"Fine with me," she answered, tilting her face back to catch the sun, "I could stay out here all day."
She opened her eyes in time to catch him glancing away. To cover his embarrassment, she asked, "If you aren't that interested in racing, what is it that you love about it—about sailing?"
After thinking for a while, he said, "This—being out here, the freedom I guess . . . the quiet. I don't remember seeing it as quiet as it is today, but we'll be moving into the Kaiwi Channel and it will get rougher."
"That's what you want?"
He grinned. "For a while, enough to see how the jib is setting. I just wanted to warn you not to worry."
"I'm not worried," she said, turning over to feel the warmth of the sun on her back and the smooth, rolling motion of the boat under her belly. She had no idea how long she lay like that, listening to the soft thud and hiss of the water as the boat cut neatly through it. She felt the ocean lift her, rock her, cradle her. Now and then she opened her eyes and looked at Paul Hollowell until he looked back and smiled.
She must have been dozing, because his words startled her. "Rough water coming up," he said, tossing her a sweatshirt. "The winds are rising fast too . . . I've got her on a close reach, so we'll be moving, you might want to sit down here, next to the cabin where it's protected." She moved down, responding to the tension she felt building in him, and to the waves which were rising now, spraying over the deck.
She felt a hard slap as the cutter nosed into a wave; the boat heeled sharply. She held hard to the railing and tried to swallow the surge of fear that rose in her. Then she looked at Paul Hollowell's face, and the fear subsided. His boat was doing what it was supposed to be doing. She was certain he had everything under control.
"Just a few minutes more and we'll turn back," he shouted over the ocean rush and spray. His T-shirt was plastered against his chest, outlining the hard edge of his muscles. She pulled her legs up to her chin and let the excitement fill her, as the spray danced off her face and they moved with the wind, like the wind, fast and furiously through the deep blue water, through the froth of whitecaps, running silently.
He was standing, ready to change course, to turn back, when it happened. The boat pitched off one wave and was caught by another, hitting soundly. The crack was loud, wrong. She looked up, saw a long thin sliver of light where the boom had cracked and parted.
Oh God, she thought, a sour panic rising in her mouth. The thought rushed like blood to her head—what should I do? My God, what could I do? As if in answer, Paul shouted, "Hold this," indicating the wheel. "Right there, steady." She wanted to say no, I can't, please don't ask me, no. The boat hesitated, lurched ahead with the gaping crack in the boom. Terrified, she took the wheel and felt the awful lurch and thrust of the boat under her hands, pulling against her like some great, struggling animal.
Paul dived below deck, vanished. A sharp spray of water caught her in the face, took her breath. She concentrated on the wheel, on holding it just there, where he had said. He reappeared with a coiled line in his hand. The boat dipped and pitched, the waves were getting bigger, wilder now. She felt a sob escape as the fear washed through her with the full force of the sea, drenching her. Holding tight to the wheel she watched as he let the mainsail out, it luffed, flapped in the wind. Then he was up on the rail, balancing crazily—like a drunk on a high wire as the sea tossed under him, madly up and down. He was reaching for the end of the boom. He was going to fall, she knew it. He was not holding on, but trying to thread the line through a ring in the sail. He was reaching for the boom, balancing . . . he missed it, as they fell into a trough and lurched, sickeningly. Oh God, dear God don't let him fall. But he had to fall, he had to, anyone could see that he would have to. She could feel nothing but the fear, nothing, and then she realized what he was doing. Wrapping the line, around and around, threading it through a ring in the sail, standing above the sea and the foam and the angry rush of water, holding on to nothing, balancing in the bright sea light.
And then he was next to her, taking the wheel, his hand pressed tight against her arm to let her know it was over, and she sank to the floor and sat there, clutching her breasts in her hands to keep her chest from exploding.
He leaned over and shouted into her ear, "I've got it tied down, but we can't go back—we're going to run downwind to get into the lee of Molokai, things will quiet down there." She felt the fear draining out of her, to be replaced by a feeling of profound weakness. She glanced up at his face, and could see that he was angry. She began to sob quietly, her shoulders shaking in small spasms that she could not control.
It was as he had said it would be. After three quarters of an hour the sea became quiet. She pulled herself to a sunny place against the cabin, and lay open to the sun so it could soothe and comfort and dry her.
"Look," he finally said in a voice that sounded hoarse. She did look at him then, and was surprised to see exhaustion and misery in his face. He said with a barely curbed anger, "I don't seem to be able to do anything right . . . for you, I mean. The damned boom splitting, forcing you to take over the wheel . . . scaring you to death . . . I never would have had this happen . . ."
Her teeth began to chatter. He reached into a canvas bag, pulled out a sweater, and tried, awkwardly, to help her put it on without touching her.
She dropped her head between her knees. When she looked up at him again, she was smiling. "I was so scared," she said in a tremulous voice, "horribly scared. Were you?"
He ran his free hand through his hair. "When I had time to think about it, yes. And mad too, I guess . . . that it happened at all." He waited a few minutes, then added, "There's something else. We can't go back now, not through those rough seas with the cracked boom. The fix I've made is only temporary, but I've got everything on board to do it right—that means putting in at a protected harbor. There's nothing on Molokai, so I'm going to run downwind and head for Lanai."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid it means staying overnight." He bit his lip. "I didn't plan for this . . . you don't have to worry that . . ." he began.
"I'm not worried now," she cut in sharply, knowing what he meant and feeling angry that he felt he had to say it. She knew, of course; she knew what he wouldn't try, wouldn't let himself try even if he wanted to. Even if she wanted to, she admitted, feeling a flush of anger at herself now. Reminding herself, You could have drowned, he could have drowned, your husband is alive and he is hurt and you are not with him, others are taking care of him while you are alone in the Pacific Ocean, taking your pleasure. Wanting to be here, with this man, Oh God. You are not dutiful, not loving, and you have no right, none . . . STOP, she told herself, and taking a deep breath said, "It's all right, I know it can't be helped, and Thea is away for the night, I don't have to worry about her . . ."
"I have a radio," Paul said, "I'll alert my office, and if you want they can call. . ."
"No," she said quickly, then more softly, "it won't be necessary. Thea will be fine and we'll be back . . . when?"
"By noon if we leave at first light . . . I really am sorry, Karin."
She could not remember if he had ever said her name before.
They sailed in silence for an hour or more, as the sun began to finish its wide arc, turning the boat, the sea, the world into a burnished brightness. "There it is," he finally said, pointing to the cliffs that rose steep and green, from the ocean. Finally she could make out a small cove with an arc of white beach tucked into the base of the cliffs.
"It looks deserted," she said.
"It is," he told her. "There aren't any roads on this side of the island, no way to get into this beach except by boat—and we're the only boat in sight."
"Have you been here before?" she asked.
"I guess I've put into most of these coves, one time or another. My dad liked to sail, my mother too." He grinned. "She was a better sailor than he was, at least that's what he always used to say."
"Have you been here with Alex?"
She wished she could take the question back.
He busied himself with the lines. "Alex isn't big on sailing," he answered evenly, managing to keep any trace of disappointment out of his voice. "Would you mind taking the wheel again when we come in? Just hold it here, into the wind, so I can get the anchor ready."
She laughed and took the wheel, surprised that she really didn't mind.
When the anchor was set and the sails were down she helped him fold and bag the mainsail so he could work on the boom. He went below decks and came back with a cordless drill, some epoxy, and some brass screws, all of which he lay out neatly in a tray. She watched, fascinated with the precise way he set about repairing the split in the wood, with his concentration.
She finally broke the silence by asking, "How long will it take—and is there anything I can do?"
He looked up, as if he had forgotten something. "No," he answered slowly, thinking. "I've got to set the screws and glue it—it'll take about an hour. This would probably be a good time to take a swim, if you want."
The water was glowing gold and turquoise. She could see small schools of bright fish gliding under the surface, and suddenly it seemed like exactly the right thing to do. She sat on the edge, dangling her feet and legs in the water and waited for the chill to wear off, for the temperature to be perfect. When that happened, she slipped out of her blouse and shorts, and over the side, gasping as the water grasped her bare breasts.
She swam in careful little circles, not wanting to venture far from the boat. She was not a strong swimmer, and not entirely easy in the full swell of the sea. She turned on her back, looking up into the billowing clouds; she closed her eyes and lay there, arms out and back arched . . . when she opened them again he was looking at her. Quickly, she flipped over. The next time she looked, his back was to her and he was working.
He did not turn back again until she had dressed and spoke to him.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you," she said, "it just seemed so isolated and perfect, like it was meant for skinny-dipping. Sometimes I forget myself. . ."
"I'm afraid I'm not . . ." he began, giving the last twists to a brass screw in the boom.
She interrupted, "After today, I don't really think you could be afraid of anything. I'm the one who is afraid. Of everything, lately. I spend most of my days in dread. Except for this afternoon," she laughed, "when I was genuinely terrified for what seemed like a lifetime but was probably what . . . five minutes? Ten? How long did it take you to thread that rope through the grommet on the sail?"
He grinned. "Line. On board, a rope is always a line."
She went on, "What I am trying to say is that I've been feeling a kind of dread and it's just . . . deadening. Until now, with just the ocean and the boat and all this . . . emptiness. Here, now, it all seems so simple."
"That's my problem, I think," he said, caressing the varnished surface of the boom, "I spend so much time out here, I've kind of lost touch . . ."
"Lost touch," she repeated, as if it were the title of some mysterious game she had played once, "Yes, I know that."
"I keep a stock of food on board, some packaged soups and freezedried vegetables . . ."
"Do you have a fishing pole?" she asked.
"Two," was his answer.
It had been building, the magnetic field, the charged atmosphere. She thought that if she could listen hard enough, she would be able to hear a crackling, an electric awareness. Each moved carefully, not to come too close. He cleaned the fish. As she reached for it, their fingers brushed and both of them pulled back, as if burned. They ate at a tiny table in the galley. If she moved even half an inch, her knees would touch his. She made an effort not to move.
It was deep twilight when they finished. She watched as he cleaned each pan and utensil and returned it to its proper place. Here, in this small world, he could keep everything in meticulous order.
"Let's have coffee on deck," he said, his back to her. "You can bring up the foam pad from one of the bunks to sit on—I'll sleep topside tonight anyway, you can have the cabin."
She tilted her head back to watch the stars appear in the vast sky. "I'd forgotten how bright they are out here in the middle of the Pacific."
"Your husband's an astronomer," he said, handing her a cup. It was a statement of fact, a reminder—to himself? for her?
"He was, yes. Oh God, Thea's been using the past tense and now I'm doing it too. Yes, he is an astronomer, though I can't imagine he will ever be able to teach again. I can't imagine anything, to be honest with you."
To be honest with you. It was just a phrase, a cliche, words to fill in when you could think of nothing else to say. She could not see him clearly, but she heard the change in his voice and she knew it was because she had said, "to be honest with you."
"When my wife died last year," he began in a voice she had not heard before, low and earnest, "there was no warning. None. It just happened, she left home one morning that was just like every other morning, and she never came back."
"I believe Thea told me it was a boating accident?" Karin asked.
"That's the hell of it," he answered bitterly. "It was an accident I could have prevented."
Surprised, she looked up and he explained, "I guess that was why I was so mad at myself today, that I had put you at risk."
"We were really in trouble today?"
"We came pretty close," he said, looking out over the water.
"Your wife's accident, how . . ."
She could hear him breathing. She waited. Soon, in a halting voice that allowed long pauses between clusters of words, he began in a way that made Karin think he had never tried to explain it before. "She was taking a bunch of first-grade kids on a whale watching outing. She belonged to a lot of charitable groups. It was the kind of thing they did, working with kids in some of the poor neighborhoods. She didn't tell me she was going, or if she did I have no memory of it. But I think she didn't because I would have asked what boat they had chartered and I sure as hell wouldn't have let them go on the one they took. The guy was trouble, everybody knew that. Everybody but Helen."
Karin let the silence gather. Finally he went on, "It should never have happened, the guy running the boat just didn't know what he was doing. They ran into some big swells, and he panicked. A wave washed over them, and two of the kids were swept overboard. They had on lifejackets, but Helen didn't—she was a strong swimmer. She was trying to reach one of the kids and the boat shifted. She went in and was pulled under the boat. By the time they fished the kids out, Helen was gone. They found her body later that day, there was a bad cut on her head."
He paused, a long four-count, and picked up again. "The thing is, we didn't talk to each other. It seemed like we did, but I can't remember now what we said, all that time. All I know is that we got to the place where she didn't bother to tell me that she'd be on the water that day. And I didn't always tell her, either, when I was going out. She didn't like to sail all that much, and I didn't like the functions she . . ."
He stopped, let the words trail off and for a moment Karin thought he was through. He picked up again: "I can't remember what we talked about. I'd known her all my life, we went to school together, we got married when I got out of the Marines and all that time we were talking, we had to be, and now I can't remember any of it. What was said. I lay awake at night and try to pull out a whole conversation, but I can't. Not one. Not in all those years together."
The air was warm but she felt a chill. She took a sip of the hot coffee and held it in her mouth.
"Sometimes I think if I could remember," he went on, "then I would feel something else . . . because . . . when I go home at night, Sadame lets me in, just like she always has, and I sit down and eat dinner. Alex isn't there much, and that's not different either. I thought Alex and Helen talked, it seemed like they must have, but when I asked him he said no, only about school, what was happening, what he wanted for dinner, things
like that. I thought maybe he knew something I didn't, something we should have been saying, but he doesn't want to talk to me . . . It seems like something should have changed, that it's wrong for everything to seem . . . the same. I don't know what we talked about at dinner, but it doesn't seem to matter, I mean, it doesn't seem any different. Except she isn't there."
She could see the outline of his face in the starlight. "Do you mean you feel numb, that you haven't been able to accept her absence?"
"No," he said, and waited. "No, I think I was the one who was absent. I think I left a long time ago, I think we seemed to be married, to be living together . . . we ate at the same table, we slept in the same bed . . . but if I'd been there, I should be able to remember what she said, what she looked like when she was a girl, I should feel some terrible loss . . ." his voice cracked with misery, "I think I must have left a long time ago, and . . . I don't know where I've been."
The words collided in her brain. Lost, you've been lost, we've been lost . . . wandering, looking, lost . . . She could not speak, no word was enough. Her fingertips touched the back of his hand. He looked at her hand on his, looked at her, not knowing, not certain. She moved into his arms, was clinging hard to him. She found his mouth, felt the catch in his body, moved into him. They gave themselves to the heat and the pull and the inevitability of it, the sea gathered them in, rocking them together, letting the hot flush rise.
Her ears rang with wanting, her head filled with light, exploded with color. She rose to meet him, and she cried out and heard her voice echo over the water and come to rest on the shore, with the waves that lapped rhythmically on the way to the silver place where their worlds met.
When she could speak she said, "Now I know."
He pressed his mouth into the place behind her ear and murmured, "Yes."
When the sun was still behind the mountain and the light was a cool morning gold, they slipped into the ocean together, their flesh white in the clear water. He touched her face, kissed her, moved his hands to her breasts. There was no denying now, they gave themselves to the sexual field that enveloped them, reveled in it, gloried in it. She wrapped her legs around him and took a deep breath and pulled him under with her. They swam to the beach, letting the waves wash them to the shore where they walked, touching, holding. As the sun reached the beach she lay back on the warm sand and felt herself opening, like a flower, like a morning glory. He lay on top of her, entered her, they rocked together as the waves washed in. A wild rhythm overtook them, carried them. They fell into the sand and laughed and came together as the sea seemed to rise, tempting them, caressing them.
Gift of the Golden Mountain Page 45
