The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin Page A

area, like the York River. Take her down one weekend. Bring her back a week later. I’d cover your land transportation.”
    â€œYou have dockage down there?”
    Brigman ignored the question. “So what exactly is your experience?”
    Clay watched the shadow lines made by the halyards across the beams of light that came slanting through the starboard portals. He looked up and saw Amanda’s legs as she stepped across the hatch. He looked back at Brigman. “I grew up sailing. Moved some bigger boats for the wharf here a few years back. When I was in high school. When owners needed it.”
    â€œHigh school?” Brigman sounded skeptical. “Offshore?”
    â€œIn the Bay. I’ve crewed offshore. When I was younger.”
    Brigman swatted at a fly in his face. It kept coming back. “So you know this part of the Bay well?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHow far south have you been?”
    Clay took a sip of his coffee. It was weak and he set the cup down.
    â€œI’ve been south past the Hooper Islands, through the strait, and below Smith and Tangier Islands on the east. My father took me down there quite a bit. We used to crab and fish around Smith and Tangier. He liked it down there. We sometimes stayed over on Tangier. On the west side I’ve sailed to the Potomac and up to Cobb Island, and along the southern shore of the mouth looking for shelter.”
    â€œAnd north?”
    â€œI’ve sailed the Susquehanna, and I’ve been through the canal and down the Delaware Bay and through the cut at Cape May once, which is enough times for any man. The Delaware Bay is no place to sail.”
    â€œThis is a Swan Fifty.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou know this boat?”
    â€œI sailed a Dickerson Fifty once. Built here in Trappe. Never a Swan.”
    â€œDo you have a résumé or anything like that that you could leave with me?”
    â€œNot really, sir. I suppose I could make one up.”
    Brigman sighed. “What’s the biggest boat you’ve handled?”
    Clay thought for a minute. “Probably the Dickerson. Sailed a big Gulfstar once.”
    â€œAnd how long ago?”
    Clay shrugged. “It’s been a few years.”
    Brigman leaned back. “Uh-huh. I see. Any questions you have?” Clay thought. “What kind of business are you in, sir?” Brigman paused. “Varied interests. Seafood. Real estate development. Complicated.” He reached for a dish towel and snapped it, killing the fly on the table. He got up and put his cup in the sink. He turned to Clay. “Nice of you to come by. I’m not so sure this is the job for you, though. I wanted someone who knows Virginia waters better. Maryland
and
Virginia. I’ll leave word with Sparks, okay?”
    Clay got up and shook Brigman’s hand.
    â€œYes, sir,” he answered. He didn’t feel disappointed, for some reason. He wasn’t really surprised. He was just glad to be leaving. He turned and climbed up the ladder. As he stepped into the cockpit, he was almost on top of Amanda, who lay on her stomach on a blanket on one of the cockpit seats, out of the breeze, her top un-snapped and her tan legs oiled and shiny in the sun. She wore earphones attached to a radio. Clay softly said good-bye to her as he stepped over her, though he knew she wouldn’t hear him.

9
    They sat in Byron’s room, the farmhouse attic, Clay leaning back against the frayed blue corduroy couch pushed under the eaves, and Byron on a low rocker, a half-full fifth of Jim Beam between his thighs. Smoke still hung in the air from the joint that smoldered in the ashtray. They each held a bottle of Budweiser and were listening to Van Morrison sing “Tupelo Honey.” The song ended and the turntable clicked off.
    Byron shook his head back and forth. “Curtis Collison grew this pot in his garden.” He took a gulp of beer. “Fuckin’ guy is into