Traverse Bound

by Jack Gibby

  Traverse Bound

  A Gannon Dunn Novel

  Jack Gibby

  Adventures Up North | Book One

  Copyright © 2019 Jack Gibby

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  Get on the List

  Acknowledgments

  Traverse Bound

  Chapter One

  With a mug of coffee in his hand, Gannon Dunn stepped outside his front door and looked out on his new block. Only recently had he arrived on East State Street, in the heart of downtown Traverse City’s Boardman neighborhood, ready to start his life over again. Retiring at forty-two wasn’t common, but Dunn had been smart, put in his time, and got out of corporate life before losing his soul. Whenever his old life and his old job attempted to infiltrate his mind, he made a mindful effort to just let it go.

  And that’s what he was doing in Traverse City, a beautiful resort town on the west side of northern Michigan. He was letting it all go.

  He had left a lot in Chicago. In addition to his career—information technology and security for a well-known and very successful financial services firm—Dunn also left his wife behind. His ex-wife, Amy. Amy was a good person, hard-working and smart. She was pretty and kept fit, despite the fact that she owned a bakery in one of Chicago’s yuppie neighborhoods. The scones were really good. The problem was that both Dunn and Amy worked insane hours in their careers, leaving little time for love outside of work. The marriage failed. It didn’t thrill Dunn, but it was what it was.

  Dunn had also left their spacious loft condo, the mutual friends he had shared with Amy, his dog Fern, and a lot of his money. Divorce had not been a very pleasant experience. But at least they didn’t have any kids to drag along for the ride. That had been another sore subject with Amy.

  But he was free and clear and ready to start anew. Dunn and his ex had often visited Traverse City on vacation, and they both fell in love with it. When his life crumbled, he decided to take the risk, quit his job, quit his life, and move to his favorite vacation spot.

  Standing there now, in front of his recently purchased Victorian home, a home that had been gutted and remodeled by a local developer, Dunn inhaled the fresh air floating in from the Grand Traverse Bay, and he felt his happiness coming back. He sipped his coffee. Life was all right.

  “Well, howdy neighbor,” said a voice to Dunn’s left. He turned to see where it had come from. From the house next door walked a man, probably in his mid to late sixties, grey hair combed tightly to his head, dressed in sandals, khaki shorts, and a polo. He smiled affably as he approached Dunn’s home.

  “Good morning,” said Dunn, putting on a smile. He stepped down his covered porch and met the man on his front walk.

  “Walter Polk,” said the man, extending his hand. Dunn took it and shook. “You can call me Walt.”

  “Gannon Dunn,” he replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “That’s some name,” said Walt. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Gannon before.”

  “It’s a family name,” said Dunn. “It was my grandfather’s name, my great-grandfather’s name.”

  “What is that?” asked Walt. “English?”

  “Irish,” replied Dunn.

  “Irish,” Walt repeated, nodding slowly. “Well, it’s unique. A lot like this house,” Walt said, stepping back and motioning toward Dunn’s home. “What a beaut’. You wouldn’t believe what it looked like before you moved in.”

  “I saw some pictures,” Dunn said, turning back and looking at his house for a moment. “They really transformed it.”

  “They sure did,” said Walt. “It was the last house around here that really needed the rehab. When they bought it up and started construction, all of us in the neighborhood were pleased as punch. My wife, Liddy, was absolutely giddy.” He chuckled at his own rhyme.

  “Right,” said Dunn with a small smile.

  “I think she’s got a pie for you, by the way,” Walt said as though he were relating a secret. “She wanted me to wait so that she could come over and meet you, too. But I saw you out here and I just had to come introduce myself.”

  “What kind of pie is it?” Dunn asked.

  “Cherry, of course,” said Walt. “Local cherries. From Liddy’s secret stash. She jars them every year.”

  “Of course,” Dunn said, smiling bigger now. “It’s cherry central up here, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” said Walt.

  There was a pause in conversation, both men smiling politely, accepting the natural lull. Dunn was still trying to shake his city brain, the brain that was convinced he needed to be going a mile a minute, that someone like Walt was just a time sink, that crime could be lurking anywhere, and that he should just keep to himself. He knew that Traverse City was nothing like Chicago. Part of moving here was to learn to take it easy. But old habits can be hard to shake.

  “Not to be nosy,” Walt said to break the silence. “But since you moved in last week, I haven’t really seen anybody else around here. Just the one car. Did you and your wife have to move at different times, or…?”

  “I’m not married,” said Dunn. “Divorced, in fact. I’m here all by myself.”

  “Well, this is some house to live in all alone,” said Walt. His expression changed as he tried to put a positive spin on it. “When you meet Liddy, let her know that you’re single. She’s a bit of a matchmaker, and a young man like you with such a nice house—obviously a successful guy—shouldn’t be alone for very long. No kids?”

  “No kids,” Dunn confirmed.

  “Liddy’s going to have a field day with you,” Walt said with another chuckle.

  Dunn laughed, too. He found Walt’s presumption quaint. It felt like he’d stepped back into a different time. Nobody in the city would have been so forward with so tender a subject. But Walt didn’t seem to care. He just spoke whatever came to him.

  “You know, Walt,” said Dunn, taking another sip from his mug. “That might be nice. If your wife wants to set me up with someone, by all means… I’m game.”

  “You tell that to her,” Walt said, putting up his hands.. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Will do,” Dunn said. He smiled.

  “You’ve got to tell me,” Walt said. “I’m really curious. A young guy like you, buying a house like this, moving all the way up here. What’s your story, Gannon?”

  “It’s simple, actually,” Dunn said. “I made some money in the city—Chicago—and after my divorce I wanted a change. So here I am.”

  “You have a job?” asked Walt. “You work?”

  “I’m retired,” Dunn said plainly. Walt laughed.

  “Retired?” said Walt with a hint of incredulousness. “You’ve got to be fooling with me. How old are you?”

  “Forty-two,” said Dunn.

  “You must have made some real cash, by golly,” Walt said. “Well, good on you. That’s just terrific. You have any big plans or do you just plan to spend the rest of your days in leisure? I tell you, if you want to hit the links I’m a pretty good golfer.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Dunn mused. “I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do. Honestly, I’ve always wanted to try to write a book. So I think I’ll give that a go.”

>   “That’s a great goal,” Walt boasted. “I like military fiction myself. Air Force,” he said with pride.

  “Ah,” Dunn replied and nodded. “Well, I’m still figuring out what to write. Beyond that, I’d like to maybe learn to sail. I ski, so I hope to get out to Boyne in the winter.”

  “You’re a well-rounded guy, Gannon,” said Walt. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

  “I think so,” Dunn agreed.

  “If there’s anything you need,” said Walt. “Don’t hesitate to ask. Neighbors look out for one another around here. And we’re glad to have someone like you in the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you,” said Dunn. “I do have one question.”

  “And I’ve got your answer,” Walt said with a smile. “Shoot.”

  “Is there anything I need to look out for around here?” Dunn asked. “Anything I’m missing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just mean…” said Dunn, pausing for a moment as he considered his phrasing. “Everything seems so nice and so… pleasant. Am I missing anything or is this place really as perfect as it seems?”

  Walt offered a big laugh, but Dunn still felt a little uneasy.

  “You’re a character,” said Walt, wagging his finger. “You city-folk always think someone’s out to get you.”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about?” asked Dunn. “Nothing lurking in the shadows? No seedy underbelly?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Gannon,” said Walt with a reassuring smile. “You’re going to be just fine.” Walt paused momentarily, then he stuck out his hand again. “Great to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” said Dunn, shaking his neighbor’s hand. “I’m looking forward to that pie.”

  “I’ll bring Liddy around soon,” said Walt. He waved as he turned to leave. “You take it easy, sir.”

  “Will do,” said Dunn. “Thanks.”

  Dunn watched for a moment as Walt ambled off. He sipped his coffee.

  Dunn drove into the parking lot of the marina in his black SUV, looking around for a parking spot. He found one easily, pointed his car into it, and shifted into park. Peering out towards the docks through the tint of his sunglasses, he smiled softly to himself. Sailing was something he had always wanted to try, and while he had plenty of opportunity to do it in Chicago, he never quite found the time. Now that his life had slowed, he could finally see if he had what it took.

  The sun was bright and the sky was blue, and the heat of the summer was cut by a refreshing wind off the bay. The marina was positioned to the west side of Grand Traverse Bay, at the base of the Leelanau Peninsula. In front of Dunn stood a large brown L-shaped building, four stories tall, that housed the sailing school and yacht club. As he entered the building, he pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and followed the directions to the sailing school desk.

  “Afternoon,” Dunn said as he approached the desk. A young man in a school-branded polo sat behind it. He looked up to Dunn and smiled.

  “Good afternoon,” said the young man. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Gannon Dunn,” he said. “I’ve got an appointment for a lesson.”

  “All right,” said the young man. He looked into his computer screen and clicked the mouse. “Yep. I’ve got you right here. You’ve got a private introductory lesson scheduled with Missy Marlowe.”

  “Missy…?” Dunn repeated. “Missy Marlowe?”

  “That’s right,” said the young man. “Why don’t you have a seat over there, I’ll let Missy know you’ve arrived, and she’ll be out to meet you in a few.”

  “Yeah,” said Dunn. “Yeah, all right.”

  The young man smiled and motioned toward the seating area. Dunn took the hint and made his way over to a seat, while the young man picked up his phone and placed a call.

  Dunn put his hands behind his head and lounged in the seat. He looked around the lobby seating area, focusing in on the pictures, the placards, the awards. Through the window he could see out to the docks, and to all the boats moored there. It all felt very classy to Dunn, and he imagined himself becoming good at sailing, meeting a new contingent of friends, other sailors, creating this new identity. No longer was he just some corporate suit with a short haircut and complex spreadsheets. He was a sailor. His hair was getting a bit long. Maybe he’d grow a beard.

  Suddenly, Dunn was plucked from his reverie by a slim young woman with a bright smile. She was pretty and happy. Dark brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, green eyes, a tan face with a smattering of freckles underneath her eyes. She wore the same white school-branded polo as the kid behind the desk, along with some army green shorts and boat shoes without socks.

  “Mr. Dunn,” she said. “I’m Missy Marlowe, and I’ll be your instructor.”

  Dunn stood up and he reached out his hand. The two shook.

  “Gannon Dunn,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” said Missy. “Is this your first time?”

  “It is,” said Dunn. “Well, I’ve been sailing before. Back in Chicago where I’m from. But I’ve never… you know… I’ve never sailed or took a class or anything.”

  “That’s perfectly fine,” said Missy. “I’m here to teach you the ropes. Or as we call them, the sheets.” She paused and smiled, but Dunn obviously didn’t get it. “A bit of sailing humor,” Missy said after a moment. “We call ropes sheets on a sail boat.”

  “Ah,” said Dunn. “Sorry I didn’t laugh at your joke.”

  “You’re not the first to stonewall me,” Missy retorted. “But now I’m sure you’ll remember that a rope or line is called a sheet in sailing terms.”

  “I’ll try,” Dunn said with a smile. “Missy?” he then said, pointing at her.

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “Aren’t you a little… young… to be teaching sailing?” Dunn asked. “I don’t mean anything by that, just wondering.”

  “I’ve been sailing for twenty years,” Missy said. “How long have you been sailing?”

  “If we count me walking into the building,” said Dunn. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Exactly,” said Missy.

  “So you started sailing at—what?—two years old? One?”

  “Nine,” Missy corrected. “Yes, I started young. I grew up around sail boats, and this club, and I’ve been sailing most of my life. I’ve won plenty of competitions and I’m rather good at it. Were you expecting someone else?”

  “Well, I…”

  “You were expecting a man,” said Missy, her attitude shifting slightly. “I get that sometimes.”

  “No,” Dunn said. “It’s not that. Well, all right. Yeah, I sort of was expecting a man. But not in a sexist way.”

  “Okay,” Missy snarked.

  “No, really,” Dunn continued. “I guess I just had this idea in my head that the instructor would be some grizzled old sailor with a paunch, maybe a big white beard. Smoking a pipe. A Hemingway type, you know?”

  “Oh, I know,” said Missy. “Still sounds sexist.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dunn. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot. I apologize.”

  “Why don’t you follow me, Mr. Dunn,” Missy said. She turned from him and walked toward a door. Dunn took a deep breath and followed her.

  Outside in the beautiful summer air, Missy walked along until she reached a particular sail boat near the end of the dock. Dunn was right behind her, hands in his pockets, sunglasses back over his eyes, looking back and forth at all the different boats stationed at the pier. He felt a bit out of his element, but it was a feeling he would have to get used to. He was new in town. This was all new.

  Missy, too, now had sunglasses on and she stood up straight with a wide stance with the training sail boat behind her. Dunn stood a few feet from her and offered a small smile.

  “A few main points I want to relate to you, Mr. Dunn,” said Missy. “First, a sail boat can go in all directions except straight into th
e wind. The wind is our power source, but it’s also our brake. When you’re pointed straight into the wind, it will cause your sails to flap and you’ll come to a stop as a result. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” said Dunn.

  “Do you see that boat out there in the bay?” Missy asked, pointing to a sail boat cutting through the water a few hundred yards out.

  “I do.”

  “Do you see the angle of the sails?” she said.

  “I do.”

  “Do you see how the sailor is sitting?” continued Missy. “He’s opposite the sail. That’s another point I want you to remember. Both you and the sail will need to be in different positions depending on the boat’s position relative to the wind. While facing bow—the front of the craft, the direction we are moving—if the sail is starboard, you are sitting port. Starboard, right side. Port, left side. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I think I got that,” said Dunn.

  “Sometimes I explain it in theater terms,” Missy went on. “Do you know anything about theater?”

  “No,” Dunn replied.

  “Well, when you’re on stage and looking toward the audience, your left is called stage left, your right is called stage right. These directions never change. To the audience looking on, the right side of the stage is actually the actor’s stage left. In sailing, no matter what direction we’re moving on a compass, port is our left side, starboard our right, no ambiguity.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next point,” said Missy. “As the sail moves we’ll move in a direction relative to the wind, either port or starboard. For our purposes—our goal, really—is for you to learn to sail in a triangular course to demonstrate that you can sail all points of sail. When we get out there, I’ll be showing you what that means.”