by DW Davis
The boat house itself was located practically touching the Highway 55 Bridge there in Stonewall. Keeping one eye on the road, I examined it out the driver’s side window as we drove past on our way to Oriental.
“It is hard to imagine anyone building a boathouse that close the bridge,” I said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find the remains of an old fishing camp in the woods nearby,” my father said.
“That old boat is kind of big to be this far up the creek,” I noted. “I wonder if you could even motor back downstream if you managed to refloat it.”
My father turned around to look at it as we drove past. “I have a feeling that vessel and the boat house are both permanent parts of the marsh now,” he said.
It was hard to imagine someone getting that big of a boat as far up the creek as the boat house was, but someone obviously did. Of course this was as far upstream as they could have gone as the bridge wasn’t high enough off the water to allow boat traffic under it.
As it had so many times, the mystery of the boat plagued my mind. “You have to wonder what the story is with that old boat,” I continued. “Who owned it first; where did they buy it? I imagine it was someone’s pride and joy once upon a time.”
“I imagine it was,” my father agreed. “It would be interesting to find out who they were and where they are now, to find out why they just left it there for the river to claim. I guess we’ll never know.”
In Oriental we visited Jeremy at the marina to confirm the new boat would be delivered on time Wednesday. He assured us that everything was on schedule.
Jeremy pulled off his ball cap and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Mike, have you thought up a name for her yet?”
This was something Maeve and I had discussed; however, we hadn't agreed on anything. Now I would have to come up with a name myself.
“Actually, Jeremy, I was thinking of calling her Cuarto,” I said.
Setting his cap back on his head, he gave me a puzzled look. “Kwardo, what does that mean?”
Feeling a tad facetious, I said, “It’s Spanish for fourth. She’ll be my fourth sailboat.”
Jeremy laughed and shook his head. “I get it,” he said, “but I don’t think that’s really Spanish.”
I laughed too. “Actually, it really is,” I said. “Can we get that name on her sometime before Labor Day?”
“I reckon so. Why before Labor Day?” Jeremy asked.
“Dad and I are setting sail for the Bahamas after Labor Day,” I told him.
“That’s the date you chose, eh?” Jeremy said. “I’m glad to hear your dad’s going with you. Not that I don’t think you could handle it, Mike, don’t get me wrong. But there’s safety in numbers.”
“I know what you mean, Jeremy,” I said, grateful for his concern.
We left the marina and went to Arapahoe to pick up some groceries at Bellagio’s. Grace at the register offered me her condolences. “Your Maeve was a real sweet girl, Michael. She always had a kind word when she came in here.”
I shoved my wallet into my pocket and picked up the remaining grocery bags. “Thank you, Grace. Thanks for your kind words,” I said.
“Well, now, Michael, you take care now, you hear,” Grace said.
“Yes, ma’am, I will,” I promised her as I made my way to the door.
Once in the car, I confided to my dad. “I know they all mean well, but each time it’s almost like the wound reopens just a little, and it stings.”
“Son, I can’t say I know what you’re going through, but you’re right, they mean well. Keep that in mind, and let them say what they feel they need to say. They’re going to anyway.”
Back at River Dream we fried up a couple of hamburgers and worked on our sailing schedule. My dad would sail with me to Fort Lauderdale and then catch a plane home. From Fort Lauderdale I would sail over to the Bahamas, spend some time among the islands, and then maybe cross back to the Keys. After that, well, after that would just have to wait and see. I let my friends know that at different points in the voyage they were welcome to come aboard to spend some time.
I also planned several visits home. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and of course Malori’s eighteenth birthday were on the schedule. If Malori hadn’t graduated high school a year early, I would have had to include her graduation on that list.
Pushing back from the table, my father said, “Well son, I think we’ve covered about everything I can think of. We’ve got the charts we need. Our itinerary seems to cover the contingencies. I guess we’re as ready as we can be.”
“I think you’re right, Dad,” I agreed. “It’s late, and we have a busy day tomorrow. Let’s call it a night.”
Wednesday morning, over breakfast at the Minnesott Grill, I discussed with my father the idea of selling Geddaway, the twenty-six foot Hunter.
“I really don’t need a boat that size,” I said. “For day sailing and short trips I’ve still got Riverscape. If I want to go on a real excursion, I’ll have the Beneteau. I think I should part with the Hunter.”
“That sounds reasonable to me,” my father said.
“Maybe I could donate it to Camp Riversail, or maybe the community college,” I suggested.
My father nodded as he took a sip of his coffee. “I’m sure either one would appreciate it.”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Cooper to see if the camp wants it first. If they don’t I’ll see if Pamlico Community College does,” I said.
That decided, we finished breakfast and headed to the marina. We had just walked over to the office building when the truck carrying the Beneteau 331 pulled in.
As my father watched, he said, “Michael, I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere on that boat today.”
When I looked at her, I realized he was right; we would not be sailing her out of there anytime very soon.
“Well then, what should we do?” I asked him.
“When was the last time you went surf fishing?” my father asked me by way of reply.
Thirty
“Honestly, probably not since high school,” I admitted.
“Well, then, it’s about time you went,” my father told me. “Let’s head up to Fort Macon and see if they’re biting in the inlet.”
“Why don’t we just fire up my fishing boat and head out to the Sound?” I suggested. “I don’t think I even have any surf rods.”
“Then it sounds like we’ve got a perfectly good reason to shop for fishing equipment,” my father said.
I realized that my dad really wanted to go surf fishing. Or maybe he just wanted to visit Fort Macon. Either way I relented.
“All right Dad,” I said. “Let’s go surf fishing, after a stop in Atlantic Beach to pick up some surf rods.”
After checking with Jeremy, who told us the boat should be ready to go by the end of the week, we headed first to River Dream to unload the Cherokee, and then to Emerald Isle. My father drove. It was less than two miles from River Dream to the Minnesott Ferry landing as the crow flies, but by road it was closer to six. We got there just in time to watch the ferry pull away from the dock. Rather than sit there and wait for the next one, we decided to have lunch at the Minnesott Grill.
“You two must really like our food,” Judy, our favorite waitress, said with a smile as we walked in. “Weren’t you just here for breakfast?”
“As a matter of fact we were, and we do,” my father said in reply to her question.
“Well, come on in and sit down then,” Judy said. Turning to me she asked, “So, you beat up any body lately?”
“No Judy, I’m trying to quit,” I told her. “Besides I didn’t beat them up. I gave them a stern talking to, remember?”
Judy laughed, and said, “I remember. Now what would y’all like for lunch?”
I had a bacon cheeseburger with fries. My dad had the fried chicken sandwich. I left Judy a tip nearly equal to the cost of the meal.
“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” my f
ather said. “It makes her other customers look bad in comparison.”
“She’s a single mom with two kids in high school who she wants to see go to college. I do what I can to help,” I said a bit defensively.
“She’ll probably be eligible for all kinds of financial aid,” my father observed.
“Financial aid doesn’t cover everything,” I said.
“Haven’t you given her name to the Lanier Scholarship Fund?” my father asked. The look I gave him answered for me.
“I should have known,” he said.
“You know, Dad,” I said, “by the time we get to the beach, buy the tackle, and get to Fort Macon, we won’t have a lot of time to fish.”
“So?” was all he said. I shrugged and got into the Cherokee. Dad got behind the wheel, and we headed to the ferry landing. There was a short line, and we could see the ferry approaching the dock. We didn’t have to wait long.
Once we were on board the ferry, my father said, “We can fish until dark and then head into Morehead City. You can buy me supper at the Sanitary Fish Market.”
“I can buy you supper,” I said in mock indignation.
“Hey, I’m doing all the driving,” he laughed. I smiled and realized I was glad he was dragging me to the beach. It was time away from more familiar surroundings that would do me some good.
By Friday, Cuarto was ready for the water. My father stayed on and sailed with me when the representative from Beneteau took me out for a familiarization day of sailing. By evening, I felt confident I could handle her at least as far as River Dream. The representative left shortly after we returned to the marina. My father and I drove to River Dream, leaving Cuarto tied up at the marina dock, and returned to sail her home Saturday morning. Sunday morning my dad drove back to Wrightsville Beach in my GTO. He would take care of storing it while I was gone.
Monday I went over to Camp Riversail and talked with Mr. Cooper about Geddaway.
“Michael, I would be glad to accept your Hunter 26. It would be a great addition to the program for the older campers,” Mr. Cooper said.
That decided, I worked out the details with Captain Jack, and we drove to the Marina to let Jeremy know. Since the summer camp season had pretty much wound down, we’d decided to let Geddaway winter at the marina. Jack would come get her in the spring to get her ready for next summer’s season.
Then it was back to River Dream, where I would spend the next couple of days climbing all over Cuarto, getting to know her every nook and cranny.
My father returned on Friday night, this time in his Suburban, and on Saturday we took Cuarto out for an overnight trip up to Rockhole Island and back. We anchored overnight in a cove and then sailed back on Sunday without making landfall along the way. It gave us some idea of what living aboard was going to be like.
Sunday evening, just after my dad left to go back to Wrightsville Beach, Rhiannon called.
“Hi, Michael,” she said. “How’s the new boat? You did pick her up already, right?”
“She’s a beauty,” I said. “My dad and I took her out this weekend for an overnight sail, and it was great.”
“I’m glad. So, will you be leaving soon?” Rhiannon asked.
“We won’t leave until after Labor Day,” I said.
“We,” Rhiannon questioned with an odd inflection. “You’re not going alone?”
“My dad’s going with me, at least for the first leg. When we get to Lauderdale he’s going to fly home, and I’ll head to the Islands alone.”
“Oh, your dad’s going with you,” she said with relief in her voice.
“Who did you think was going with me?” I teased.
“I’m just glad you’re not heading out alone is all,” Rhiannon said, ducking the question.
“No, I’m not,” I assured her.
“That’s good,” she said. “Will you be around next weekend? Let me rephrase; would you and your dad be able to come to Greenville next weekend to help my dad get me moved?”
“I know I can, and I imagine he can,” I told her. “I’ll call him in a while when he’s had a chance to get home. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Rhiannon said. “I’ll talk to you then.”
My father was able to make it. The three of us - me, my dad, and Rhiannon’s dad - converged on her apartment Saturday morning. Between Uncle Lind’s pickup, my father’s Suburban, and the panel truck I rented, we were able to load up all her stuff and make only one trip. Late that Saturday afternoon, we arrived at the Nadeau House and began unloading Rhiannon’s stuff. Both our mothers and Malori, were there to help. When we were done, we feasted on pizza delivered from Dupree’s.
“I didn’t think Alfred delivered out here to the Island.” I said.
Malori gave me a scornful look. “He has ever since he opened up a new location out here.”
Rhiannon seemed as surprised as I was. “When did that happen?” she asked.
“He opened the new place last spring sometime. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” Malori said.
Reaching for another slice, I said, “I guess I didn’t. I sure am glad he did, though. This really hits the spot.”
I hung around after everyone left to help Rhiannon get settled and make sure she knew where all the switches and shut-offs were. “If there’s anything you want to change to make you feel more at home, Rhiannon, please just go ahead and do it. You have free reign to make this place your own.”
“I may take you up on that, Mike. Even though I know you lived here for years, it still feels like Mrs. Nadeau’s house to me,” Rhiannon said. “I still remember French Club meetings right here in this living room. We made French Onion Soup in her kitchen.”
Smiling at her nostalgic reminiscence, I reiterated, “Rhiannon, anything you want to change, you can change. This is your place now.”
“It’s mine for a while anyway, Mike. Thank you.”
Stifling a yawn, I glanced at my watch. “I guess I’d better get going. I’ve got a long drive home.”
Rhiannon seemed about to say something but stopped herself. “Thank you again, Mike, for everything. I’ll see you next time you’re in town?”
“You can count on it, though I don’t know when that will be. I’ll write you and let you know how the trip is going.”
“You had better,” Rhiannon said. “And I intend to hold you to that promised lunch when you’re in town.”
“I know you will,” I said. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Rhiannon looked at me quizzically for a second. “Bon Voyage, Michael,” she said as she hugged me.
When I got to the truck, I turned around to wave good-bye, but she’d already gone inside. I climbed in and began the long drive back to River Dream.
Thirty-one
My dad and I left River Dream aboard a fully provisioned Cuarto on the day after Labor Day. We traversed the Inland Waterway to Beaufort and spent the first night tied up at the town docks. Working our way about twenty-five miles a day down the coast, alternating between the ocean, the sounds, and the waterway, we arrived at my mom and dad’s house on the evening of the fourth day of our cruise.
Mom and Malori made a big deal out of our arrival. Mom cooked her special chicken supreme for the occasion. Since it was probably the last home-cooked meal we would have for a while, I had two extra helpings.
My father slept in his own bed that night. I slept on the boat. I called Rhiannon, but she wasn’t home, so I walked up to the pier and, sure enough, there she was behind the counter.
“Hey sailor, I thought you’d be in Nassau by now,” Rhiannon said.
“Not quite yet,” I laughed. “Four days at sea and this is as far south as we’ve gotten.”
Rhiannon laughed with me. “Well, you did say you’d be stopping in on your way by.”
“Yeah, but we’re heading out at O-Dark-Thirty,” I said.
“Then shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?” Rhiannon asked, frowning with concern.
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sp; “I should, you’re right. I just wanted to stop by and say ‘Hi’ since I was here.”
“I’m glad you did, Mike,” Rhiannon said.
I stayed for a little while longer. She told me how she was settling in to her new job and the house. I told her what it was like sailing with my dad. All too soon I realized I needed to get back to the boat to get some sleep. I said good-night and left Rhiannon to her work.
Ten days after pulling away from my folk’s dock on Masonboro Sound, my father and I were hunkered down in Savannah, Georgia, waiting out Hurricane Hugo. We were very lucky to find a place for Cuarto that allowed her to weather the storm with no significant damage. What harm was done was fixed up in a day, and we were back underway.
Savannah wasn’t in the direct path of the hurricane. That honor was reserved for Charleston, South Carolina. Once the storm passed and the seas were safe to venture out on, we left Savannah and set sail south. Two weeks later we docked in Fort Lauderdale. My father and I spent a few days in Fort Lauderdale relaxing while he helped me make sure Cuarto was ship shape for the crossing to the islands. Then he caught a flight home, and I caught a west wind for the Bahamas.
When Thanksgiving came, I sent home my regrets that I wouldn’t be able to make it home for the holiday. A week after Thanksgiving, Hans had joined me on board Cuarto to spend a week of vacation sailing the Islands. When he flew home, Hans took with him my gifts for everyone and my explanation of why I was staying in the Islands for Christmas. I just wasn’t ready to face the holidays without Maeve. There in the Islands I could pretend, in a manner of speaking, that they weren’t really happening.
Chase, who was teaching technology at North Carolina State, joined me for a couple of weeks right after Christmas. We spent New Year’s Eve on Saint Croix. I wound up dancing with Rochelle, a beautiful young lady from Rouen, France.
