Water Lessons (35 page)

Jim had met Case after a job interview months back. Chatting and drinking Guinness together in the great Irish pub downtown, the Black Rose, or the Roisin Dubh, Case uncannily declared, "You are from southern Louisiana, not too far from the Big Easy."

Case had studied linguistics at the University of New Mexico. He had just returned that week from several months in Slovakia teaching English, and like Jim, was scouring Boston for employment. Jim had revised Case's rŽésuméŽ for a teaching position but Case instead took a job at Logan Airport loading luggage onto planes. Over the winter, Case de-iced the planes' wings. He now lived in a messy East Boston hovel and spent much of his time bemoaning the rudeness of his miserable colleagues. He always related his yearning to climb more of the mountains out west and to find love with one of "the many naturally gorgeous, unpretentious women of Eastern Europe." Patrick constantly ribbed Case that he had never kissed an American woman. Jim couldn't help but snicker at the joke, whenever it was told.

"Look at the bright side, Case," Duff said. "You'll soon be free of that roommate of yours, the obsessive compulsive cab-driver, and—"

"I'll be climbing peaks and skiing the slopes full-time out in the Rockies. And no more crazy roommate, no de-icing planes, no unloading luggage, no soulless coworkers."

"What kind of hassle could anyone encounter in Crested Butte, after all?" Bryce laughed.

"So Jim, I'm glad you texted me about lunch," Case said. "You know, Bryce, Duff, if I got along better with my family, I would've taken the rail up to visit my brother Wade. He and his wife in Newburyport don't really want me around. My mom up in Nashua has her own gig with her new husband. My dad's just too far away, almost in Canada. Hey, speaking of getting along, Jim, things any better with Maureen?"

"She's been showing me almost no affection or interest, especially for the last few days. Even weeks. Maybe she's fallen out of love. Maybe she just wanted to somehow extricate me from her dad's business and property down there, pave the way for an easier break-up."

Bryce shook his head, almost dazed. "That's pretty dark."

"Jim, you gotta be free. Just let her go," Case said. "Move out with me to Colorado. I'll teach you how to ski. We can work at one of the lodges. Meet some of the cool girls moving there from all over the country. No more probing as to whether you graduated Ivy or if you belong to the right country club. You can write and I'll show you some of the reservations, the mountains. We can road trip it to Utah and Arizona and Taos, check out the petroglyphs."

"Maureen's really just going through a phase," Jim said.

"Watch out for making excuses for her," Case said. "No one can fully watch out for you but you."

"Whatever the case, I need to keep working for her father. He's just helped me out so much. And he comped my move back to Boston."

"He's doing it for his daughter, Jim," Duff said. "Hey, I'm sure he's a nice guy—"

"He's most likely looking after his family, his little girl, first and foremost," Case said. "Don't lose sight of that. He wants what's right for Maureen."

"Don't be so cynical. He cares about my welfare, too."

"But you weren't exactly liking that investments job. Remember all the times you ranted to me about it, and—"

"What else right now will give me the income I need to live in this city?"

"That's one reason you've gotta split. For you especially, Beantown's unlivable. Look, I know you. Haven't you read your Kerouac and your Edward Abbey? You need something different, man."

The bartender approached, pad in hand.

"I'll go for a bowl of lobster bisque," Jim said. "And a half-dozen Pemaquids and a half-dozen Wellfleets."

"There you go!" Duff said.

"Anything to drink?" the bartender said.

"A Sam. Boston Lager, please."

Bryce shook his head, laughing. "Good having you back, James. So how's the first day back at the old job?"

"Oh, not too shabby." Jim sighed, folded his arms, and rested his elbows on the bartop. He blankly stared down at its smooth wood.

"You don't look so well," Bryce said. "Is it just Maureen? The job? You miss the boats?"

"Is it that you miss your family?" Duff said. "Hometown?"

A long moment of silence ensued. Jim finally turned, and his friends were waiting for his answer.

"More and more by the day," Jim said. The spent sound in his own voice surprised him.

In the eyes of his friends he noted a tinge of worry, a certain disappointment. He must show his appreciation.

"But… I am really happy to see you all. And this weekend, I'll be on the open seas."

Jim felt better that the truth was out. The bartender handed him the frosty pint. Jim mumbled a thank you, brought it to his lips, and drank deep.

So he had voiced it. Up until now he had kept it within, submerged. What he could not disclose to them was that fear he felt building in the last few days for the coming expedition. Time and grit and experience had lessened, but not quelled, his anxiety over the water.

But there could be no room for bowing out. The fear ignited and spread within him. Jim paused, and with ferocity, drank another long gulp of the lager.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

At nine on Friday morning the two club wagons pulled into the Hyannis harbor parking lot. Tanya Ward drove the van carrying her husband, Jim, and the Mount Zion boys. Sarah Murphy drove the other van, with her husband, Jack Spaulding, and the St. Brendan boys as passengers.

Walter Henretty stood on the dock, beaming a broad, toothy smile. "Mornin' to you guys," he said as the vehicles emptied.

The boys sprinted toward him, some of them gleefully leaping like grasshoppers.

They all looked at the schooner, anchored out in the harbor. All about Jim were sighs and expressions of wonder.

The hum of a boat motor sounded across the water. The dinghy zipped toward them, and a familiar figure manned the motor. His long light blond hair and flinty face brought to mind a Viking set upon a morning raid.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Bill is coming. My best and most experienced worker and sailor from my boat shop, to ensure the trip goes smoothly. And on board is one other worker from my shop, Chief. He volunteered to serve as donkeyman, or the one who mans the engine room and the generators. Chief knows more about boat engines than anyone. So tell me," Walter said, "are you young sailors ready for the ultimate expedition?"

"Yeah! Yeah!" the boys cheered.

"Yes, Commodore Henretty!" Jack Spaulding said with gusto, saluting the old man, who cackled with delight.

"Clown," Walter said with a crooked smile.

"Aye aye, skipper," Jim joined in, walking up to Walter. He felt in better spirits. He loved that Maureen arrived that morning at his apartment on her way to work to see him off. It seemed like a throwback to the Maureen of the first days, scarcely six months ago. Perhaps things would turn around. And it could start with this weekend when he would indulge in his favorite aspect of New England life, the close bond with the sea.

"At the ready, Cap'n!" Tim Murphy shouted, giving a salute. Reverend Ward stood beside Tim, smiling.

"We'll have a blast, gents," Walter said. "I'm grateful for your help, Tanya and Sarah, in dropping everyone off safely and on time. I'll make sure to return 'em to you in the same manner."

The wives thanked him and, having set the boys' gear on the ground nearby, stayed to observe.

"Now Reverend Ward, Jim, Jack, Tim, please see to it that all gear's put into the dinghy bit by bit. Bill and Jim will take trips to the boat and get the gear up on deck. Then Bill will take the crew out there, two at a time."

Jim gazed out at the three proud masts and all one hundred and six feet of her. She was truly a sight to behold. He never felt such a thrill standing before a boat, not an ocean liner or even the U.S.S. Constitution in Charlestown.

A hand slapped his shoulder. Bill laughed as giddily as one of the boys. "Good to see ya again, bud."

"Same here, Bill!" Jim said. "Let's get this boring part over with and set sail."

After thirty minutes, with all duffel bags stowed below deck and crew accounted for, everyone stood on deck wearing a life preserver. Walter made one last run-through, checking all of the equipment and provisions. Several boaters amassed on shore, chatting and observing what some probably recognized was an authentic Herreshoff schooner.

Walter returned to the bow. He ordered Jack and Bill to untie the dinghy, and told Jim and the Reverend to winch it up from the water.

"Lieutenants Scoresby, Murphy, Spaulding!" Walter said some minutes later. "Take these positions. Scoresby to the aft, Murphy to the mizzenmast, Spaulding to the foremast. Lieutenant Ward, stand by on the aft deck with Jim. Bill—I mean Lieutenant McGreevey—will see to it the anchor's aweigh and he'll float around and help where it's needed."

Jim sneaked a look back. Clad in his nautical gear, Walter stood with his hands fixed at his hips. Though his face reddened as he barked out the orders, he mouthed the words through a smiling face. The old man clearly loved it.

"Now, Lieutenant McGreevey, raise anchor!"

The anchor loosened from the harbor floor and rose upwards toward the bow.

"Now men, at my command, unfasten halyard knots! And raise sails and tie down. Now, get ready, set… go!"

The men pulled the halyards down with all their might. The sails rose bit by bit to the tops of the masts. In moments, the wind billowed the sails.

Walter stationed himself in the cockpit and turned the wheel a few degrees. The great ship veered even farther away from the shore. In a few minutes, Walter spun the wheel hard. The ship turned until it moved directly south.

The men and boys glanced shoreward. A great cry of jubilation arose from the onlookers, about twenty of them now. Perhaps they picked up on the semi-military decorum of the ship's departure. Walter had not acted so in all the days of their training. Perhaps the old captain aimed to ham it up for the crowds and, in turn, he wanted the boys to feel like they were part of an authentic, bold expedition.

Soon the harbor and Hyannis itself were barely discernable in the distance. The quasi-military atmosphere vanished. Four of the lieutenants—Bill, Reverend Ward, Jack, and Tim—congregated on the foredeck, along with the boys. Everyone clutched the rails and stared past the bow. The boys pointed at circling gulls and at what looked like a porpoise moving far off in the water.

In the cockpit, Jim grasped the wheel. The old man stood beside him, puffing his pipe contentedly, watching the ship slice windward through the waves. Neither man spoke for several minutes as the ship progressed on its southerly route.
 

After they ventured farther south, away from the shore toward Nantucket, and away from Uncle Robert's Cove just to their port side, he must turn the wheel until they headed due east. Once they reached a few miles east of Chatham, he would turn the ship directly north, pass the Cape's tip at Provincetown, and then head north-northwest toward Boston. If they did not make good enough time on this route, Walter had decided, they would dock in Plymouth harbor and call Tanya and Sarah to meet them.

"So, I know you puff a cigar every once in a while," Walter said. "But pipes are an enjoyment in themselves. I almost like pipes enough to introduce you to them, but that's a habit ya don't need, son."

"I bought one in a smoke shop in Portsmouth. A cheap Grabow, that's all. I puff it sometimes, but Maureen detests it. Hey, you really do look quite the captain with one. Both Admirals Halsey and Nimitz smoked pipes at sea."

"Correct you are. Ya see this pipe here, son?" He held it up to Jim's face. "A little scuttlebutt for ya. This belonged to my father, a navy captain in his own right. A 1922 Dunhill, bent style, with a rusticated bowl. Dad bought this to celebrate crossing the Panama Canal into the Gulf of Mexico. He was on his way back to Boston. When they docked for the weekend in Mobile, Dad spotted this in a shop. Early Dunhills, made by Alfred Dunhill, they're considered by many to be the very best pipes in the world. After 1915, they started putting this single white dot on the vulcanite stem, see? It's their trademark. This dot's made of ivory but eventually they started using plastic. After 1955, you know, Dunhill bowls weren't made from the same kind of briarroot. Though they still tasted great, they weren't quite the same."

"That's intriguing," Jim said. He stared at the white dot. "I knew vaguely of those pipes. My Granddaddy Scoresby smoked one during his decades with the Tennessee Valley Authority. He built dams and bridges and roads as a civil engineer. All across Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, Mississippi. I've seen Granddaddy puffing the pipe in pictures, but somehow it was misplaced."

"I have another Dunhill below deck, Jimmy. It's a '51. I bought it in San Francisco on my way out to Korea. But I want you to have this one. Have a
real
pipe. After I finish this last bowl, of course."

"But what about Davie? I bet he'll want to—"

"He would have none of it. He makes fun of me, says it makes me look more like a geezer. I've got other things to give him anyway. He won't appreciate this like you would."

"Thanks, Walter. I really, really like it."

"That's why it'll be yours. So how ya like steering this baby? I can't offer you the
ship
, ya know."

"I understand that! Well, yes, I really like handling the wheel," Jim said. "Sailing seems to me a lot like golf, or fishing. Or smoking a pipe. It's a meditative thing, for an introspective person. Something not suitable for someone impatient or wound up too tightly."

"That's pretty insightful," Walter said as he nodded. "Hey, handle that wheel for a few. I'll be back shortly. I'm checking on the men up front. It won't be too long 'til we swing this old gal due east."

"Aye aye, Cap."

"That's my boy." Walter slapped him hard on the back, then strutted out of the cockpit, across the deck toward the bow.

"Are we having fun, or what?!" the old man yelled, raising his fists high above his head in jubilation and pumping his arms in excitement. "This beats anything else we could've done, gents! You're all sea-ready New Englanders now, even the crazy Cajun manning the wheel back there. Look at him!" The old man pointed at the cockpit.