Chapter Thirteen #3
Despite my glib comment to Eleanor about having to pay someone to tow the boat away, the problems are all reparable, and the vessel is large enough and unique enough to bring in some money.
With two cabins and a stateroom, she sleeps six comfortably and up to twelve not so comfortably.
She has a sizable galley for cooking, two relatively modern lavatories, and loads of storage space.
And while she’s old, quirky, and so ornate she’s more appropriate for a Disney ride than a quiet sail through the nearby islands, she’s not “ridiculous.” In her glory days, when she sliced through waves with her buxom figurehead leading the way, the sun reflecting off her full sails, and a lookout in the crow’s nest, pointing out landmarks, she was a sight to behold.
For my grandmother, this ship meant adventure.
For me, it was where I could quiet my thoughts, my doubts, my questions, and my insecurities, and just be, absorbed in the immediacy of chasing the wind as the ship picked up momentum, or while I bunked overnight belowdecks with a book and let the ocean rock me to sleep.
For my mother, it’s always been an eyesore, which brings my thoughts back to the present and why I came down here.
I climb aboard and make my way to the prow, where I straddle the bowsprit and let the gentle motion of the waves take the edge off my lingering irritation, wishing I could spend an hour with my parents without feeling like I need to defend every choice I make, from my career to my love life to my reluctance to let go of things that genuinely matter to me.
Dylan finds me soon after I’ve settled in, crossing the main deck to climb the dozen or so stairs to the forecastle, where he leans on the railing.
He’s close enough for an easy conversation, but he’s not close like he was in the kitchen, when he was about to ask me for a truth.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes. No. Maybe. Mostly.” I blow a sigh out to sea.
“They try. I know they try, but they don’t understand a lifestyle that doesn’t prioritize achieving the standard benchmarks of success.
A nice house. Marriage and kids. A steady, impressive career.
A working coffeemaker.” I exhale again, matching my breathing to the swell and fall of the waves.
“They also don’t understand that life sometimes throws us curveballs, and even the best-laid plans can require reconsideration. ”
Dylan nods in that way he does, slowly, giving everything a moment to sink in. He’s showered and changed, now in beat-up jeans, his Eulogy for a Succulent concert tee, and a heavy, shawl-collared cardigan I want to steal and wear all through winter.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Being out here, I mean? Even though . . . ?”
“I’m good.” He smiles a little, just enough to confirm he catches my meaning. “I used to come down here sometimes when the house felt too quiet. I like the sound of the waves. And the motion. The way the ocean reminds us with its rhythms that this, too, will pass.”
“Exactly,” I say, and then close my eyes and repeat in my head, Exactly.
We’re quiet for a minute. I watch a pair of northern pintails bob nearby while Dylan nudges the base of the railing with the toe of his ragged sneaker.
“You’re applying for teaching jobs,” he says.
“You heard that, huh?”
“Not on purpose, but I caught some of the conversation in passing.”
I nod, an affirmation as much for myself as for him, while I scoot around to reposition myself on the deck where I can busy my hands with a coil of rough, frayed rope.
“My parents are right about the house,” I say.
“I don’t want them to be, but they are. It needs more work than I can afford, and that work will matter more as the weather gets worse.
Selling off collectibles helps, and another good run of it would probably cover bills and groceries through the winter.
It might even pay for the bulk of the roof replacement, but it’s not enough to fix everything, and the expenses will keep mounting the longer I put them off.
” I tie a bowline by habit, untie it, and tie it again.
Funny how the muscle memory lingers. “I can try to get a job in Blue Hill. Waitressing or retail or maybe even substitute teaching at the grade school, but I’d only be postponing the inevitable.
” I practice my clove hitches. Anything to keep my gaze cast downward, so I can’t see the disappointment in Dylan’s eyes.
“If I can get a full-time academic job, I’ll have a steady income again.
Not that it’s great money, but it’s dependable.
It’s also what I’ve trained to do. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
And maybe the next job won’t be as bad as my last one.
Different people. Different leadership. Different students. Different city.”
I risk a glance upward. This time, Dylan’s the one nodding, and his nod is a lot like mine was, slow, labored, directed inward, resigned.
Then his eyes lift to meet mine, obsidian dark, and I’m sucker punched by how much he packs into a simple look.
Curiosity, sadness, frustration, hope, and a hundred other emotions I can’t even come close to identifying.
“Would a new teaching job start right away?” he asks.