the drive, going a little faster than is necessary. I’m glad Jib isn’t out there. Jib barks her little head off from a perch on the back of the couch.
“Did you order more books?” Wyatt asks as I grab the packages and thank the driver.
“Not this time,” I say, tearing into the first one and pulling out pink ru?ed fabric. “It’s clothing.”
“A little small, don’t you think?” Wyatt asks, frowning as I shake out the dress.
“For me, yes.” I take great delight watching his expression shift as I say, “These are for Jib.”