The Birds (Pt. 3)

Out on the big deck overlooking the cove Pete could see that all the clouds had disappeared and the sky was a light blue over the tops of the pine trees across the cove. He leaned up against the rail that kept members from falling off the bulkhead and watched the seagulls circling and diving for the shiners in the saw-grass. There was one, smaller than the others and with the spotty coloration of adolescence that stood dumbly on the beach watching the action. Pete finished his coffee and tossed the styrofoam cup in one of the wooden garbage bins before he walked back down to the boat. 

Back on board he checked that all the electronics were in order; the nav lights, the VHF,  and the deck and cabin lights all were tested and worked. He took the break off the wind generator and the blades made a steady whirring noise in the wind that comes after a low. Both the manual and automatic settings on the bilge pump were functioning. Early that morning he had topped off the batteries with distilled water and made sure they were strapped down tight with the rusted steel strapping. Confident that things were in order he removed the thick, yellow 50v power cord from the outlet on the dock and coiled it before placing it on top of the life jackets in the sail locker.  Pete went down below and checked the meter that displayed the battery info and saw the dial was hovering around thirteen volts and the wind generator was bringing in a small charge. He figured it was enough to power navigation lights during the long nights. In case the wind died for too long he had his portable Honda generator stashed in the bottom of the port side sail locker but he dreaded having to use it for the amount of noise and stink that it made. There were two kerosene lamps with convex glass shells that threw a good light for reading in the dark. 

At 10:20am Pete cast off the stern line, climbed aboard, shoving with one leg and drifted away from the dock. His main sail was reefed about half way and the small boat moved nicely as it filled with the steady wind from the south west. The bow was pointed straight for the green can off the point of the state park and once he cleared it he tacked, changing his heading for the mouth of the bay. In the clear, Pete hauled the main up all the way then let the jib roll out, and it filled up easily. He then wrapped both sheets around their respective winches and cleated them off. The tell-tails were flying rigid and parallel and he adjusted his stance with his right knee bent to compensate for the heeling. Whitecaps still dotted the horizon from the storm but the bow cut them nicely with that satisfying sound of rushing water over the gel-coat. It was beautiful sailing weather and he sort of wished he could enjoy it with his parents or a girl. He checked his bearing and hopped down below where he grabbed two cold Heinekens from the ice box and the fin for the Wind vayne. Climbing back out through the companionway Pete saw the restaurants and marinas in Greenwich bay looking small and white between the stern rails. He put the beers in the two cup-holders he had mounted to the steering column and stored the fin for the vayne between his feet. It was good sailing weather and he enjoyed the control of the wheel. 

Halfway through the second beer the sun really began to get warm and Pete took off his flannel coat and just wore the old yellowed undershirt. His shoulders were still brown from the summer and the cold November air felt good after Working hard all morning. Prudence Island was looming long and low off the port side and he thought he saw a deer for a second before it walked in to the tall grass and bushes that backed the beach. The old man’s binoculars were kept in a wooden box next to the companionway and Pete slid around the wheel and pulled them out. Scanning the beach he saw some of the tall wheat colored grass move and after a second a big white tailed doe came out between two trees followed by a medium sized fawn that must have been born in the spring. They moved carefully like they knew they were being watched. Looking through the binoculars Pete could see that the doe had a barely perceptible limp and that she dragged her front right foot in the downward movement of every step. As he was contemplating what might have happened to the deer something started them and both doe and fawn bounded high and fast along the beach before cutting left and back in to the cover of the brush. Pete dropped the binoculars from his eyes and made sure he was still on course. His watch said that it was nearly 1:00pm - he drank the rest of the can and thought about how a Heineken was quite good company out there. 

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. 

Fi-shung

Here's the link to a big ol' trout fishin story