House of the Blue Sea (16 page)

“Do you remember how to pull on a line?”

“I might.”

“Well that should be about all the help I need. You, fair lady, can sit back and enjoy the ride.”

Ode to Joy
was a Cal 34, an older boat but well-maintained, her rigging and sails recently upgraded. They untied and motored out of the harbour, the gulls squawking overhead and a gentle breeze off the nose of the boat. La Paz passed by them on the right, the waterfront pathway dotted with strolling tourists, each of them a different splotch of colour from Sandra’s vantage point. She pulled her sketch book from her bag and did a quick drawing of el Malecón—its buildings, statues and palm trees, and the people wandering its pathway.

“The beginning of another painting?” Mark asked from behind the wheel.

Sandra continued to focus on her sketch. “Possibly. I like the colourful little tourists against the city backdrop. It was thoughtful of them to wear such a variety of colours ... not that I couldn’t brighten them up a bit if they were all dressed in brown.”

“Ah yes, the artist’s prerogative.”

Sandra flipped the page and started a second sketch. Her pencil moved rapidly, her eyes going from the page to the shore and back again. She could see masts up ahead, bright white against the hill behind them. She turned another page and began drawing the resort marina as it came into view.

“Now, I don’t want to interrupt an artist at work, but I would like to put the sails up soon, now that we’re out of the harbour.”

“No problem ...” Sandra added shading to some areas of her sketch and closed the book, tucking it back into the pocket of her duffel. “Done! At your service, Skipper. What can I do?”

Mark switched on the autohelm and they set about raising the main sail and genoa, the crisp white triangles reaching up into the Baja blue sky. When the sails were set and Mark was back at the wheel, Sandra’s sketch book was out again. This time she sat at the bow of the boat, her back pressed into the pulpit, the front of the foresail against her shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t do people.” Mark called from the back of the boat.

“I don’t really. You’ll just be a shell of a person, without features.”

“Ah ... I’m the perfect subject then.”

She returned to her drawing. It was an opportunity to look at him without noticeably staring—one benefit of being an artist. He looked so relaxed today. His white short-sleeved shirt was untucked and blowing in the breeze. He wore a pair of blue and white plaid shorts and his bare legs and feet were brown against the white deck of the boat. Sandra went back to her sketch and tried to capture him on the paper. His untameable hair was at its best this morning, the wind turning it into a moving mass of brown curls around his head. Every now and then he would pull his fingers through it to move it from his face, making it stand up all the taller above his forehead.

“Are you sure I’m just going to be a shell. It seems as though you’re looking at me rather intently.”

“It’s the sunglasses that make it seem that way.” She tapped the side of her glasses with her pencil. “Just a shell. Absolutely.” Sandra looked down at the image evolving on her lap. She’d never been good at drawing or painting people but it was something she wanted to work on. A movie star seemed like a good place to start; with his square jaw and symmetrical features his face wasn’t so different from architecture, and she’d drawn plenty of buildings. And then there were those broad shoulders, muscled arms, gorgeous hands—definitely not a tough subject to keep your eyes on. If Trisha were in her head right now she’d be so proud.

They travelled that way for an hour or more, Mark at the stern with his hands resting on the wheel, and Sandra at the front of the boat, sketching him, the boat, the sails, the changing landscape and the rolling waves of the sea.

***

T
hey reached their destination two hours after setting sail. Without the chart and the directions from the fisherman, the bay would have been invisible with its narrow entrance between two fingers of land reaching out into Cortez. Once inside, the water went calm, like they’d dropped onto a quiet lake.

“It’s beautiful,” Sandra called back to Mark from her position at the bow. They’d taken the sails down before attempting the entrance. The water was deep and without rocks, according to the chart, but the width made Mark err on the side of caution. Steering accuracy was more easily achieved under power.

The dark hills of rock and acacia shrub rose up from the water all around the bay, with sandy expanses of the palest beige at their base. The water grew shallower as they motored further in, its colour changing from indigo to turquoise. Sandra let her eyes drink it all in, trying to capture the colours for her canvasses. “What a marvellous place to paint.”

“Did you bring your paints?” Mark dropped the engine to an idle.

“No, only the sketch book. I’ll have to try to remember the colours.”

“Do you not own one of those new-fangled inventions—a camera, I believe they’re calling it?”

“I do, but I didn’t bring it. When I have it with me I tend to take photos instead of sketching, and I prefer to work from sketches.”

“Well, I did bring a camera. So if you’d like some photos to back up your drawings, I can take some for you. Can you come and take the wheel while I get us anchored?”

Sandra took her place at the wheel, holding the boat steady while he pulled the anchor from the locker at the bow and dropped it overboard. “Okay, put it into reverse, but just idling.” Sandra did as she was instructed. “And now into neutral.” She felt the anchor catch and the boat begin to swing sideways. “Right. I think we’re there. Lunch!” Mark brushed his hands together and returned to the cockpit.

“You really have done this before.”

“Do you mean to tell me you agreed to go sailing on the open sea with someone you doubted had ever been on a boat?”

“Well, I figured you’d been on a boat but, you know, just acting. Crazy, eh?

“Aha! There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The ‘eh’. I’ve been waiting to hear the ‘eh’ you Canadians are famous for. It hasn’t shown up until now.” He pointed a finger at her.

“That’s because it’s not nearly as common, or as uniquely Canadian, as its reputation.”

“Ah yes, the idiosyncrasies of speech, often exaggerated by those of other cultures.”

“I know, eh.”

“You’re going to do that all day now aren’t you?”

“I might ...” Sandra smiled. “So, let’s eat, eh? I’m starving. You got any back bacon in that icebox?”

Mark chuckled and opened the cooler that was tucked into the front of the cockpit. “I’m afraid not, but I do have some lovely smoked fish if that suits, as well as some cheese, which you selected from the market, some fresh bread, some olives, and ...” He opened the locker behind him and pulled out a dark green bottle. “A bottle of my favourite Italian red.”

“Sounds yummy ... but it’s been a long time since I’ve sailed so I’m hoping you won’t need a designated helmsman.”

“Has my friend Paul been telling tales? I promise to drink only one glass. Speaking of, can you go down below and find the wine glasses? Our friend back at the marina told me the boat had a fully stocked galley.”

Sandra climbed down the steps of the companionway into the cabin of the boat. The blue trim of Ode to Joy’s exterior was echoed inside by her navy upholstery; and the cupboards, the benches, the bunks were all a dark red shade of teak. When Sandra reached the bottom step she was in the kitchen and began her search for wine glasses, or something that would suffice. Aha—tucked in a drawer, two plastic glasses with, what else, blue stems. And beside them, plates. Those might be handy as well. Dishes in hand, she checked out the rest of the cabin, going through a small doorway into the front v-berth. Cozy, but certainly comfortable. She could imagine spending some time on a boat, falling asleep to the waves lapping at the hull. Ah, and the head, something she needed. She set the glasses and plates on the galley table and stepped inside the tiny room, locking the door behind her.

“Are you lost down there?” Mark called from the companionway just as Sandra exited the bathroom.

“I was but I think I see the way out now.” She grabbed the dishes and climbed back up to the cockpit, handing them off to Mark as she hit the top stair. “Found the glasses, and some plates. It’s quite nice down there. The boat I sailed on with my in-laws was more of a racing boat, so not well-equipped for living. You have to minimize weight if you want to win.”

Mark had their picnic laid out on the port bench, a small, brightly coloured piece of fabric underneath it.

“I love the tablecloth. I’ve seen those in San Leandro at the market. Nice touch—for a boy.” She took the glass of wine he offered.

He poured one for himself and held it toward her in a toast. “Cheers. To fine weather and fine friends.”

The plastic glasses clicked together. Fine friends—oddly enough, they did seem to be growing into just that. He smiled at her, the whiteness of the face that had been hidden under his beard beginning to colour in the sun. He had the kind of skin that tanned rather than burned. How nice that must be.

“So, dig in. A little Italian-style picnic to go with the wine, or vice versa perhaps.”

Mark sat next to the picnic and Sandra sat across from him on the open bench, loaded plates in their laps, wine glasses perched on the top side of the hull.

“How are you feeling about the art show, now that the pieces are finished and delivered?” Mark asked.

“Quite good, I think, but still nervous.”

“Will you go, to the show?”

“I told Pascual I’d be there for the opening tomorrow. He’d like the artists there every day but I don’t think I’ll do that. I’d rather be painting and I don’t want to paint in public.”

“I was planning on going at some point. Can I give you a ride?”

“Thanks,” Sandra examined the food on her plate, “but Ian has offered to take me. He has some things to do in La Paz, and he’d like to see the show.”

“Right. Not a problem.” Mark took a swallow from his glass and began piling smoked fish onto a slice of bread.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, looking past one another at the surroundings.

Sandra spoke first. “So, have you received that script from your agent yet?”

“It’s gone back to the writers for a few changes. Nate says it should be here within the week.”

“And ... things are still looking promising?”

“According to Nate the directors
and
the executives want me in the role. Last time around, I was the director’s pick but not a safe enough bet for the movie execs—and the men who hold the money have the power.”

His features had darkened. Sandra wondered if she could ask the next question without getting tossed off the boat. “What do movie executives consider a ‘safe bet’?”

“In this case an actor with Oscar potential, which I, apparently, am not.” His plastic glass hit the boat surface hard enough to splash wine over the top. It ran down the inside of the cockpit, leaving a dark trail on the bright white gelcoat. He picked up the napkin from his lap and wiped up the spill before turning to Sandra. “Apologies. As you may have noticed in prior meetings, this is a subject that makes me rather snappish.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I just find that problems sometimes lose their power when we get them out in the open, and I’m happy to listen if you’d like to talk.” She hoped her voice carried more confidence than she felt. She’d decided to ignore Paul’s advice and not stay on safe subjects today. It wasn’t her style to avoid something that so obviously needed to be aired.

He looked at her across the boat, the thoughts visibly swimming behind his eyes. “You’re still willing to listen, despite my behaviour—the chair tossing, the table slamming,” he gestured to where the faint outline of red still showed on the white hull, “the wine spilling?”

“Maybe I’ll hold your wine glass when I ask a question.” She reached for his glass and he pulled it back.

“I think I can manage to be civil. I’ll try to be more stereotypically British and keep my feelings under my hat.”

“No, I think you need to express what you feel, but try using words instead of ... gestures.”

“Like I’m doing radio rather than telly.”

She laughed. “If that works for you, sure.”

“I’ve never been good at talking about how I feel, or knowing what it is, for that matter. I guess as a British male that shouldn’t surprise me. It just seems that after thirty-plus years of expressing the feelings of dozens of characters, I should be better at it, and certainly better at keeping it from coming out sideways.”

“I’m not an actor, so I can’t say how it works for you, but for the rest of us, acting is precisely the way we hide what we feel. We pretend to be someone else—someone stronger, someone who doesn’t care, someone ... different.”

“So you think the acting keeps me from knowing my own thoughts and feelings?”

“It might. If your introspective energy gets focused on getting inside the head of another person, what’s left for you? But I’m speculating.” Sandra popped a stuffed olive in her mouth.

Mark leaned back against the hull and faced her. It was difficult to tell what he was looking at behind the dark glasses but she felt his eyes on her. She shifted in her seat and rearranged the food remaining on her plate.

“You know, that rather makes sense. I feel different when I’m in character, more real, oddly enough. I found that especially true of acting on the stage.”

Whew. Sandra exhaled and felt her courage building. “So you were in theatre?”

“I was, and I enjoyed it very much, that instant and spontaneous feedback from the audience, the possibility of bettering the performance with each night’s presentation.” Mark eyes were drawn to a gull circling overhead.

“And do you still perform on the stage?”

“Rarely. I miss it sometimes, but it’s a lot of work, and less money. After a few years in the theatre, I started to get television and movie roles. The feel was quite different from the stage, not nearly the adrenalin, but I enjoyed the challenge of acting without an audience to perform for. Getting the part of Rochester in
Jane Eyre
was a huge boon for my career. The story is so well-known and loved that we had an instant audience, and Rochester was an interesting and complex character to portray, probably one of the favourites of my career.”