by Landon Beach
Robin looked at Trist. “We’ve been inside wrecks before. Just not one this deep.”
“What’s inside this one?” Trist said.
“All types of stuff. Filing cabinets with files still in them, some clothing, and what’s left of the galley supplies after some idiots dove and removed them.” Robin set down his beer can. “That’s one thing we won’t be doing is taking anything off these wrecks.”
“Oh, c’mon, Dad. Everyone takes a little something as a souvenir. It’s part of the experience.”
“Not for us. When a ship goes down, you let her be. It’s a sign of respect. I can’t stand scuba divers who loot.” Robin’s eyes locked with his son’s. “Even a visit to some shipwrecks like our most famous, the Edmund Fitzgerald, doesn’t sit well with me. That ship above all should be left alone. Take one look at what corporations are doing to the Titanic, and you’ll see my point.”
“What about the stories you used to tell me about the Griffon? I thought that ship was our most famous shipwreck?”
He had a point. “Perhaps, but Griffon hasn’t been found yet. Although—”
“What?” Levana said.
“I had a patient the other week whose relatives live in East Tawas. He said that there is an old legend of a wooden ship that is somewhere beneath the water in an inland lake named Lake Solitude that could be the Griffon.”
“I thought Griffon wrecked in either Lake Michigan or Lake Huron,” Trist said. “There’s no way it could be at the bottom of some inland lake.”
“I’d normally agree with you, but this guy said that research of the area has led some to believe that Lake Solitude used to be a part of Lake Huron.”
Trist’s fork, with a load of chicken and sauce dripping from it, stopped inches from his mouth. “Maybe we could drive down there when we get back.”
“We just might have to do that,” Robin said.
“Have you thought about making the one port call we discussed earlier?” Levana said to Robin.
“You mean we’re getting off the boat at some point?” Trist said.
Robin shrugged. “Well, we’ve got the camping gear, but your mom heard of a wealthy guy who rents out his place called ‘The Funky Beach House’ a week at a time over the summer. She thought it might be a nice break from the boat for us, but only for a night or two.”
“I checked, and the owner said he would work with us since you wouldn’t be staying for the entire week,” Levana said.
“Dad?” Trist asked.
“I’m still thinking about it. Might be nice to have a few days on dry land. I mean, we could island hop around Lake Superior, but I’d rather hug Gitche Gumee’s coastline.”
“Gitche what?” Trist said.
Robin shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Have you already forgotten?”
“Forgotten wh—”
Robin kept going. “That Lake Superior’s original name was Gitche Gumee? Well, let me back up. The Ojibwe named it kitchi-gami, which means ‘Great Lake of the Ojibway’. Longfellow’s epic poem The Song of Hiawatha uses Gitche Gumee as does Lightfoot in his famous song. When the British took control of the region after the French, they re-named it Superior.”
On the rebound, Trist said, “I heard Superior is so large that you can fit all four of the other Great Lakes inside it.”
Levana gave Trist a wink, which Robin saw.
“I think you’re right,” Robin said. He’s so competitive.
They ate a few bites in silence.
“So, we leave tomorrow morning at six, right?” Levana said.
“Yep. Boat’s on the trailer, truck’s in the driveway, and Tyee will be here in about an hour to stay over,” Robin said.
“How long of a drive is it to Munising?” Trist said.
“Somewhere around 4 to 5 hours depending on the Mackinac Bridge traffic,” Robin replied. “We’ll hug Lake Huron along 23 on the way up. I don’t want to get anywhere near I-75 with the trailer until we absolutely have to.” He took another chug of beer. “About an hour to get the supplies loaded and the boat launched. I’m guessing that we’ll cast off lines around one o’clock in the afternoon tomorrow.”
“I’m glad we’re going that way. One of my favorite drives and one of Michigan’s great secrets.” Levana said.
“What secret?” Trist rolled his eyes. “We get paradise up here for about 4 months a year and then dress like we’re in the Iditarod for the other eight months.”
“You’ve been spoiled, my sweetie,” Levana said. “What I’m talking about is that most people don’t know that, minus the salt, if you are on the beaches of any of the Great Lakes, it feels like you’re looking out at an ocean. Plus, there’s nothing in them that will eat you!” She poked Trist in the side. “It’s incredible, and I’m always bewildered by people who think that the Great Lakes are just regular inland lakes. Tomorrow, we are going to have one of the most scenic drives that you can take on this planet.”
“Ah, Mom. You’re so loyal,” Trist said. “What has Michigan ever given to you?”
“And you, my dear, are a typical cynical and egocentric teenager,” she needled while casting a wicked grin. “You Gen Xers. You’re all so independent and skeptical.”
Robin just sat back and watched, happy to be out of the firing line for once.
Levana looked over to him. “Jump in any time.”
“Couldn’t,” he said.
“And why not?” She shot back.
“Because this Baby Boomer still doesn’t give much credibility to any other generation. Pick any topic that’s worth anything, and you’ll see us on the front lines. Except...”
“What?” Levana asked.
Robin frowned. “Don’t ever follow my high school class’s motto.”
Trist became interested. “What motto?”
Robin stood up and spread his arms wide, “We drank the Great Lakes dry; the ocean lies before us.”
Levana and Trist laughed, and then Robin joined in, and once he started he couldn’t stop. It was one of those laughing fits that didn’t start out to be much, but because other emotions were involved and had been locked away for so long, it became a deep-cleansing-eyes-watering laugh.
Holding her side because it hurt so much, Levana got herself under control. “What are your plans for the evening, Trist?”
“Thinkin’ about takin’ Rachel out to a movie and then meeting up with a few friends for ice cream afterwards,” Trist said with a straight face.
Levana could see Robin start to stir. “Enjoy,” she said to Trist. A cool breeze blew in through the open window, and Levana adjusted her shawl.
Robin leaned back. Ice cream my ass. “Well, don’t make it too late. I need you rested.”
Trist took his plate to the sink. Robin watched the waves start to crawl further and further up the beach as the wind picked up.
“Did you get the mail earlier?” Levana asked.
Robin shook his head. “I’ll walk down and get it now.”
“I’m heading out,” Trist said.
“I’ll walk with you,” Robin said.
11
They stepped off the front porch and on to the driveway. Robin was in the lead.
“Just be careful tonight, okay?”
“Dad, I’m just going—”
“I know what you told us in there,” he cut in, “but I wasn’t born yesterday, Trist. This is your last night at home for over a month.”
Trist was quiet as they continued to walk.
“I’ll take your silence as at least an acknowledgment that you were thinking of doing something different tonight.” He stopped without warning.
Trist almost walked into him but slid to the side and stopped. “Dad—”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. If you’re seeing Rachel,” he pointed at Trist’s groin, “you better wrap that rascal. And, whatever you do, stay the hell away from that Shelby kid, okay?”
Trist contemplated. “Okay.”
Th
ey continued to walk. Near the end of the driveway, Trist peeled off, got in the Suburban, and started it.
Robin reached the mailbox and turned around in time to see his son back up into the street and then drive off. As he watched, unexpectedly, Trist rolled down the driver’s side window and gave him a wave. He felt a lump in his throat and waved back. Then the SUV disappeared around a bend.
He opened the mailbox and saw that there were only two items. He pulled them out, and his heart hardened. In his hands were two glossy cards: one from a Democratic Senator running for re-election and one from a Republican Senator trying to unseat the incumbent. Robin looked at the smiling face of the Republican Senator wearing a Carhartt jacket and a John Deere hat. He was seated on a tractor—was that a bible on his lap?—in a corn field with ominous skies in the background. The caption said, “Robin (so personal), the working man was born a Republican. We need you in ’96, old ally.” He wanted to barf. The Democratic card was even worse. On it, the incumbent wore a military uniform—Robin knew that the man had never served—and sat on a front porch swing holding a glass of...beer? apple juice?...the picture was so low quality that he couldn’t tell, and looked grave. The caption said, “Robin, it’s time to come home. We need all hands on deck in ’96, and we’ve missed you.”
“The hell with you clowns.” Robin tore the cards to shreds and deposited the remains in the pole barn garbage can as he walked back toward the house. If there was a subject to get out of the way first in his journal to Trist, this was it.
✽✽✽
—From the Journal of Robin Thomas Norris—
Religion and Politics
Gonna give it to you straight, Tristian, because I don’t need to be reserved anymore—not much time left. You already know that you were raised without a specific religion; this was on purpose. We never belonged to a church, we never dissuaded you from going to any church if you wanted to try it, and we also never forced our agnostic worldview on you. I think it would be good to speak with your mother about her religious journey and see where you stand. Here’s where I’m at. I’ve never been given an adequate answer to the question: if God created the heavens and the Earth, then who created God? I am not a believer, but I am also open to the possibility that there could be some sort of being or beings in the universe. Some people call this being spiritual; I call it being open-minded.
If you look at the arrangement of the major world religions, you’ll find that they follow the same basic structure. Much of religion is a form of conditioning to try and help maintain social stability. Religion, and praying to some superior being, also fills a physiological need that most human beings require: the realities of life and the uncertainty and pain evident can be eased/explained/let go of if one has a belief that there is a steady hand at the tiller of the universe to ensure that everything will work out the way it is supposed to in the end. You’ll hear it in different phrases: the man upstairs has a plan, the Lord works in mysterious ways, God has a plan for my life, I guess it was the way it was meant to be, etc. To me, I can’t believe that there was some grand plan at work when plagues decimated the Renaissance populations or when the Nazis exterminated the Jews. Can you believe six million people looking to the sky and asking for God’s grace only to choke moments later on gas and die? Somehow, I don’t think there was an all-powerful being ‘looking’ down on the Earth saying, “It’s all part of my master plan.” You can name about a thousand other disasters that have been explained away in hopeful terms, and this practice should just cease. But there lies the world you will soon enter as an adult. Not trying to preach to you, but when your life is about to be cut decades short, you get to have your say—for whatever it’s worth.
Most institutions operate as follows: entice, indoctrinate (mostly through shame, bullying—some overt, mostly covert—groupthink, repetition, withholding of information—lots of people playing ‘senior with a secret’, etc.), reinforce, train, and pass the torch to the next generation to keep the institutional flame alive through whatever means necessary. Fear and power dynamics are the tools of the trade. Now, have the major religions that have existed on earth for centuries been all bad? Not at all. There are some great guidelines that have done more good than bad. However, like belonging to a political party—which is why I don’t—you are not allowed to be a sometime member. Moderation is becoming an obsolete concept in all walks of life. It’s only 1995, but our president may be the last moderate we ever have who unites and helps people find common ground. I know, I know, I saw the news the other night with you when he was walking across the tarmac to attend a funeral and was laughing with a dignitary when he thought the cameras weren’t on him and then noticed they were on him and we roared because he became solemn and wistful in a microsecond. It’s a daily show in the great machine, son.
My advice: don’t let religion or politics define who you are—never be owned by a specific denomination or ideology. And don’t you ever look down or shame someone who sees the world differently than you do. Life and death is life and death, but the overwhelming majority of your interactions with people will not be. There will be those who act like every topic is. Steer clear of them. Be proud of our heritage, but if anyone ever tries to tell you how you should vote or dictate where your ‘natural political home should be’, don’t just walk away—run! Be your own man. Grow into yourself. Do what you believe is right. Be generous to those who are less fortunate than you, and stand up for those who are marginalized, forgotten, and unable to help themselves. We already have enough kings and queens of the mountain in our world. Remember: Trist, you will always be enough. Whether you travel down the religious path or not, or the political path or not, the most important thing to keep in mind is to be a decent person.
Thanks for waving goodbye to me tonight from the Suburban.
✽✽✽
The seaplane’s pontoons touched down on the sapphire surface of Lake Superior and cut two straight lines of white wake behind them as the craft glided to a stop. In the main cabin, Grant Livingston sat back in a custom leather recliner and looked out at the vast rocky cliffs that defined the lake’s eastern shoreline for miles.
Movement on the water’s horizon drew his attention as a large cabin cruiser approached the plane. His eyes lit up at the prospect of seeing the newest addition to the Livingston fleet: a 90-foot Hatteras. Normally, either the 40-foot Carver or 20-foot Bayliner would pick him up, but he had requested a short cruise aboard the new Hatteras. Later in the summer, he would be taking the yacht on its maiden voyage from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean and down to Key West and back.
The co-pilot entered the cabin. “Everything okay back here, sir?” He asked Livingston.
“Give the captain my compliments on a smooth landing,” Livingston said.
The co-pilot smiled and disappeared back into the cockpit.
Livingston finished off his dirty martini and turned toward the passenger seated across the aisle from him. Dai Sanders snored, his head bent back and slightly to the left against the seat’s headrest.
A newspaper ruffled behind him as Livingston’s bodyguard, Eric Bannon, turned the page and continued to read.
“Wake the old man up,” Livingston said.
Bannon lowered the paper and reached a strong arm forward and shook Sanders’s shoulder. The old man jolted upright, eyes searching for recognition of something. Bannon went back to his paper.
“Good evening,” Livingston said to Sanders.
Sanders blinked and then focused on Livingston’s hazel eyes. “Good evening.”
Livingston pointed out the window. “The Hatteras is on its way.”
“Four luxurious staterooms, showers with sitting benches, three bars, a circular staircase from the lowest level to the flying bridge, two whirlpools, and—made just for you—mirrors on the ceiling in the master stateroom,” Sanders said as he stretched. “You’re never going to want to get off it.”
“We’ll see,” Livingston said. He thought f
or a moment. “Do you think she’ll be aboard?”
Bannon lowered his paper enough so that his eyes broke the top edge.
Sanders sat up straight and then crossed his legs. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Livingston ran a hand through his hair. “You told me she mostly stays in the main house these days.”
Sanders momentarily peered past Livingston at the shoreline cliffs in the distance. On top of the cliff, a quarter mile north up the shore, rose a gargantuan house sided in cedar shake with white trim around the windows and a large deck that extended out over the one-hundred-foot drop to the water below.
“Madame should enjoy a change of scenery,” Sanders said. “But the lavish lifestyle she is used to will be the same whether it’s on the boat or in your mansion on the cliffs above us.” Sanders leaned toward him. “Besides, your wife is back home in Vancouver. So no cat and mouse this visit.”
Bannon raised his paper back up and resumed reading.
“True, it’s always easier when she stays back,” Livingston said. “And ‘cat and mouse’ is a little harsh. It’s more about discretion and balance.”
Sanders sat back, crossed his legs the other way. “If that’s what you want to call it, then fine by me, boss.”
“It is.” Livingston paused. “Eric has been scouting replacements for Madame as well.”
“I—I didn’t know, sir,” Sanders said.
“It’s become...necessary,” Livingston replied.
Sanders looked like he was trying to recall who the first five Presidents were. Livingston looked away and out the window again. The Hatteras was perhaps twenty yards away, and a sleek speedboat was being lowered into the water from a davit off the vessel’s port quarter. Then, a figure emerged from a sliding glass hatch on the main deck.
Livingston’s palms became sweaty and he rubbed them together. At the same time, his breathing took on an uneven pattern; every three or four breaths, his chest would heave on the inhalation and then shudder in tiny spasms on the exhale. His eyes were fixated on the blonde-haired woman now standing on a private balcony wearing a white short sleeve polo dress. Her dark sunglasses glinted in the fading sunlight. She appeared to be staring straight down at him; then, she raised a champagne flute to her mouth and shifted her gaze to the small boat in the stern where four crew members from the yacht embarked.
