The Birds (Pt. 2)

The inside of the boat was all teak and Pete had oiled it in on the first cool day of September so it still shone dark and rich. Down below, everything smelled that fresh aroma of oil and wood and stale water from the bilge. The distinct smell was amplified with her all closed up because of the rain. He opened up the hatches for ventilation and proceeded to stow all of the provisions, starting with the canned goods that went in the locker beneath the chart table seat and then he pulled six Heinekens out of the case and buried them in the ice box next to the plastic container of beef stew. They were deep in the ice to make sure they were cold for the trip down the bay. The rest of the Heinekens were stored along with the rice and cured meats under the aft bunk. With everything safely stored away he went back on deck to remove the old sun bleached and tattered dock lines. He moved quickly, feeling the fall sun on his back getting higher in the sky and warm. The loops on the ends of the lines were stiff from salt and age and he struggled to loosen them from the cleats. Once they were off, he tossed them overboard and in to the wheelbarrow that was still waiting on the dock. He removed them one at a time so as to keep the boat from drifting away from the dock and replaced them with the new lines. It was satisfying to feel the easy, smooth way the new lines moved and bent under his hands and he tied them twice around the cleats before heading back up the dock with the old lines in the wheelbarrow. 

Back up in the parking lot, Pete removed the lines from the wheelbarrow and walked across the street to the rigging shop that Charlie and Maggie Russell owned. The building was long and low and painted grey and it was on the edge of the boatyard against the road. He had wanted to say goodbye to them but the door was locked and the big silver work van was gone so he left the lines on the doorstep and walked back toward the boat. Maggie and Charlie had sold him the new lines and would understand that he’d left. He went back across the street and walked in to the Yacht club through the kitchen door that opened on to the street. The particularly pretentious members of the club insisted on calling the kitchen “the galley” and it was full of bright, new stainless appliances. He looked at the big industrial dishwasher as he passed and remembered sweating away the summer nights there in high school, his hands pink and soggy from the hot water and feeling light from the covert rum drinks. Turning right after “the galley” he ended up in the bar and he poured himself a cup of bad coffee from the pot that sat in the corner below the board members mail boxes. He put a letter in the treasurers box regarding his bar credit for the next month that he wished transfered to his parents account and walked out the double doors of the bar, coffee in hand.