MARCH 1-2
1167 Words
“Damn you, Angelo.”
His friend didn’t answer. Probably because he wasn’t there, but that was a lousy excuse.
“Too busy redesigning your damn restaurant to take four days off to go sailing.” Russell grabbed for the jib sheet as he came about, but missed it. And he hadn’t tied a knot in the bitter end. The line shot out of the cockpit, nearly snagged Nutcase as it whipped past the cat, making her jump straight up like a furry fireworks, ran out the pulley block, and was over the side trailing in the water.
He brought the boat up into the wind, forcing the sail back over the boat. Then he sprinted forward, snagged the line dripping with freezing water, and ran back for the cockpit letting the rope slip through his fingers. He added a cold rope burn to his list of complaints against Angelo.
The boat fell off the wind again before he could run the line through the block. He whipped a couple turns around the winch and let it draw all wrong while he got control of the tiller again.
The line burned in his sore hand as he got the boat moving again. Once he had some speed up, he brought her into the wind again to take the pressure off the line. This time he got it through the block and around the winch. With the tiller between his knees, he tied a quick figure-eight knot in the end of the line so it couldn’t go overboard again. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
He was almost back to the lighthouse by the time he had it under control.
He’d gone out twice now with Angelo along just for the ride while he practiced single-handing the big boat. Angelo had kept up a running commentary that amused himself no end as Russell scrambled about the boat. But he’d done it.
Then he’d set off alone for the Lime Kiln lighthouse on San Juan Island. On the first morning out, he’d thought it was fun plunging through the steep wake of a big tanker. The Lady had driven her bow deep into the third wave and water had come running down the deck and sluiced out the scuppers he’d only cut-in a week before. So sweet.
It wasn’t until he’d anchored and tried to bunk down last night that he’d discovered his mistake. He hadn’t latched the forehatch. The hinged wood must have floated up when the wave came aboard and a two-foot square chunk of wave had poured into the center of the stateroom bed. Everything was sopping. He’d now spent two very uncomfortable nights trying to sleep on the main cabin floor underneath a spare sail. One foot kept slipping through the missing floorboard and thudding down onto the concrete bilge.
Nutcase had curled up on his chest and been perfectly content to snore her way through the night with occasional flails of her tail across his nose during particularly good dreams.
She also hadn’t minded Russell’s mistake of anchoring that first night right next to a bell buoy. Each tiny swell that ran under the boat made every line slap against the mast with a sharp clack. And then it would reach the buoy and a piercing ring would echo through the boat. Nutcase had snored on.
It was a good thing Melanie wasn’t along, roughing it on the floor wouldn’t have made her happy.
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure what would. She’d liked the penthouse well enough, and the s*x had been pretty spectacular. She’d appeared to enjoy the sail with Dave and Betsy, even the scenic plane flight. The pilot had let him take the controls for a few minutes, he definitely had to learn to fly someday. Such a feeling of freedom. It didn’t have the peace of sailing before the world’s winds, but it was a close second.
Russell managed to jibe the boat without losing any lines overboard and ran out from shore a ways before turning back to find a good angle for his photo of the lighthouse.
All through Valentine’s Day weekend he’d thought everything was great…right until he’d found Melanie on their last morning together. She was sitting on the shower’s floor crying. He’d almost closed the door quietly and let her be, but there was too much between them for that.
Instead, he climbed in beside her and sat down with his back on the opposite wall. She tried to push him out, but he wasn’t going to leave that easily. She kept her arms wrapped tightly over her breasts. He reached out to stroke her wet hair, but she slapped his hand aside.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice was sharp with accusation.
Despite the steam and pounding hot water, he could see the running tears and snot. He tried to think of what he’d missed. They’d had fine meals, tickets to the ballet, and a some good fun.
“You really don’t,” she was shaking her head. She looked up into the pounding spray for a moment as if seeking god. One of those perfect hands reached out and she stroked her thumb down his cheek. He turned his head to place a kiss in her palm, but she pulled back before he could.
She sat up straighter.
“You really don’t. Oh, Russell.” Her soft accent gone, replaced by the flat slap of New York. She wiped at her eyes, her gray eyes filled with infinite sadness.
“I’m sorry for me, but I’m more sorry for you.” She rose from the floor, rinsed her face for a moment under the hot spray and stepped from the shower. He’d watched her through the glass door. Sat under the spray while she dried off that gorgeous body. Applied moisturizers. Baby powder. Added makeup. Dried her hair in a roar of blow dryer that didn’t penetrate the shower’s patter but sent forth long billows of blond.
Even now, two weeks later, he could feel the power of her parting kiss at the airport. She pressed her body to his so that every curve fit—her hold so tight it almost knocked the breath from his body.
Then she was gone, a head of blond sunlight sailing through the crowds at security. Never once turning to see if he was still watching.
He blinked and turned the boat sharply. If he didn’t pay more attention, he’d play moth to the lighthouse and ram himself right up on her rocks. Once he had his heading settled, he grabbed his camera and snapped a few quick shots off the stern.
A loud splash sounded beside the boat, and he spun about looking for Nutcase. The cat stood with its nose pressed against the safety netting he’d added to the lifelines, staring down into the water off the starboard side. As he leaned over to follow her gaze, a massive wall of black-and-white whale shot out of the water then splashed down beside him. He shouted in surprise as the orca crashed back into the water less than twenty feet away.
A wave of spray showered onto the boat. Nutcase howled and scrambled below, her coat dripping with seawater.
Russell caught half a dozen photos of the orca before it sounded and disappeared.
Damn!
Angelo was going to be so jealous.
Excellent!
- Writer
