I think Amy put some hot coffee in a thermos too; it’ll be in one of those ditty bags. We’ll be there before you know it.”
“Thanks, Parker,” I said humbly. “I’ve only done Charleston Harbor sailing before now. It’s not the same thing.”
“I know,” he said. “I won’t tell on you.”
I crept down the hatchway into the cabin of the sloop. It was dark and snug and friendly, like a warm teak womb.
Everything was spare and neat and tucked and buttoned up, and the bunks—two fore and two aft—were covered in the ubiquitous Hudson Bay blankets and had small fat white pillows tossed about. The bags and basket sat in the tiny galley. I fished in them and pulled out a thermos of coffee and poured a cup and drank it sitting on one of the bunks.
Parker was right; the rolling seemed less here. I peered out a salt-scrimmed porthole and saw the horizon tossing and swallowed hard and pulled the little curtain over the port.
After that it was better.
“Okay below?” Parker yelled.
“Just fine,” I called.
“I’ll sing out when we’ve sighted the boatyard. I’m going to take her out into the bay a way so we can have a straight beat in.”
“Fine.”
I found a damp, curled copy of Yachting and leaned back in the bunk to look at it. It seems hard to believe now, but with the dimness and the rhythmic rolling and the close warmth, I was asleep inside five minutes. When I woke, the boat was not rocking any more, the slap of water against the hull had stopped, and I could hear no sound. I sat up quickly and banged my head on the bulkhead and straightened my slacks and sweater and groped my way up the companionway stairs. The light was peculiar, thick and white and lightless.
Had I slept until late afternoon? Why had he not wakened me?
I put my head out into whiteness so dense and impenet-rable that I felt it in my nose and mouth and on my face. I could see nothing. I could not see my hand at the end of my arm. There was no sound from Parker.
“Parker?” I cried softly, and my voice came out in a flat, treble squawk. It had no resonance, no dimension. Fog. Peter had said that sound was peculiar in the fog.
“Right here,” Parker’s voice replied, sounding at first far far away and then directly in my ear. I slewed my head around but saw nothing. Then I saw his dark shape bulking up out of the whiteness, almost at my fingertips.
“I’m sorry, Maude,” he said. “I should have seen it coming.
We hit it right off Orcutt, a solid bank. I think it’ll probably lift soon. It’s the nighttime fogs that last. I’ve dropped anchor and we’ll just wait it out below and have some lunch. Don’t worry.”
I stepped back into the cabin and he came down, pearled all over with droplets, his red hair darkened with wet. He loomed large in the small space, and I could feel the damp heat of his body. I bumped into him a couple of times and finally retreated out of the way into the bunk.
“Is it going to make us terribly late?” I said. “Peter will be worried to death.”
“I doubt it. When he finds the Circe gone and you gone, he’ll figure it out. He knows the only thing to do in fog is drop anchor and wait. And he knows I’m the best sailor on the cape.”
He reached past me for the basket, and I smelled a warm gust of whiskey. I looked closely at him. His face was flushed and his eyes glittered. He had, I thought, been drinking for quite a while. I had seen no bottle. Suddenly I was afraid.
It was in the inside pocket of his parka. He fished it out and poured a generous tot into two cups of coffee and passed me one. Then he leaned back in the opposite bunk and lifted his cup and said, “Cheers, Mrs. Chambliss,” and smiled.
“I don’t want any,” I said. “I don’t drink much.”
“Time you learned, then. Everybody up here over the age of twelve drinks. We’d go nuts in the evenings if we didn’t. Come on, down the hatch. It’ll take the fog chill out of your bones.”
“I’m
“Thanks, Parker,” I said humbly. “I’ve only done Charleston Harbor sailing before now. It’s not the same thing.”
“I know,” he said. “I won’t tell on you.”
I crept down the hatchway into the cabin of the sloop. It was dark and snug and friendly, like a warm teak womb.
Everything was spare and neat and tucked and buttoned up, and the bunks—two fore and two aft—were covered in the ubiquitous Hudson Bay blankets and had small fat white pillows tossed about. The bags and basket sat in the tiny galley. I fished in them and pulled out a thermos of coffee and poured a cup and drank it sitting on one of the bunks.
Parker was right; the rolling seemed less here. I peered out a salt-scrimmed porthole and saw the horizon tossing and swallowed hard and pulled the little curtain over the port.
After that it was better.
“Okay below?” Parker yelled.
“Just fine,” I called.
“I’ll sing out when we’ve sighted the boatyard. I’m going to take her out into the bay a way so we can have a straight beat in.”
“Fine.”
I found a damp, curled copy of Yachting and leaned back in the bunk to look at it. It seems hard to believe now, but with the dimness and the rhythmic rolling and the close warmth, I was asleep inside five minutes. When I woke, the boat was not rocking any more, the slap of water against the hull had stopped, and I could hear no sound. I sat up quickly and banged my head on the bulkhead and straightened my slacks and sweater and groped my way up the companionway stairs. The light was peculiar, thick and white and lightless.
Had I slept until late afternoon? Why had he not wakened me?
I put my head out into whiteness so dense and impenet-rable that I felt it in my nose and mouth and on my face. I could see nothing. I could not see my hand at the end of my arm. There was no sound from Parker.
“Parker?” I cried softly, and my voice came out in a flat, treble squawk. It had no resonance, no dimension. Fog. Peter had said that sound was peculiar in the fog.
“Right here,” Parker’s voice replied, sounding at first far far away and then directly in my ear. I slewed my head around but saw nothing. Then I saw his dark shape bulking up out of the whiteness, almost at my fingertips.
“I’m sorry, Maude,” he said. “I should have seen it coming.
We hit it right off Orcutt, a solid bank. I think it’ll probably lift soon. It’s the nighttime fogs that last. I’ve dropped anchor and we’ll just wait it out below and have some lunch. Don’t worry.”
I stepped back into the cabin and he came down, pearled all over with droplets, his red hair darkened with wet. He loomed large in the small space, and I could feel the damp heat of his body. I bumped into him a couple of times and finally retreated out of the way into the bunk.
“Is it going to make us terribly late?” I said. “Peter will be worried to death.”
“I doubt it. When he finds the Circe gone and you gone, he’ll figure it out. He knows the only thing to do in fog is drop anchor and wait. And he knows I’m the best sailor on the cape.”
He reached past me for the basket, and I smelled a warm gust of whiskey. I looked closely at him. His face was flushed and his eyes glittered. He had, I thought, been drinking for quite a while. I had seen no bottle. Suddenly I was afraid.
It was in the inside pocket of his parka. He fished it out and poured a generous tot into two cups of coffee and passed me one. Then he leaned back in the opposite bunk and lifted his cup and said, “Cheers, Mrs. Chambliss,” and smiled.
“I don’t want any,” I said. “I don’t drink much.”
“Time you learned, then. Everybody up here over the age of twelve drinks. We’d go nuts in the evenings if we didn’t. Come on, down the hatch. It’ll take the fog chill out of your bones.”
“I’m
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