by Chris Lynch
“Right,” I said.
“And tartar sauce, right? It shouldn’t be anywhere near that good, should it? But the clams just scream for it.”
“And the clams are absolutely right,” I said, nearly breaking into my first run of the week just to get to the counter that much quicker.
***
The fourth day I woke up knowing right away things were different. Nothing drastic, but as I lay in bed right by the window, listening to the surf pounding just a couple of hundred yards away, I couldn’t quite feel it like the other mornings.
Island Arlo was giving way to Mainland Arlo.
The partly cloudy morning may have had something to do with it. The fact that August was only twenty-four hours away surely had something to do with it. It meant football was coming over the horizon like the sunrise coming up on the whole year.
And, maybe, the fact that I was finally going to meet Sandy’s Nantucket friends could have been influencing my feelings.
***
“He has a boat?”
“Yes, Arlo, the answer to that is the same as it was last time, and all the other times. Gordon has a boat.”
Since we were walking along the wooden pier of the marina, between rows of boats—because we were invited out on Gordon’s boat—I did pretty much believe that he had a boat. But I still couldn’t believe that he had a boat. I never knew anyone who had a boat.
“I’ll have a boat, when I make it,” I said, sounding so stupid even to myself that I was going to have to raise my game a lot just to achieve jock moron level.
Sandy skidded her flip-flops to a halt and grabbed both of my arms.
“If you could stop acting like this, that would be really good, Arlo.”
“I’m sorry, Sandy. I’m just a little nervous, meeting your friends.”
“Well, that is sweet but unnecessary. As much as I like seeing you be underconfident for a change, I’ve seen it now, so . . .”
“Right, I won’t be a dope.”
“Great,” she said, and led me by the hand toward the sleek, handsome boat with the two sleek, handsome people on deck waving at us.
“Is it actually his boat, though? Not his father’s, or a family boat or a rental or something?”
Her fingernails started digging into my hand until I yelped.
Happily, the boat was one of the smallest in the marina, and Gordon and Sasha couldn’t have been more friendly, so I was starting to settle down nicely as Gordon began putt-putting us out of the marina.
“Boat Basin,” the skipper called back over his shoulder to the three of us sitting on benches behind the wheel.
“What?” both Sandy and Sasha called.
“Boat Basin,” he called a little louder. “Somebody back there keeps calling this the marina, but actually, it’s known as the Boat Basin.”
I stared at a spot right between our host’s shoulder blades, wishing there was a number twelve there.
“Thanks, Gordon!” I yelled. “The someone was me. I’m still getting up to speed around here.”
“Ah, we’ll get you straight,” he said with a no-look wave.
“And we will,” Sasha said, patting my knee warmly. Sandy stared just a bit wide-eyed at the hand-knee contact.
I decided my quick judgment was a little rash, and that Gordon was maybe a little less down-to-earth than I figured. But Sasha seemed even more friendly than I’d guessed, so that seemed to even it out.
The girls launched into such a high-speed debriefing of each other’s lives, it seemed in stretches to be an entirely different language. I smiled with what I hoped was a mysterious, intelligent smile and looked at the predominantly white sky, then around at the other watercraft, then back at the girls. The motion of the boat was nice, and I could have settled into this state happily.
“Arlo,” Gordon called just as I had closed my eyes, “come on up here, man.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“What do you think of my boat?” he asked in a voice that was so openly proud and not bragging that I couldn’t even get irritated over it. Not much at least.
“Nicest boat I’ve ever been on,” I said. I turned back, hoping Sandy could see what a good guest I could be.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “Here, want to take the wheel for a bit?”
“What?” I said quickly. “Really? Thanks, but I never even—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping aside and pulling me into the pilot’s position. “It’s open water now, so you can’t get into too much trouble. Just steer gently, and early, away from anything out ahead. And this lever down here is the throttle—up for faster, back for slower. Don’t touch it.”
“Aye, aye,” I said, taking the wheel and already stupid with excitement.
“Good,” Gordon said as I steered away from the smallest floating objects. “But usually, the seabirds will get out of your way, so you might want to focus on boats and buoys and that kind of thing.”
“Right,” I said. “Cool.” But I was glad when he moved away.
As I focused on the mildly choppy waters ahead, I heard the schtick of a match and turned to see him inhaling on a joint about the size of my middle finger. He held his breath and extended the offer to me.
“Sorry, man, but I take my responsibilities here very seriously. Never on duty.” I left out the part that I am always on duty.
“Cool,” he said, exhaling forcefully enough that the smoke overcame the wind and entered my airspace. I coughed a little as he headed back to the girls.
I didn’t miss him. It was thrilling, soloing already. I enjoyed the ease with which the thing maneuvered in my grip. Another small boat was coming our way and I turned the wheel easily, but then too easily, and I made the turn just a little too quickly. I heard my passengers tumble around a bit and yelp in protest, but I called right back, “I got it, relax, you people,” and gave it a calmer, more measured turn. As the other boat passed about twenty yards off to our right, I looked over to the guy at the wheel, half suspecting him to yell at me, too, for some breach of water traffic code that I knew nothing about.
Instead, he gave me a quick salute.
“Oh, I like this,” I said, feeling like a brand-new member of the Society of Boat Captains.
“You like what?” Sandy said, appearing beside me.
“Oh,” I said, “open water. Steering. That kind of thing.”
“See?” She put an arm around my waist. “I knew you could fit in here.”
She sounded kind of dreamy-dopey already, so I just hummed a sort of agreement.
“Okay, okay, your time’s up,” Sasha said, bumping me and Sandy aside with one sharp hip-check.
I reluctantly gave way, and we went back to sit with Gordon.
The two of them then went off on their own session of catching up, aided or otherwise by the joint still—or a new one?—live and circulating.
“No, thanks,” I said when Sandy offered it to me, maybe thinking that Island Arlo might feel differently.
“There’s beers there in the cooler,” Gordon said.
“Thanks,” I said, but returned to my earlier routine of looking around while the wind whipped and the boat bounced on choppier waters. It wasn’t as good this time, partly with the rockier conditions making it less relaxing, and partly because Sandy and Gordon began to talk about plans for high-intensity summer workouts.
I found it hard to speak. In my head I was obsessing over being at the helm again, in charge of the boat instead of back where I was. I started feeling a little nauseous. And panicky. Like I never, ever felt at home.
To make things worse, Gordon jumped up and whipped off his shirt to reveal his Olympic swimmer physique.
“Stop here, Sasha!” he yelled, and Sasha cut the engine. As soon as she did, he was overboard, diving fearlessly into the water.
“Come on,” Sandy said to me, stunningly stripping down to her bathing suit and dropping her clothes right there into a pile with his.
>
The boat now rocked and rolled in a dramatic way.
“What, swim? Right there, in the ocean?” I pointed at the thing for emphasis.
She giggled machine gun – like. “Yeah. It’s the same ocean we’ve been in all week.”
“No,” I insisted. “That was the beach. This is the ocean.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, shrugging. Before I could say another word, she had dived right in and was splashing around with Gordon.
The ocean, as if it heard me and was insulted, increased its churning.
“You can take the wheel now,” Sasha called as I sat on the bench and stared at the shiny white painted deck.
“No, thank you,” I called.
“Come on. I want to go in. You just need to steer in a circle so the boat doesn’t float away while we’re swimming.”
“No, thank you,” I called again. A lifetime of good manners was being wiped out in short order, but I could not manage to care enough now.
Sasha started yelling something angrily at me when I gave in to the inevitable and hurled myself to the side, then hurled my insides into the water.
I saw before me every clam I had eaten this week and probably ever, returning to the sea.
I was utterly convinced now that the ocean knew just what it was doing. It had such absolute power.
And I had less than none.
I continued with my head over the side because my being sick just would not stop. Sandy came out of the water and sat rubbing my back like some dream mermaid-nurse until I begged her to please stop touching me. Sasha yelled some more and Sandy relieved her, while I dangled over the other side, puking helplessly until saliva just trailed out of my mouth and into the salt water and I didn’t even bother wiping my mouth on the back of my hand anymore. If my chumming up the waters managed to attract Jaws and I saw him rushing straight up at me, my head was going to be all his and he was welcome to it.
Somehow time stopped and restarted, and I felt the engine rumbling underneath me again and the rolling of the boat lessening as we chugged back toward the island.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Sandy.
“It’s not your fault,” she said in a voice that was about equal parts sympathetic and yes, it is your fault.
“You should just drop me and go back out,” I said.
“No,” she said. “Of course not.”
It was kind of weak.
“You’re thinking about it,” I said. “I wish you would. . . . It’ll help me be just a little bit less humiliated.”
“Good point,” she said. “Win-win.”
“Stretching the idea of win-win a bit,” I said, my face still only a few feet off the surface of the water, “but basically, yeah.”
She patted my back gently. I asked her not to, gently.
Eventually I was aware of the boat powering down and I sat up to see us very near the shore. It was not the spot we had launched from.
“Not taking him back to the marina?” Sasha asked.
“Boat Basin,” I said, congratulating myself inside my head for finally showing my fun side.
“No,” he said. “We’ll take him into the cove. He can wade in, and we won’t have to deal with all that boat traffic so we’ll be right back out to sea.”
“Okay?” Sandy said, and as I spotted the bottom underneath the clean blue-green of the water, I was overjoyed enough to say okay before basically allowing my carcass to slide over the side like a navy burial at sea.
I went under and then right back up, feeling chilled and thrilled and grateful all at once. I stood and started wading in to the beach.
“We won’t be too long,” Sandy called as Gordon immediately peeled out or whatever it is that boats do in that situation. “Hang out here or head back to the house, whatever.”
“Whatever,” I said, waving with what I hoped was nonchalance.
I wobbled onto the perfect white sand of the empty cove beach, just like a scene from a shipwreck movie. As I got my feet into the dry, warm sand, I had a sudden urge to hit something, get up a good head of steam and just crush the first thing to cross my path. But my legs were still shaking and my stomach still flipping, so the only thing I managed to hit was the earth itself.
I dropped to my knees, then fell forward onto my hands, then my chest. I closed my eyes and fell quickly asleep. I dreamed, vividly, about playing football. Running, howling, throwing off blockers and destroying ballcarriers.
I woke up out of breath.
And hungry. For normal food. So I headed toward the Boat Basin, past anyplace that looked like it sold seafood of any kind, until I got to Joanne’s Burgers and Fries. There was a girl my age slumped and bored on her little counter behind the window.
Several minutes later I was walking toward the docks once more with a 7-Up in one hand and a basket of fries in the other. The burger, which was a little dry but otherwise glorious, didn’t last the time it took me to dump the wrapper in the closest trash barrel. I was no longer feeling sick, but I was not back to my full strength, either.
Uneasy, was how I felt. Wrong. Weak. I was nobody here. No one cared how much I could lift, how well I could read an offensive formation, or what my time was in the forty.
Tomorrow was August. August was football.
I was certain I was not where I belonged.
***
“This is really stupid, Arlo,” Sandy said as she walked me to the ferry the following morning.
I was upbeat and took no offense. “Yeah,” I said.
“Lots of people get seasick. It’s no reason to go running home. This is an insane overreaction.”
“It’s not the seasick, I keep telling you. Don’t get me wrong. I had a great first few days, but I realized that’s my limit. You have a fine island here, but as far as I’m concerned they should change the name from Nantucket to Krypton.”
Somewhere in there she stopped walking, because I found myself unaccompanied. I stopped and turned back toward her.
“You are not Superman, Arlo Brodie.”
I marched back and took her by the hand.
“I know that,” I reassured her. “Not here, I’m not.”
She tried then to yank her hand out of mine, but I pulled her toward the ferry and home and my strength was surging back to me.
“All right, you,” she said, laughing but also growling. “By the time I get back, after training with Gordon every day, you’ll never be able to hold me like this again.”
It was a brilliant play on her part, because it caused me to release the grip instantly and stop in my tracks.
Her killer smile said she knew just how well played it was.
“All right yourself,” I said. “It’s on.”
Not sure if it was a make-up call on my part for being weird, or on her part for Gordoning me, or more likely both, but the kiss we had at the dock just before I got on the ferry was the sweetest thing that ever happened to my big stupid face.
As I watched her waving to me from the pier for much longer than I deserved, and I hung over the rail waving back, I was thinking how great it was that she fit wherever she was. And I was thinking I never wanted to feel that powerless again.
We needed to be home, to be us.
***
“Hey, Goldilocks, what are you doing in my bed?” I said when I finally returned to my home and my room and my brother.
He slowly rotated like a big bony rotisserie chicken. He raised himself up on his elbow, blinked seventy-five times at me, then scanned the surroundings.
“Christ,” he said, “this is your room.”
He rattled his bones up and walked blindly across the room in his underwear and out. I walked all around, sniffing every corner for foul smells before finally relaxing.
Welcome home.
JUNIOR YEAR
September
I had arrived home feeling fat and slow and furious with myself for letting this happen. Your conditioning is one thing that is always within your contr
ol, and when something is within your control, you control it. No excuses.
Which was why I was happy enough that Dinos wasn’t home from his Greek holiday for another couple of weeks, because I was ready to pay the price for slacking and he would never have agreed the price was worth it. I ran and lifted and ran and lifted and ate and slept and ran and lifted every day leading up to football camp, to the point where I was almost satisfied with how my body felt and how my mind felt about how my body felt. Almost.
Then finally, camp. Two-a-days. Sweaty, backbreaking, soul sapping, officially sanctioned varsity tests of strength, stamina, intelligence, commitment, and manhood. Morning and afternoon sessions.
I wished they were four-a-days.
I have always loved September, ever since I was a little kid and started school and recognized differences in the calendar that didn’t involve Christmas or my birthday. A lot of my friends would start complaining about being told what to do for another nine months, but that part of it never bothered me.
I loved the change in the weather, the knowledge of the more serious changes coming right behind it. I loved the structure of school, and the work.
But now all that stuff was just background music to the opening of football season. I was delirious. I was established at this point, a junior, with a year of varsity behind me and big expectations ahead. I was no scrub kid anymore. Now I would be a leader, and a force, and I thumped my way around that preseason camp like I wanted everyone to recognize that fact, and if they didn’t like it to just do something about it.
Nobody did anything about it. Not a single senior.
“Easy there, Brodie, easy!” Coach Fisk yelled as we neared the end of our first practice during the week before our first game.
“No problem, Coach!” I bellowed as I pulled Anderson, the right offensive guard, up off the ground. We had been beating on each other all afternoon because so many of the offensive plays were being run through him and right at me, and it was a war.
“Save it for the game, gentlemen!” Coach roared.
Anderson allowed me to help him up, but his hate was written in his bulging eyes and the explosiveness of every block he laid on me. I hated him, too. It was glorious.
