Man the Guns, My Mate

by M. L. Buchman

  Deborah left him and continued her walking tour of the ship. She was down through the gun deck and halfway along the berth deck before she realized that they were each short a crucial piece of information.

  She returned to the spar deck, but her guest was nowhere to be seen.

  It might have helped if they knew each others’ names.

  5

  Roy hadn’t been thinking at all. It was pure chance that the next day was a Wednesday and he’d had no classes under the summer schedule.

  Sailing?

  Correction: Sailing with a beautiful Naval commander?

  Him?

  Of all people!

  He logged onto the Internet the instant he reached his apartment and ran a search. Commander Jeffries was still listed as the man in charge of the Constitution. His replacement wasn’t announced anywhere that he could find, a ceremony typically held in late July.

  The Rueben James.

  She said she had commanded the Rueben James, which had been retired and decommissioned. The only article he could find on the event had her photograph in front of her ship, but not her name. She looked even more daunting in her dress whites than her 1812 dress blues.

  Then he’d started worrying about what he should wear? Normal attire and a windbreaker. Did he need his own lifejacket? He hoped not because he had no idea where to find a marine supply store in downtown Boston. Lunch. Did she have any food allergies? What kind of things were good for eating on a boat? Should he buy two thermoses? What kind of…

  Nine a.m. finally arrived and found him standing at the head of Pier 4, just outside the locked gate and staring down at the small sail and power boats that filled the two hundred slips there. They were mostly small ones. Under ten meters. Or were small boats defined in Standard Units the way the Constitution was, “thirty-two-point-eight feet or less?” Or—

  He almost cried aloud in relief from his own thoughts when someone touched him on the arm.

  The woman standing beside him was very different from the one who’d greeted him aboard ship yesterday. So different, he almost didn’t recognize her. She wore slacks, sneakers, and a blouse that showed her curves were curvier than her heavy Melton dress jacket had implied. Her dark hair was a shiny practical bob that just reached her jaw line. Jarringly modern wrap-around sunglasses hid those dark eyes. She too carried a windbreaker, but no lifejacket.

  At least he’d gotten that part of it right.

  He held up a small cooler. “I wasn’t sure what you ate, so I went to Michael’s Deli. I got corned beef, pastrami, and turkey sandwiches (I can eat the leftover one for dinner or tomorrow or something), root beer and cream soda and a cola (I may have gone a little overboard), pickles…” and he was babbling, “…and potato and macaroni salad as well as coleslaw. I would have gotten knishes, but they should really be hot. And—”

  “I’m Deborah Reynolds,” she cut him off, thank god, with a smile as well. “And I love deli food.”

  “Whew!” Again her smile said he was missing something. Oh. Right. “Roy Wilkinson. Pleased to meet you.” It seemed ridiculous to be shaking hands with the woman he’d already agreed to spend the morning with in a small sailboat, but he wasn’t complaining about how it felt. He’d worked with enough Naval personnel to expect the surprising strength in the woman’s hand, but he wasn’t ready for the warmth of the clasp as if an observable heat was instantly conducted along his nervous system.

  She led him to a small, narrow boat.

  “It has lines like a meter-boat,” the classic long, lean look of the big racing yachts that used to rule the America’s Cup before all of the catamarans took over.

  “It does,” Deborah acknowledged. “Full-keel on a twenty-nine foot hull. It’s a Dragon design.”

  “Johan Anker’s work.” He wondered if she was ever Deb or Debby. If she was, he decided that he didn’t like them as well. This was a woman who commanded the use of her full name.

  “How is it that you know so much about boats and have never sailed?” Clearly an expert, she began preparations so quickly that he didn’t know how to help.

  “I’ve worked on the Independence Class littoral combat ship designs, but I’ve never sailed one of those either.”

  “That’s not sailing.”

  “But—” she was a commander who had sailed… served… Roy decided he was best served by keeping his mouth shut and helped her ready the boat as well as he could.

  6

  There was a fresh breeze across the harbor, so Deborah raised sail and cut the engine before they were even fully out of the marina.

  The boat heeled, dug in, and took off flying.

  “Oh my god!” Roy’s shout was one of pure exhilaration.

  He was an interesting puzzle that Deborah felt herself reacting to, and she couldn’t figure out why. His innate eagerness was a plus, but that only carried a man so far. He was like a young boy trying to gather in the world about him as fast as he could. The sails, the rushing water, the fresh wind all engaged an instinctual joy.

  But he was also an MIT professor of some note. She’d asked around; there were only so many professors of naval conversion hydrodynamics on the planet, making him easy to find. His reputation was sterling, his classes very popular despite being noted for their difficulty.

  And the way he’d looked at her with those frank, assessing eyes. Either he was a macho jerk who didn’t care if it was rude to inspect her head to toe, or he was simply interested in what she looked like and wasn’t aware of how it seemed. A bet on the latter was one she knew she would win.

  As they tacked back and forth past the busy wharves of Boston’s Inner Harbor, he took to the basics of sailing with surprising speed. Of course he’d know the principles, but that was a long way from a small sailboat heeled over twenty degrees and scudding fast before a sharp breeze. Not once did he pull the tiller the wrong way—he pulled left to turn the bow right from the very first time. The tricks of sail trim, coming about, and even jibing rapidly fell to his sharp mind and comfortable agility.

  There was a neatness about him that she enjoyed watching. Every motion was thought out, but not in some drill instructor mandated precise motion. Roy Wilkinson moved like an efficiency expert, pre-judging each motion.

  For a long time they sailed in silence, communicating with nothing more than a “Ready about” and a “Helm’s a-lee.” They crossed beneath the roaring jets climbing out of Logan Airport and soaring aloft over the water.

  “That’s where we’ll be taking the Constitution in five days,” she pointed to Fort Independence as they rounded Castle Island. The old pentagonal stone fort still an imposing presence atop the grassy-sloped island.

  “Firing a twenty-one gun salute before being towed back. It’s so sad that she can’t be sailed.” He did look deeply disappointed. Then his face cleared a moment later. “At least I’ll get to be aboard her while she’s underway.”

  “Do you always look at the positive side of things?” Deborah desperately wanted to sail her as well.

  “Well, other than the low point after my failing to win the ‘Turnaround Cruise’ for the ninth year in a row, I do. I’ve never been a big fan of the darker side.”

  They swooped past the outer islands and into the heavier chop and stronger winds of Massachusetts Bay proper. It was still only a medium air to a boat as finely designed as the Dragon, but it made her move along smartly with the occasional light spray splashing up, filling the air with sparkling drops and the taste of salt.

  Rather than being a seasicker, something she’d been watching for, he served lunch once he had the feel for the demands of the stronger breeze.

  “How did you learn to sail?” It was Roy’s first question not to do with the boat. Nothing about a woman serving in the Navy. Neither did he start off speaking about himself and what he did.

  It was about her and it was
personal.

  She was trying to think of the last time that had happened…and couldn’t.

  “My dad,” she managed between bites of an amazing pastrami on rye with a rich mustard that slapped her right between the sinuses. “He raced for most of a decade before settling down. Even did a year on an America’s Cup boat as a grinder—working a winch. A massive blow-up photo of the team and the Cup still hangs above our fireplace down in Maryland. He and Mom have a sail loft and still make some of the finest racing sails you can buy. I practically grew up on the water. How did you not learn to sail?”

  And the afternoon passed more easily than any in a long time. He didn’t put any moves on her, was the perfect student, and an ideal companion.

  They sailed far longer than she’d planned. They split the third sandwich and the extra salad for their dinner as they worked their way back through the harbor under the light of the setting sun. They had her tied off and wrapped back into her berth at that perfect moment when the sky’s golds and reds still ruled the evening, before the city lights took over.

  “I’m finding myself very reluctant to go ashore.” Roy was eying the dock a mere step away.

  Deborah found her emotions were much the same, as if somehow the ease and connection they’d felt upon the water would evaporate should they touch dry land.

  “Well, one of us must be brave.” He stepped boldly forth onto the wooden dock as if it were a noble sacrifice and then held out a hand to assist her with the decorum of a perfect gentleman.

  Despite the day spent together on a small boat, they hadn’t touched a single time since their initial handshake. It wasn’t as if they’d been avoiding each other, they simply hadn’t touched.

  Now she took his hand and squeezed it tightly in appreciation as she took the simple step.

  She didn’t want to release his grasp, but she would have if he hadn’t at that moment brushed his thumb across the back of her hand.

  As a female Naval commander, she kept men at a careful distance.

  As a woman, she tugged ever so slightly on his hand. He turned easily and she took the half step into his arms and kissed him. His hesitation was brief, very brief, as if it was the most natural thing on the planet for them to kiss.

  It was not like a first kiss. Testing, brief, or unsure. Nor was it just some flash of fire. It was as if they’d been lovers a long time. She slid a hand up into his hair and relished the softness. His hand around her waist snugged them together as if they’d always fit together perfectly.

  When the kiss ended, they still held hands. No words were needed.

  He escorted her to her car. They shared a last goodnight kiss and a smile, he closed her door for her and she drove out of there before she dragged him into the car with her and ravaged him.

  She’d just been too long at sea. That’s all.

  7

  Roy stood dazed in the parking lot after Deborah drove off and wondered what the hell had just happened. Veronica at the senior prom, Bethany from the History department, Caroline the assistant dean at Harvard, and others had all been good lovers. He was still friends with many of them, sometimes meeting for lunch. Veronica still sent him humorous Christmas cards about her twin boys. Not a one of them were…

  He couldn’t label Deborah’s kiss. He could only label what it wasn’t. It wasn’t casual or hasty or unwelcome—more than one coed had taken an unsuccessful run at him.

  It was…familiar. As if through those various lovers of the last decade of his life, he’d been waiting for this one and had known it. Or at least his body had.

  He didn’t have her phone number, nor she his. But there was no question that they’d meet again.

  8

  Roy spent most of the next day in the museum, trying to cover all of the information in a single day that he had planned to cover in two. Only as the evening settled over the Boston piers did he approach the ship.

  Deborah, once more attired in her formal historic wear, stood on the quarterdeck as if she’d never commanded anywhere else. She looked inviolable, impossibly powerful behind that dark blue Melton cloth and gold adornments.

  “How was your day?”

  Her smile was radiant at his simple question. He tried to puzzle it out but didn’t have a chance.

  “Gods, you really are that decent. Ask me out to dinner and I’ll tell you.”

  He took her to a small pub near his place where they each had Irish stew and a pint of Guinness and shared their day. Halfway through the meal, their ankles brushed and neither pulled away.

  That they wound up in his apartment was as natural as their first kiss. In his living room, she spent some time browsing his collection of naval history and naval architecture, took her time to inspect and appreciate as if she were perusing a library.

  In his bedroom, he discovered that anything natural about Commander Deborah Reynolds had remained on the other side of the door. Only super-natural had crossed the threshold. All of the seriousness that wrapped about her in her formal attire, the watchful steadiness when she sailed, and the charming dinner companion were discarded the moment the bedroom door closed. She left all that aside and Roy now stood by the most striking and feminine woman he’d ever met.

  On request, he rustled up a couple of dinner-table tapers and lit those, by the light of which she looked even more remarkable. They took turns undressing each other by that soft light, discovering the wonders of shape and texture. More than once they both burst into spontaneous laughter at how impossibly good it felt. He’d never wrestled with a lover before. Many more times than once they overbalanced and landed on the carpet in a snarl of sheets and pillows only to continue their bout there.

  When finally spent beyond any possible recovery, they didn’t sleep. Instead, they curled up beneath the covers, legs and arms tangled, forehead to forehead and simply talked. He learned that she’d joined the Navy because of her father’s passion for the sea and her mother’s training that she could do anything she wanted. She exuded a simple confidence in who she was and discarded any possibility of limitations on the future.

  He told her of his mother who designed airplanes for Boeing and his father who taught history at the University of Washington.

  “I decided on Naval architecture because I was fascinated by the complex math and the real world application of it. It’s not some obscure calculation that doesn’t attach to anything; it affects performance, fuel consumption, and dozens of other aspects of a design’s success or failure.”

  They made love in the sunrise light glowing through his apartment window as if greeting each other, and showered together to prepare for their days.

  “I’m planning to explore your ship for the next few days.”

  “As thoroughly as you’ve been exploring me?” Deborah offered with a happy sigh.

  That he could make a woman like her sigh happily was a pretty shocking concept. “Well, perhaps not that thoroughly, but I’ll try.”

  “I have a lot of meetings. It’s amazing how much there is to know about a command that only moves once per year.”

  “I’ll see you aboard once I finish teaching my morning classes.”

  They had showered, but still not slept when they parted at his front door and turned in opposite directions. He turned to watch her fine figure stride away. He now knew and could appreciate every curve of it, but in motion it took on new shapes and temporary configurations worthy of note.

  Her flash of a smile, and then she was gone around the corner at the end of the block.

  He looked down at his feet, he was still rooted two steps from his apartment’s front door.

  9

  Their next day’s encounters were only in passing. Deborah afforded him a bare nod and a quick smile as she went by. Commander Jeffries—also an avid sailor—was briefing her through the boat practically plank by plank which fit her way of thinking perfe
ctly.

  Seeing Roy didn’t distract her, rather it steadied her. No pout at how little attention she paid him, simply a goofy happy look when he spotted her going one way while he was going the other.

  That night he was waiting at the foot of the gangway. As they returned to his apartment, he picked up a pizza—that he’d clearly called ahead for not wanting to waste any time waiting. A wise man.

  A while later they ate lukewarm pizza sitting naked on his bed.

  “This is seriously decadent. I’m not really a decadent kind of girl. I think that you’re a corrupting influence, Professor.”

  “No sir, Commander. It’s not my doing. It might be your body and my body’s interactions. Their mutual desire for significant exothermic activities appears to be insatiable. Speaking from a strictly personal perspective, I’m all in favor of their predilections.”

  “Really, Professor?”

  “Really, Commander.”

  Deborah felt some feral lioness side of herself, one that she was only starting to discover, clamber to the surface. Halfway through a piece of Canadian bacon and pineapple, she jumped him.

  10

  Deborah had some thinking to do the next morning, so she walked the ship. Tourists wanted their photograph with her in her historical uniform, which she was glad to oblige even if they thought she was merely a hired actor.

  Normally she’d correct them and most were thrilled to discover she was a real commander and this was a commissioned ship of the U.S. Navy. But today she let herself drift along with their expectations and assumptions and allowed the rest of her mind to ponder the man even now leaning back against the stern rail and studying the mizzen mast rigging with a small pair of binoculars.

  If it had only been “significant exothermic reactions,” he really was cute, or even just serious sex, he really was that handsome, revving their motors into high gear for a while, she’d have been okay with it.