Tooner Schooner (4 page)

“I’m afraid so,” Miss Tinkham agreed.

The passengers sat on the deck, some in low deck chairs, a few on cushions and most of them on their gluteal fat. They munched candy bars and spread cigarette ashes over the spotless deck.

“The whole sea to dunk their butts in an’ they put ’em on the mahogany rail.”

A fat woman with dyed red hair opened her knitting bag and took out a Mexican hairless dog. She produced a ripe banana and peeled it: “Pepe has to have his vitamins.” She showed two gold-capped bicuspids. “I hope he doesn’t get seasick.”

“If he does, you’ll clean it up.” Miss Tinkham handed her a wad of Kleenex, just in case.

“Only one o’ the beggars missin’.” The captain pulled out his watch. “This might be it now.” Miss Tinkham stared at the moving junkheap that approached the schooner.

“No, dear Heaven,” she prayed, “not trap drums!”

“I’d best start up the engine an’ get ready to cast off before I do murder,” the captain whispered desperately. “Wonder if there’s a single one of ’em with sense enough to empty out a boot with directions on the heel? Hey, fellah!” A reasonably sane-looking lad with a crew cut stepped up. “When I give you the word, can you cast off?”

“Yessir. Shall I take in the fenders?”

Captain Dowdy looked at Miss Tinkham and gave a sigh of relief.

“It could be worse,” Miss Tinkham said.

“How could it? It’s Hadacol Corners now!”

“We have been spared one thing: the patter of little feet.”

“Yeow!” The captain clasped his head in both hands and went below to start the engine.

“They want something different,” Miss Tinkham said.

“By th’ Tarnel, they’re gonna get it!”
Gassy Lena
turned over without being coaxed and settled to a steady mutter of power. “She’s Cadillackin’ today.” The captain almost smiled as he came on deck, followed by Mrs. Feeley. “Dun’t nobuddy move till we get out of the channel. Batten down all the hatches!”

“He means ‘shut up,’“ Mrs. Feeley stood beside him, arms akimbo.

The captain nodded to the boy with the crew cut who stood on the dock. The lad lifted the line from the post on the dock and leapt aboard the schooner. The captain took his seat in front of the wheel and gave the engine a shot. Slowly and competently he guided the craft out to the open sea. Mrs. Rasmussen came and stood at the top of the ladder beaming approval.

“Are we going to San Clemente, Captain?” a whiskey blonde asked.

He shook his head.

“Cruise around in that direction an’ come back by Mission Beach,” he said. “Ca’m as a millpond.”

“Which one of you can drive?” the captain said to Mrs. Feeley.

“Mrs. Rasmussen. She’s hell on wheels.”

Captain Dowdy beckoned. When she came to him, he whispered: “Take the wheel.”

She looked at him pleadingly:

“I’m iss-scared.”

Mrs. Feeley looked at Miss Tinkham in utter disbelief of her ears.

“You don’t want ’em to know you ent an old hand, do you? Put me in bad if they thought I went out with a green crew.” Mrs. Rasmussen slid into the seat behind the wheel and gripped the knobs till her knuckles turned white. “‘Not so ha’d,” he said gently, “just like a cah.” Mrs. Rasmussen relaxed her grip a little when she saw that the boat didn’t run away from her. “When I tell you ‘come right,’ turn the wheel to the right. When I tell you ‘come left,’ turn it to the left. An’ ha’d right means turn the wheel as far as you can go.”

“Hard left, the same way?” Mrs. Rasmussen felt the smooth surge of the schooner under her as she turned the wheel ever so slightly to the left. The captain put his hand on her shoulder for a moment.

“I knew you was a good girl. Just straight ahead for a bit till you get the feel of it. Hey, fellah! What’s your name?”

“Herman.” The boy with the crew cut stepped away from the people he was talking to. The captain looked approvingly at his Topsiders.

“Bear a hand when I h’ist the mainsail?”

“Glad to.”

“Loose the halyards.” He went back to Mrs. Rasmussen, who was still clinging rather harder than necessary to the wheel. “See that lighthouse? Keep headed toward it. Come left a mite…that’s it. Keep headin’ to the lighthouse till I tell you different.” Mrs. Rasmussen nodded grimly. “Watch it!” The captain saw to it that his cargo ducked their heads to a reasonably safe angle. He began cranking the winch to hoist the heavy mainsail.

“It’s really a tremendous responsibility,” Miss Tinkham said. “Especially, single-handed.”

“Whaddaya mean, single-handed? We’re doin’ noble.” Mrs. Feeley led the way below.

“I think that we can be of the greatest assistance by keeping out of his way. I wonder how the fire is doing?” Miss Tinkham said.

“Swell. Pink coals, sweet as any you ever seen. She’s got the chowder back over here where it can’t scorch.” Mrs. Feeley lifted the lid and sniffed. “Better’n two gallon in that pot an’ she just flang it together in nothin’ flat. That woman can do anythin’.”

“Including a trick at the wheel,” Miss Tinkham said. “Would it be disloyal…”

“I feel for a beer, too,” Mrs. Feeley said. Miss Tinkham poured two frosty glasses of brew. She stuck her head up through the hatch to see a great billow of sail rising overhead. The passengers were jumping about excitedly. Captain Dowdy was at the wheel.

“Got to head her into the wind,” he shouted to Mrs. Rasmussen who stood by.

Miss Tinkham took up a small bell and rang it violently.

“Come below, everyone! Refreshments!” Mrs. Feeley started opening beer cans.

“That’ll get ’em out from underfoot.”

The passengers trooped down the ladder with grunts and giggles. Only Herman and Mrs. Rasmussen stayed on deck.

“Ooh! The cute little lamps on the wall!”

“Blockhead, you bulkhead.” Mrs. Feeley thrust a can of beer at the speaker.

“I’m not sure I like beer…” the wizened woman began.

“You will before the day’s out,” Mrs. Feeley said, and passed on to the man seated next to her. Some of the passengers sat on folding stools and some sat on the deck. One stood in the door.

“Don’t block the passageway, ever,” Miss Tinkham said sternly.

“Get outa Mrs. Rasmussen’s galley before she flays you alive!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Damn if I ever see such a bunch o’ Meddlesome Mattys.”

In spite of the cool reception and peremptory orders, the passengers beamed blissfully.

“There’s something about a boat,” a little bespectacled man spoke up.

“Turn off that radio!” Mrs. Feeley descended on the woman with the Mexican hairless pup.

“I thought a nice swing band…”

“You do the payin’ an’ we’ll do the thinkin’.” Mrs. Feeley popped her head out of the hatch for a moment to see how things were going on deck. She looked down at her charges, then back at Captain Dowdy. He turned off the engine and gave her the all-clear signal. Mrs. Feeley beckoned to the passengers. “You can come on up now! Gawd, ain’t it beauty-full!”

Miss Tinkham followed her up the ladder and took one rapturous look at the snowy sails.

“Silent and graceful as a great white swan,” she cried. “Don’t miss one moment of this priceless quiet.”

The passengers came up quickly and settled themselves near the rail peering over the side at the lapping, swirling water. Mrs. Rasmussen had the wheel once more. Even Mrs. Feeley was too happy and proud to speak.

“It’ll be somethin’ for the book if they all just keep their mushers shut for five minutes,” she prayed. The calm sea once more worked its miracle. The greedy, selfish lines disappeared from the tense, self-centered faces of the passengers.

“Odd,” Miss Tinkham thought, “how, suddenly, they look younger. Distractomaniacs. Talking not because they have anything to say but because they are afraid to keep silent.”

The little bespectacled man lay on his belly quite near Miss Tinkham. He turned his head and spoke quietly to her.

“The sight and sound of moving water eases all the tensions within a man.”

Miss Tinkham studied him for several minutes. One never really knew what went on inside the heads and hearts of the Caspar Milquetoasts.

“How,” she asked softly, “can you think that and ride a stinking, snorting motorbike?”

He smiled dimly and went back to gazing into the shot-silk water.

The captain went gracefully down the ladder and got Mrs. Rasmussen a beer.

“Where’s yours?” she asked.

“Too much responsibility,” he said. “I hope you people notice that wake Mrs. Rasmussen’s leavin’. Straight as a die.”

“I’ll have to start cookin’ soon…this air will make ’em hungry,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

The captain looked up at the sun.

“Not too far from noon now. They been better than I expected so far. I’ll drop the hook an’ let you get your lunch served in peace.”

“Do,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Git a rag, Mrs. Feeley, will you? This thing here looks so grimmy.”

“The binnacle?” The captain laughed. “It only got a lick and a promise this morning.”

“I thought binnacles was what you scraped off the bottom of a boat,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Here’s the bright-work polish,” he said.

“That’s what I always heard,” Mrs. Feeley laughed, “any guy with a boat never refuses a offer to get some work done on it, no matter what it is.”

“Shouldn’t I be pointing out places of interest?” Miss Tinkham said.

“La Jolla over there,” the captain said. Miss Tinkham looked around but no one seemed interested in anything but sailing. Some of the passengers leaned their heads over the rail and held onto the lifeline as they gazed into the water. Others watched the sails bell and billow as the soft swell carried the schooner forward.

“Nice sound, canvas slattin’,” the captain said.

“I could go on forever,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Let’s not stop lessen we have to, huh?”

“Just thought it’d be a mite easier for you if we anchored.” The schooner reared back like a mettlesome horse.

“Some ship.” Herman joined the group at the wheel. “Lotta freeboard.”

“You been peekin’ in the icebox,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“Any more jokes like that an’ you get the deep six,” the captain said. “You’d best start the chicken, Mrs. Rasmussen.” The captain took the wheel. Mrs. Rasmussen went below and in a few minutes she called to Miss Tinkham:

“They could start with the soup.” Miss Tinkham passed the tray with the cups of steaming corn chowder.

“Right up here? Without going downstairs? Isn’t that nice…” The owner of the Mexican hairless had arrayed him in a small Mexican hat held under his chin by a cord. Miss Tinkham shuddered and looked away.

“What I must remember,” she muttered to herself, “is that God made them. Both of them.”

Mrs. Rasmussen stood in the hatch and offered seconds. She showed Mrs. Feeley the pan of crisp red-brown chicken draining on crumpled paper towels. “Two pieces to a bag,” she said.

“The men, too?” Mrs. Feeley laughed.

The passengers kept silence while she dealt out their lunch.

“What?” Herman’s eyes sparkled. “No bolony sandwiches?”

“Please!” Miss Tinkham said. “Not while we’re eating!”

“I never saw food like this in a excursion before.”

“Madam, you have seldom seen food like this anywhere.”

Miss Tinkham picked up a drumstick and dug in. “Take it up in your fingers. Dear Mrs. Post approves.”

Mrs. Rasmussen and Mrs. Feeley were feeding the captain tidbits of fried chicken. Miss Tinkham went over to the little bespectacled man again. She picked up a bag of lunch and held it out to him.

“Scalpel! Sponge!” He grinned shyly as she slapped the bag into his hand. “That was reflex action the way my hand went out. I’m a little ashamed of my appetite.”

“Eat hearty!” Captain Dowdy roared. “Give the ship a good name.”

“I certainly intend to.” He smiled.

“Like Pear’s soap,” Miss Tinkham said. “We are advertised by our loving friends.”

“How about a little fiddlin?” the boy with the Argyle socks said.

Mrs. Feeley giggled.

“Reminds me of one time me an’ Mr. Feeley was imbibin’ in a few beers an’ I said: ‘I’m feelin’ good!’ He hollers: ‘Git in the car! You don’t have to say that twice!’”

The trio began to play much less badly than Miss Tinkham had feared.

“The open air cuts the volume down,” she whispered. “‘Sobre Las Olas.’ Isn’t that fitting?”

“‘The Loveliest Night of the Year,’” the captain corrected.

Miss Tinkham shook her head. “The songwriters loot the public domain and write maudlin, illiterate lyrics to lovely old songs and fob them off as their own. There ought to be a law.”

Miss Tinkham went over to the fat boy with the Argyle socks. “Won’t you have some chicken?” she coaxed.

“Sure,” he stuck out a hairy paw, “I’ll eat anything as long as there’s a lot of it.”

“The mark and remark of a hog,” Miss Tinkham muttered to the little man with the glasses. “What is your name, sir? There is a deadly anonymous quality in not knowing people’s names.”