As I watched him, I knew this was a man I could love deeply. He was kind and caring and had a goodness that matched the depth of the ocean and beyond. He was a good man, he had compassion and a good soul. “Please take care of him,” I prayed to the sea. Her eye followed Sam, but she continued to lie quietly as he swam to her flukes. They were wrapped in the netting as though it had been knit into place. He reached toward her and touched her gently. She still didn’t move. Then he reached down and pulled the dive knife from its sheath, bringing it close to her body. He started sawing at the nylon strands very slowly, holding them away from her body. A few threads flew apart. He worked at it some more. Another blow of mist and air, loud and long, startled him, and he paddled backward, away from her. She moved sideways toward the boat, and managed to hit it. It wobbled. Sam swam behind her, waiting another minute until she settled before he started cutting again. She could kill him with one move.
It was going to take hours, it seemed. He cut relentlessly into the nylon, strand by strand, pulling it with his fingers, forcing it to unravel faster. He pulled a handful upward and cut again and again at it until it suddenly released into a knotted bundle of mesh, which he tossed up to me to get it out of the way. I dropped it onto the deck. Freed from its tangles, her tail suddenly slammed the water.
“Whoa!” Sam yelped, startled. It sent him flying several feet. I could hear his labored breathing. His lungs were struggling to support his efforts.
She was trying to free herself, but she was still too trapped. She tried again to push away and her tail slipped under the boat. It rose and dropped suddenly, knocking me off balance. I pulled myself back up and braced.
She blew again. I hoped she wasn’t getting impatient. Or angry? Vincent was getting frantic in the cabin and I went up to calm him and try calling the rescue again. No luck. I grabbed Vincent’s rope and he pulled me down to the deck to the freed gill net. I tied him to a cleat and commanded him to lie down, out of the way. He knew what I wanted and lay quietly, his head between his paws.
* * *
An hour and a half passed, and Sam had worked his way to her dorsal fin cutting at the net with meticulous slashes. The work was tedious, thread after thread, the remaining mesh pieces growing taut as the weight got transferred to them. Slice after slice, when suddenly it gave way. Her top fin was freed. She shuddered, but remained calm.
He slipped between the whale and the boat to cut the netting from her ventral fin. She blew weakly several times in succession, but lay in the water without moving. Her baby was swimming in frantic circles, blowing loudly, diving, coming closer. Sam moved quickly, and I could hear him reassuring them both, patting the female’s massive side. She was more than twice the length of the boat, I estimated a good forty feet. She moved sideways and almost caught Sam. He quickly pushed himself toward her flukes to avoid getting crushed. She tried to move again, maybe she was in pain, or thought she was free, but she swung her body back and forth for a few minutes and he stopped working on her. It wasn’t long before she exhausted herself again.
“Good girl!” I called softly over the side of the boat. “Be calm. Be a good girl.”
Sam worked tirelessly. Cutting methodically, pulling the net away from her, cutting at it some more. It was slow, painstaking work and it endangered him every second. I lost track of time, the hours of the day seemed to crawl past us, time hung still as Sam worked, and this behemoth creature, understanding somehow that we were trying to save her, stayed calm.
“I think I’m nearly finished!” Sam finally called. His voice was raspy and his lips were dusky from the cold. He swam back into position next to the boat and handed his dive knife up to me. “Give me the other knife!” he called up. “The big one.” I reached down and we swapped knives. Only a little more netting wrapped around her second pectoral fin, but it took another hour. His face was drained with fatigue now and I worried for him.
“She’s free!” he suddenly called out. He looked jubilant. He threw a large swirl of gill netting up to me; I just barely caught it. The nylon threads were jagged where they had been cut apart, a wild mess of clear, wiry strands that were invisible to oncoming fish. Its whole purpose was to entangle, and it had done its job exceedingly well. The whale shook herself for a moment, then, realizing she was free, dove, disappearing under the water. She emerged about twenty feet ahead, the calf next to her, and blew hard and long.
We cheered. There is nothing more redeeming than to save an animal brought nearly to its death by the carelessness and indifference of humans. She was a mammal, and she needed to breathe air. A few minutes later she was turned in the water in order to nurse her calf.
“I need to get into the boat.” Sam suddenly sounded exhausted. He reached for the boarding ladder, struggled up the vertical steps, and finally hoisted himself over the railing and fell into the boat. He had given almost more than he was capable of giving and was totally spent. He sat down on the padded deck bench, leaned back, closed his eyes, and fell into a wordless stupor.
“Sam, look,” I said as the two whales leapt together in the water. Our whales. He turned around and watched with me.
* * *
She knew she was free. They dove down together and an instant later both emerged about several hundred feet away from us, breaching the water, rising jubilantly through the air, then diving again, their tails silhouetted against the sky like pieces of art, before vanishing into the ocean. The mother was exhilarated, fired up with the knowledge that she had been freed and she was still alive. She breached again and again, joyful and full of life. She knew she had almost been lost and seemed grateful, wanting to show us that she appreciated what Sam had done for her.
Life, life, she seemed to say. She was so full of energy now. She would live. She would flourish. Everything was forgotten in the joy of being alive. She vanished beneath the water again and leapt up, filled with elation. The water splashed like a monument around her. A large, noisy spout blasted from her blowhole, and she leapt again. A moment later, she breached with her whole body and allowed it to fall against the water’s surface with a huge slapping sound, as though she wanted to feel the water hit her with the fullness of its element, a jubilatory acknowledgment of her existence and her triumph and her continuing existence. The baby swam in happy circles around her.
“Wow, look at that,” Sam said, awed. “She appreciates it. She knows—she knows.”
I knew what he was saying, I felt it, too. It was an epiphany. Life was precious, and precarious, and she was celebrating her return to safety. Her joy touched me. It was something Sam and I would remember forever.
He watched her intently until she and the calf were gone from the horizon. Her mood had stayed celebratory;; she dove and leapt and played with an abandon that made me jealous. It was pure love for life, pure joy for being free to live it. Sam watched her with a greediness. “Wow. That was so good,” he murmured. “That was so good!” He had tears in his eyes, watching her, and reached over to take my hand.
“You gave her that,” I said. “She is thanking you for her life.”
He looked up at me. “I did, didn’t I?” he said softly.
We sat together on the bench, not budging for a long time. Sam’s eyes were closed and his head was tilted back. The boat rocked gently on the waves, keeping its position, and I stared out over the water, watching the blow of other whales in the distance, watching as fishing boats began moving past us, heading for the harbor, gazing at the whale-watch ferries sailing past, passengers waving. I realized how much I loved the water as I sat there quietly, next to Sam, watching, the whales rising from the ocean with their mouths agape, the shearwaters risking all for a quick steal of fish, the gulls cutting sharp angles of air above. I loved the water. I loved the feeling of the sea lifting the boat across its back, the cutting salt in the air, the air, the air was just a lighter part of the sea. How had I lost that part of myself? How had I forgotten how deeply this all ran within me? The sky was growing overcast. We ne
eded to get back. I touched Sam’s arm and he sprung awake.
“I wasn’t asleep,” he said. “I was thinking about things. It all disappears so fast, I was trying to put things together and make it all fit.”
“And did they fit?”
He looked beleaguered. “I’m trying so hard.”
And then he took my hands in both of his and looked into my eyes. “Give me time, Aila,” he said. “I have to get myself together. Please give me time. You won’t be sorry.”
Chapter 40
We were ready to go home, but neither of us made a move to do it. We sat on the deck, weary, hypnotized by the movement of the water, lulled into a reverie by the cry of the gulls and the feel of the sea winds on our faces. We didn’t speak, and Sam looked like he had dozed off a little. The sun was moving behind us, finished with the day.
Vincent was getting restless. He’d had enough of the sea and his dinnertime was approaching. He walked over to Sam and started to lick his face, paying special attention to Sam’s eyes and mouth, then tried to revive him by barking straight into his ear. After all, what is a pit bull for, if not to keep you on your toes? Sam opened his eyes and smiled at the dog.
“You want some coffee?” I asked.
He nodded and stood up and stretched. “I better get us home,” he said, and gave me a quick hug with his ice-cold body before heading for the cabin.
I went belowdecks to make us coffee in the small galley. I hadn’t seen it before and it was a typical boat galley, set up neat as a pin. I looked around, poking into the cabinets and the dorm-size fridge, turning on the small four-burner stove, opening and folding the table, testing out one of the two chairs like Goldilocks. It was a perfect little kitchen, a real galley, and I thought about my own, more commercial one. This was everything to me. I realized how much I loved being able to tinker about in it, proud that it was my family establishment that had been named for the heart of a boat. I loved cooking food and serving it up, knowing that the customers who came in were happy and satisfied with my efforts and returned to me, again and again. Where would I go if I gave it up? I loved the water. I couldn’t live without seeing it every day. I had made it an enemy, but truly it wasn’t. My father and Dan had made a foolish mistake and the water takes what it takes, indifferent to the consequences, like any predator in nature.
The coffee was ready, and I poured out two mugs and caught myself smiling. Maybe Sam would be at my side someday, maybe not, but for the first time in two years I was happy again with my place under the stars.
I brought the mugs of coffee topside and handed Sam his. He sipped it gratefully. I also found a blanket and wrapped it around his ice-cold shoulders.
“Are you okay?” I asked. He nodded. He was at the wheel and I sat in the cabin and watched him. Sometimes there was a spout on the water and we both turned to it, wondering if it was our whale.
The trip home was quiet. By the time Sam steered us past the Race Point lighthouse, it was dusk, but we could see its white structure standing a stark forty-five feet against the graying sky.
“That’s the marker that we’re going to be all right,” he said, pointing to the lighthouse. “The light tells us that we have returned from the end of the world and we’re going to get home safely, and see our families and live out the rest of our lives well.”
* * *
I left him steering the boat and went down to stand on the bow because I’ve always loved the view coming into the bay, sailing past P-town, sailing toward the slips and familiar lights of the houses that lined the beach of Fleetbourne, there was such peace in it. The pain and the ghosts and the fears had been left behind; ahead of me was my life and whatever I would make of it.
* * *
We sailed across the bay and I watched as Sam docked the boat with skill. I helped him tie it up and we gathered our stuff and stepped onto the slip and climbed the stairs to the pier.
Sam took me into his arms and kissed me. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “I promise. There are some things I need to get a handle on.”
* * *
I opened the Galley the next morning with a certain anticipation and happiness. It was all mine, from the unfashionable T-shirts, to the cheesy postcards, to the Portuguese rolls that sat in the front cases.
I didn’t know if Mrs. A would show up, I didn’t know if I would hear from Sam again, but no matter. I turned on the flattop and started the coffee and checked the bacon and listened to the Maritime station so I could write the forecast on the whiteboard and Vincent ate his breakfast behind the counter and I set up the day’s mail in the back room and it was all good.
* * *
Mrs. A came in, wearing a pretty red and gray print blouse over jeans with a red hijab. I always looked forward to her color combinations and rather enjoyed them. She was reserved and polite and went about her normal chores as she did any other morning. She had just finished carrying in the bread and doughnuts for the day when she turned to me.
“Okay,” she started. “Sam talked to me last night, and tells me that he is going to make changes in his life.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. “I don’t know what to say to you,” she went on. “I am not angry with you. I don’t own him and I have to respect what he wishes to do, though it breaks my heart into a million pieces.”
“I understand,” I said. When Sam and I rescued the whale, for a little while, we felt as though we almost owned her. She was our whale, her life was under our management. I wanted to call out to her to be careful. To watch out for danger. I wanted her to stay around so that I could protect her every day. Of course I knew it was silly. That she was the curator of her own life, that she had survived by her skills all these years and would do so again. Sam and I had been given a small opportunity to ensure her survival and it was part of our stewardship to leave her alone after that.
I touched Mrs. A’s arm. “He loves you so,” I said, but she looked sad.
“I love him, too,” she said. “But he is a man, and I have to let him make his decisions.”
“He’s a wonderful man,” I said. “Because of you.”
“So are you planning to marry him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I care for him a great deal,” I said honestly, “but we’re not up to that yet. I promise that when we decide, you will be the first to know.”
She acknowledged my words with a shrug. “He could do worse,” she said, and finished setting up the doughnuts.
* * *
I didn’t hear from him for two weeks. I guessed that he was busy, I know I was. I was reluctant to call him, whatever he was deciding would have to be of his own desires, without interference.
Larry called me to set up a date, a calendar date, not a social date, to talk about the Galley, and I was curious. He picked me up in his weather-beaten blue car, looking cheerful in a yellow shirt, jeans, and his red sneakers.
He drove us to Orleans, a lovely little town about half an hour south of Fleetbourne, to a breakfast place that served hubcap-sized waffles that Larry had read about and now needed to carry out his “research.”
He was not disappointed. His plate came stacked like a tire store, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation before digging in. I had an omelet. We ate in silence for a few minutes before he pointed to my plate with his fork.
“So, how’s that omelet?” he asked, flashing his eyebrows up and down a few times.
“Great,” I said, then understood what he meant. “Want to try it?” He forked up some of my eggs in a nanosecond. To be fair, they were replaced by a generous portion of waffle. We swapped my English muffin for two pieces of his bacon, he tasted my coffee, and I sipped his chai tea and we both shared a piece of cherry pie. I loved his enthusiasm over food.
“So,” he finally said, “I wanted to talk to you about the Galley.”
“Talk to me.”
“I think you’ve got a great place there,” he started, “but I think it could be better. It’s an ana
chronism.”
“That’s part of its charm,” I countered.
“But it could use some modernizing,” he continued. “Some upgrades that would make it easier for you.”
I listened as he outlined a few ideas he had, ending with “I know it’ll increase your business, and I think that’s what you’d want, a single gal like yourself. A thriving business.”
I promised him I would think about it and keep my options open. We enjoyed a second cup of coffee and tea together and climbed back into his car.
He drove me to the Galley and we parked outside for a few minutes, trying to stump each other with old show tunes, two-bar maximum, and laughing at each other’s singing. His laugh was infectious, and I was enjoying his company.
“Don’t let your guard down,” he said, suddenly serious. “I have a feeling that fool who broke your window is not finished.”
“I guess we’ll see what happens,” I said. “I can’t do anything until he does something.”
“True,” he said, then got out of the car to open my door.
We stood there for a moment, grinning at each other. “Thank you for a great morning,” I said.
“All options are on the table,” he said, and leaned over to give me a little kiss me on the cheek.
* * *
I heard from Sam a few days later. “I would love to see you,” he said. He had called my cell phone while I was at the Galley. I didn’t give Mrs. A any indication that I was talking to him. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he added.
That night Sam came to my house with a dozen roses, a box of chocolates, and a dog biscuit in his pocket, right out of the Manual of First Dates. Vincent and I invited him in. He was so polished up. His hair was neatly trimmed; he had a brand-new shirt, new slacks; even his leg was polished. He came into the kitchen, filling it with his height and big frame, like a gentle bear. I offered him iced tea and he sat down, looking earnest and nervous. Vincent immediately felt the need to comfort him by shedding some fresh hair over his slacks. Sam reached down absentmindedly to pet him.
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