River Man (2016 revision)

I'm not sure when it hit me; this was almost the same trip we'd started the year before? Then it occurred to me: when does one journey end, and the next begin?

Then - as now - we'd spruced up the boat, loaded her up with fuel and provisions. Then - as now - we'd left midcoast Maine and sailed south for Massachusetts Bay, bound for the Cape Cod Canal. Then - as now - we'd sailed on into Buzzard's Bay, then west across Long Island Sound to Hell's Gate. Waiting for a good tide, then - as now - I recalled how we'd motored under a vast parade of jets landing at LaGuardia, and eventually, how we ran the slack tide and slipped into the East River. Then - as now - I'd wanted to stop in New York City, but frankly, the place scared Ruth.

And, I realized now, everything scared me. Life, love...all of it, and I was tired of the certainty of all my uncertainties.

A year had passed, and yet this was a different trip. No, trip isn't quite the right word. Journey, perhaps? No, that's not it at all...too open ended, almost too noble sounding. Too many memories to make on a journey, too, and I wasn't sire I liked the idea of making more memories. You run across too many unexamined corners in the darkness on that kind of journey, too many choices best left undisturbed. So not a trip, nor a journey. What the hell do you call running away from memory? From memories of a life cut short.

Pain comes to mind. The pain that comes from memories you can't shove out of your mind. Memories so full of life you can't even breathe without them.

Anyway, with Manhattan behind me I slipped into the Atlantic, made the quick sail down the Jersey coast to Cape May; we cut through the Onion Patch that guards Delaware Bay and Ruth and I fought jig-saw tides to the C&D Canal and sailed into the Chesapeake - passing Baltimore and making our way to Annapolis a few hours later. After a fews days in that cloistered harbor, we sailed up the Potomac to D.C., and all-in-all that part of our trip was just as we had imagined it might be. Full of so many places we had been before, seen now from the radically different perspective of the river-borne. When you approach a place from the water for the first time, even the known becomes a very different place. You can't anything for granted, especially memory.

This year was - in some ways - no different than the year before, but then again everything was different. Life on board was different now, and in so many ways that every little routine felt odd - it was as if I felt out of place - like time was -- now -- somehow an old, foreign land I had been to many times, yet suddenly, now I was a trespasser -- and alone. It wasn't that the boat felt different -- no, this was my world, my unmoved mover. Yet the one constant in my universe was gone, my Polaris had vanished, and I was adrift in a patternless sea of stars. I couldn't find my way through the chaos, because the patterns I saw in this new sky were obscured by memory. I looked at everything and saw nothing, and in the seeing I felt very, very small.

It was, you see, my first trip without Ruth.

We'd made that first voyage together a year ago, finally getting a taste of the life we'd scrimped and saved for all our lives, started a journey years in the making. To sail, to cruise, to explore all those hidden byways we'd always passed by all our lives -- to keep one step ahead of memory for as long as we could. Together.

I'd have to say now, and this is just a guess, all that wasn't meant to be.

We were walking from the Gangplank to the Smithsonian on a hot July morning, walking to stretch our legs, or so I thought, when I heard her say 'oh', and that was it. She fell to the ground. Someone told me a few hours later she'd had a massive stroke. One minute she was alive, holding my hand as cars crawled by, frazzled commuters drumming fingers on steering wheels, and then in an instant she was gone. No goodbyes. No tears. Just a lightning bolt out of the blue, and that was that -- Ruth gone. Gone. Unimaginably gone, a forever gone.

When I left the Potomac later that summer, she had been gone five weeks. I don't know, maybe I should have sold the boat, but it was our dream; I didn't want to turn my back on our dream. I didn't want to let her down. Confused, I returned to Maine, to our little hillside hideaway north of Camden. And I hid. From everything.

Somehow I started again it all again the next summer. The Cape Cod Canal, the East River...all of it. I found it wasn't too hard to sail alone, and that I was lonely. I had, in fact, embraced loneliness. Once I hit New York City I understood if I stayed out to sea I would have to make changes in the way I rested, because I was alone I would have to remain diligently on guard for ship traffic, so as a practical matter I decided to keep to the Intra-Coastal Waterway, to the rivers and canals that lead from the Chesapeake to the Texas-Mexican border. It would, I surmised, be easier to ensure my isolation that way.

The plan I had in mind was simple: I would stop at night in dusky river channels and drop anchor, or pull into small town docks and tie up for the night, where I could eat by myself then sleep. Maybe a marina from time to time, in order to do laundry or make a grocery run, but always alone. Eventually, after the hurricane season ended, I would -- if all went according to this evolving plan -- slip across the Gulf Stream from Florida and head to the Bahamian Out Islands, where isolation was all but guaranteed. Maybe venture further south. Who knew, really, what I'd do, where I might end up? Did anyone besides me care? Hell, did I care?

No, I sure didn't, and it surprised me to realize that I simply didn't give a damn about anything anymore.

+++++

I made my way from Norfolk, Virginia south through the Great Dismal Swamp Canal and arrived in North Carolina just in time for the first cold front of the season. The temperature plummeted from the high 80s to -- perhaps -- the low-40s overnight. As I rubbed the dry white skin on my hands after I tied up to the town dock in Elizabeth City, and swore I'd try to take it easy for a day or three.

Because I'd been running down the coast so very quickly. Why? I asked myself. Why did I feel I needed to run now? There was, after all, no one to run away from. Indeed, the only companion I had now was my shadow, and even he left me from time to time.

So, what was I running from? Why couldn't I enjoy myself, enjoy this precious time? This time that had been, in effect, stolen from Ruth and I. What was the point of making this -- journey? -- if all I was going to do was fly by the shadows in a blind rush. What was the point if I didn't get out and explore all the hidden creeks and little, out of the way places that had always passed us by? Would I spend the rest of my life in dark corners, because I was so afraid? Could I still accept that their was some purpose in life? To the idea that there was something beyond that which had been given us, to a time beyond what Ruth and I shared?

Looking back now, I realize it's hard to ask these kinds of questions when you tell yourself that the answers don't really matter anymore.

+++++

There was a boat next to mine at the docks, and I heard a man and woman arguing down below as I stood in the cockpit of my boat. I was coiling lines, wiping down teak, filling the water tanks. All the little things Ruth and I used to do together.

"Listen, I don't care anymore! I've had it with you, with you and this silly goddamned boat! I'm going to my sister's; you do what you've always done; you do what you goddamned well want to, because I don't give a flying fuck anymore..."

It sounded a lot like a one-way conversation to me. Mumbled evasions, a life of simple denial, perhaps.

"Tell you what, Hank. I'll have my lawyer call your lawyer. Maybe then you'll say something...and maybe someone will care enough to listen, but I sure don't..."

More rumbling from down below, then I looked on as a suitcase flew up from below and landed in their little cockpit with a sobering thud; this was followed by thundering footsteps and the emergence of a really dreadful looking woman.

"What the fuck are you looking at, you fucking asshole!"

Really, I hadn't been aware I was looking at her. Usually I don't like to look at such profound ugliness, but by that time I noticed I saw there were a few dozen people gathered 'round the docks, looking at her commotion. I gave her a polite smile and looked to my water tanks and she jumped down on the dock and the whole structure shook and thundered from the impact. I ignored her as she wrestled her bag off the boat and stomped off towards the ramp that led to the street.

I think I heard a collective sigh of relief as she walked away and disappeared from our lives.

I heard more sounds from the boat next to mine. "Hallelujah and goddamn it all to hell! Free at last...free at last...God almighty, free at last!"

I heard dancing down over there, and laughter. I swear to God I did.

+++++

After a while a head popped up through the companionway hatch and -- tentatively -- looked around. The head looked just like a turtle's, yet this turtle had on eyeglasses. I stared at the apparition mutely for a moment, in shock really, as this turtle-man scanned the dock for signs of his recently departed -- dare I say -- wife?

"I think she's gone," I finally said. "You can come out now."

Turtle-man turned to the sound of my voice. He blinked slowly, mutely took in my form, working out in his turtle-mind, I suppose, if I was a threat or not.

"Fuckin'-A, sorry, man, about all that shit."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Ce la guerre," I managed to say, and the Turtle-man blinked again, before he walked up into the cockpit of his boat and stretched. Still looking around, he walked over to the lifelines and leaned over towards me.

"Hi. My name's Hank Peterson, and thanks, I guess."

I stood, took his hand. "Hank? Nice to meet you."

"You gotta name, by any chance?" he asked.

"Yes, Hank, I do." I smiled at him. He looked expectantly at me as I sat back down in shade of my awning. I picked up the tea I'd just fixed and took a tentative sip.

"Man-o-man," Turtle-man said, "it's a little early in the day for scotch, isn't it?"

I turned my back to the guy, hoped he'd get the message and move back inside his shell. Couldn't he see I just wanted to be left -- alone?

"Well, I gotta run into town and pick up some groceries. Need anything, just yell!"

"Will do, Hank. Have a nice time."

+++++

I slipped away a little later that afternoon and walked into town. There was a little museum, a couple of nice little knick-knack shops among the usual commercial storefronts, but I just wasn't into it and walked over to what looked like a wine and cheese shop. There was a nice looking woman behind the counter, and I picked up some Riesling and cheese, and a newspaper too, and was walking the two blocks back to the docks when Turtle-man appeared from behind a row of buildings walking my way.

"Hey, slip-mate! Find the wine store?" He stopped, clearly expecting me to as well.

With my goods and newspaper in hand I walked right by him and never said a word. I think I heard him laugh a little as he faded away but really, did I care?

+++++

I got my stuff down below and into the refrigerator, then hopped into the shower. I couldn't remember the last time I'd showered, and I thought if I was slipping like this maybe it was time to check-out the local funny-farms. I looked at myself in the mirror, didn't like what I saw so put on fresh clothes and shaved and generally just cleaned myself up, then moved to the galley and opened up the wine I'd bought, and sliced some cheese. I set the stuff out in the cockpit and took a seat as afternoon gave way to evening, and sat there feeling kinda like 'all dressed up and no place to go' was playing on a jukebox somewhere on the far side of the sunset, when...

"Hey partner! Man, you sure made some kinda impression on that gal at the cheese shop!"

I turned, looked at the turtle-man standing not ten feet away, looking at me. His almost completely bald head really was kind of turtle-like, I saw, and the sudden impression was instantly hysterical. I choked on some wine and tried to regain a smattering of composure as my eyes watered, but it was pointless, futile, and I broke out laughing.

"Hey, buddy, get a hold of yourself, wouldya?! I told her you were in the boat next to mine and she got all interested, asked if she could come down and meet you. I said 'why not'! She's going to be here in a half hour or so."

"You know something, asshole. You really should mind your own fucking business!" Suddenly as pissed off as I could be, I grabbed my bottle and my cheese and ducked down below, slamming the companionway hatch shut and sliding the barrel-bolt in place.

There, I was safe now! Just like a turtle, in fact, slipping back into his little armored world. Alone again, safe as I could be.

+++++

I woke the next morning and tidied up the boat, went into town to pick up some new charts and a newspaper, then came back to the boat and fired up the diesel. As the engine warmed-up Turtle-man poked his head out his hatch and looked at me.

"You taking off?" he asked.

"Yes, Hank, I am. Sorry."

"You headed south?"

I grunted nonsensically while I cast off my lines and backed out of finger-piered slip, then moved off down the Elizabeth River. I looked back once to see Turtle-man working on his boat, and suddenly felt happy to be free of the guy.

Free at last, indeed.

+++++

The Waterway south of Elizabeth City crosses open sounds and traverses swamp and marshland as it arcs south and west across North Carolina. Rivers traverse the waterway; the rivers have to be constantly dredged to keep them from silting up, and long forgotten storms can be counted on to drop trees into the water. This debris tends to lurk just beneath the surface, where your basic, happy wanderer can run afoul of jutting stumps and other just barely concealed hazards.

Which is exactly what I ran into about three hours after leaving the dock in Elizabeth City. I felt something bang up against the keel and corrected course back toward what I thought was the center of the channel, then heard the prop smacking something quite solid; as the boat shuddered from the impact I felt the keel knifing into nice -- thick -- ooze.

I had run aground. Right where my chartplotter showed a nice, solid nine foot depth; I was stuck in what had suddenly become less than four feet of chocolate-coffee colored water. Then, just to make things more interesting, the water alarm from the bilge pump went off, indicating that there was a leak down below.

Oh, yippee! This was why I bought a boat, wasn't it?

I jumped below and whipped open the bilge inspection port and saw a nice healthy flow of that very same chocolate-coffee colored water happily running into my boat. I ducked into the engine compartment and saw water running along the propeller shaft, and traced the flow back to the shaft packing gland; I slipped a wrench around it and tightened it up; the water slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether.

Good. Problem one solved. Now on to number two.

I poled around the boat with a boat hook and felt solid mud from the middle of the hull forward, and open water behind me. Good news there, too. Now all I had to do was back out into the channel, assuming the propeller was still in good shape.

I restarted the engine and put the boat into reverse. Nothing happened. I retried the process, and once again the engine turned up -- and nothing happened. Either the transmission was damaged, or the prop had come off the shaft. Knowing the waters around here were full of alligators -- and an interesting variety of truly mean snakes -- I wasn't about to go in and take a look, so I inflated the Zodiac, mounted the outboard, and ran out some line and began to pull on the boat -- see if I could, perhaps, dislodge her from the mud.

It didn't budge. Not one bit, but you already knew that, didn't you? But, and this is interesting, who do you think popped into view just then?

Yes. Turtle-man. The one and only. I was the one running, wasn't I? And here he came, slow and steady, just like a fallen tree laying under the surface.

+++++

"Looks like you're having some real fun this morning," he said.

"Yes indeed, Hank. A fucking blast," I managed to say, wondering where my beta-blockers were, and if I should take a baby aspirin.

"Need a hand?" No guile on his face, just a steady hand.

"It wouldn't hurt." Ah, the irony-rabbit's gonna get his comeuppance today, isn't he?

Hank dug around in a locker and pulled out a towing bridle and coiled it up.

"Here, run this to your stern cleats," he said as he stood up and moved to the rail. I motored over and picked up the bridle, then moved over to my boat and rigged it up.

"Alright!" I yelled across the water. "Ready when you are..."

"You pull in that direction," he said as he pointed off to my right. "I'll pull in that direction," indicating my left side.

I motored over to the indicated angle and looked back at Turtle-man; it really was amazing, the guy looked just like a big gray turtle as he moved behind the wheel of his sailboat. He looked over to me as he drifted away from me, then...

"You ready!?" he shouted, and I gave him the 'thumbs up'. I twisted the throttle and felt the back of the inflatable dig into the water as the tow-line went taut, and I looked across to see the water behind Turtle-man's boat churning away. After a few moments I felt we were making headway, and sure enough my boat popped free of the mud, and I raced over to keep it from flying across the narrow channel and running aground on the other side. Turtle-man moved along side too and I tossed him a line. Soon we were rafted together, making way slowly down channel.

"What happened," he yelled across to me - shouting to be heard over the sound of his motor.

"Hit a stump, ran aground. Something wrong with the prop!"

"What's it doing?!"

"Put it in gear, nothing happens!"

"Transmission linkage! Did you check that?!"

"Not yet! But I had a big leak from the stuffing box!"

"Go check the linkage; I'll hold us in the channel!"

I went below, squirmed my way into the engine compartment and with flashlight in hand felt the link with my other. Seemed intact to me, but I knew it would have to be checked under power. I backed out of the cramped space and went back up into the light.

"Seems tight!" I yelled, but then I noticed we were drifting quietly in mid channel. "Maybe I should try again."

"Don't bother. I can see your strut and shaft; the prop's gone. Got a spare?"

"Yeah, but Hank, these waters are full of big-bad monsters, if you know what I mean."

"Well, Belhaven ain't too far ahead; I can tow you there."

"You headed that way?"

"Yeah, come on, let's hook up a tow line. Maybe we can get to the marina in time for someone to take a look at it..."

+++++

We did just that, too. It turned out the prop had indeed come off, something very rare indeed. Probably corrosion on the retaining nut, the mechanic said. We mounted my spare prop and checked the transmission linkage, and the mechanic adjusted that, too, after he tweaked the stuffing box again. We were back in the water by sunset.

Hank was already tied up in the little marina, and I motored over and tied up beside his boat. He had his charcoal grill set up on the stern rail of his boat and was grilling steak.

"Did they get it done?" he asked.

"Yes indeed. Thanks again, Hank. Couldn't have done it without you."

"You hungry?" he asked as he nodded his head.

I looked at him for a second, realized I hadn't eaten all day and that I was indeed very hungry. The steak smelled good, too, goddamn it! "Sure."