Chapter Nine Cammie #2
I’m suddenly extra grateful that West agreed to this, so I don’t have to go it alone.
Even if he has worries or reservations, he hasn’t backed out, and his presence still gives me a confidence boost that I didn’t know was missing the last few years.
I probably shouldn’t let myself get used to it, but I can enjoy it while it’s here.
As I start down the dock, his soft footsteps are a comforting echo behind my own.
Beside the tour boat, a young woman greets us and confirms which tour we’re on before gesturing us into a small, shed-like structure on the opposite side of the dock where we’ll soon get more instructions and watch a safety video.
Inside, there are several plastic chairs set up, two already filled by an older couple with a distinctly American vibe about them—matching visors on their heads and matching fanny packs cinched around the waistbands of matching jean shorts. I smile as West and I take the seats behind theirs.
I lean his way, careful not to brush any part of me against any part of him, lest he accidentally bust a hole through the side wall of this seemingly flimsy structure in an attempt to get away from me.
“Safety video,” I whisper. “Now they’re speaking your language, huh? Should we make some popcorn?”
West is unamused. “You should probably pay close attention to it,” he murmurs back, “because if we start sinking or hit an iceberg or whatever, I don’t think I’m helping you.” I struggle to stifle my laughter until he says, “Also, Camilla Jacobs? Are we a married couple now?”
I’d hoped he hadn’t heard me give that name to the check-in lady, but of course I’m not that lucky.
My cheeks go pink, and I do an awkward throat-clearing-slash-cough combination.
The shoulders of the older woman in front of me tense, probably thinking I’m patient zero with some disease we’re all about to catch on this all-day tour.
“No, I just didn’t want my name to be, like, a tip-off before we even got here. We can trade last names if you want, and you can be West Lovett. Or for all they know, we’re brother and sister.”
I hear myself overexplaining but can’t seem to stop. West’s eyes dart away and I see his face flush a little, too. The words brother and sister must sound as wrong to him as they feel coming out of my mouth.
The last two members of our group arrive and spare me from saying anything else to somehow make the vibe even weirder.
The woman who checked us in enters and begins giving an introduction about the tour company, which unfortunately includes nothing about the boat captain’s sordid past with an abandoned love child.
We watch a brief video, full of helpful reminders like “Don’t take off your life jacket while the boat is cruising just because you want an even tan” and “Don’t lean over the side of the boat to try to touch the water. ”
Then, with no lead-up or fanfare, a man wearing a white short-sleeve button-down and khaki shorts enters, and my heart starts beating triple time as Clipboard Lady and I say in unison, “Paolo Bianchi.”
Luckily, her announcement of his name after the word captain is loud enough to drown out my awestruck whisper.
Neither it nor my gaping mouth or rapid pulse has to do with Paolo Bianchi’s attractiveness, though he’s not bad for someone who could—in the most literal sense possible—be my dad.
No, my shock is because this present-day man is so clearly the same person from those twenty-year-old Polaroids.
It’s like I wasn’t fully convinced until this moment, despite West’s clever computer tricks and discovery of a few more recent pictures of the captain online.
His in-person smiling face is undoubtedly the same smile that was aimed at a young Alex Lovett against a backdrop of the sparkling Mediterranean.
I’m pulled out of my trance by West’s voice unexpectedly piping up beside me.
“Uh, yeah, I’m West Jacobs, and this is my…
cousin, Camilla. Cammie,” he says, and hopefully no one else noticed the awkwardly long pause before the word cousin.
If they did, their faces show no sign of it, the older couple smiling at us, and the newest arrivals, an old man and much younger woman, looking politely interested.
The first couple introduce themselves next as Graham and Marge, two retirees from Michigan.
They’re on a trip around Italy to celebrate Marge’s recent recovery from a hip replacement.
Then the last pair go, and I’m stunned to learn that while I would have guessed they were grandfather and granddaughter, they are in fact honeymooners—Victor and McKinsley from Toronto.
“Close your mouth,” West murmurs out of one corner of his lips, and it is literally the only circumstance under which I can imagine being grateful for that reprimand.
Finally, it’s time to board. Clipboard Lady and Paolo lead us over to the life jackets hanging along one wall and help us each find the right size; then we follow Paolo out to the boat, which sits a little below the level of the dock.
We’re instructed to step into the area behind the captain’s seat, where there’s some padded bench seating for guests and a door that leads down to a galley.
The front of the boat is a flat expanse of polished wooden planks that look ideal for lying down and sunbathing.
I couldn’t be more excited as we all step aboard and settle into our seats.
Victor and McKinsley are on the back bench facing forward, Graham and Marge on the far side chatting with them, which leaves the bench behind Paolo to West and me, just as I hoped would happen.
As Paolo takes the helm and starts up the boat’s engines, Clipboard Lady—now sans clipboard—swiftly and mesmerizingly unwinds the ropes tying the vessel to the dock.
Once it’s free, Paolo gives her a jaunty wave and steers us out into the open water.
We stay at a low idling speed while we meander out of the marina, and Paolo informs us that there are cold beverages and snacks down in the galley whenever we want them, as well as a small bathroom.
I’m working up to starting a conversation with him, opening with some dazzling subject like, I don’t know, what kind of boat this is. But the words on the tip of my tongue die when we leave the no-wake zone. Paolo revs the engine and its rumble gets ten times louder while we pick up speed.
Graham and Victor shout back and forth to be heard while they discuss their own experiences with boats like this one, as coincidentally, they’ve both spent a lot of time on the Great Lakes.
The bits of mind-numbing boat conversation I overhear remind me how few shits I give about boats. I scan my brain for a new entry point.
When I’ve thought of it, I use my loudest outside voice to begin, “So, Paolo…”
His shoulders jump and he turns to look at me over one. “Sì, is everything okay, Ms. Jacobs?”
“Oh yeah, I’m good!” I aim to sound as breezy as one can while yelling at the top of one’s lungs. To make conversation even more difficult, he has to keep his gaze mainly on the water ahead of us. Less than ideal, but I guess I appreciate his commitment to keeping us alive.
“I was just wondering,” I press on, “are you from around here?”
If Paolo agrees that this is a strange time to have a conversation with one of his passengers, he doesn’t show it.
His eyes stay fixed ahead with his face turned just enough that his words carry back to me.
“Yes, I grew up in Naples, actually. My family has boats there as well—it’s where the business started.
I opened the Sorrento operations, ohhh, ten or so years ago, but I still commute from the big city. ”
So far this aligns with what I expected. “Did you always want to be a boat captain?” I ask. “To join the family business?”
His head tips to one side as he considers.
“As far back as I can remember, yes. My nonno—my grandfather—was a fisherman before he started the tour business. My father began working there as soon as he was old enough and still does to this day, though we all wish he would retire.” I see the edge of his rueful smile.
“There was a time when I felt this pressure, seeing all my peers go off to university, and I tried to give that a go myself. But it didn’t take long for me to realize I wasn’t meant for the classroom.
Being on the water—it’s in my blood, I think. ”
I peer around the boat as he speaks, realizing for the first time that it’s actually quite beautiful.
It has a caramel-colored wooden deck, seats and steering wheel in a soft ivory material that looks a lot like leather but I imagine is something more waterproof, and shiny gold metallic railings and cleats along the perimeter.
Then I look farther, to the sea all around us, which has somehow become an even more vibrant aqua since we left the marina.
Could I have all of this in my blood, too? The Bianchis’ seafarer DNA in my very makeup? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Not exactly a feeling of clarity, of yes, this is right, but a sense of wonder at the what if of it all.
I hurry to slide in my next question before the moment has passed, not letting myself get lost in my own wondering.
“So, what about the next generation of Bianchis?” I begin. “Do you have kids who you expect to join you in this business?”
Paolo doesn’t turn his face toward me this time, though his hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. Is that a nervous response?
“No, I don’t,” he says, voice a little stilted for the first time. “We’ll see what my nieces and nephews choose for themselves when they’re older. But none of my own, no.”
I try to read his tone, though it’s hard with the wind whipping around us, the continued roar of the engines, and the lack of any clue what his face is doing. Is there sadness there? Contentment? Or maybe regret, like he’d had the opportunity to have a family but missed it?