River Man (2016 revision)

I unfurled the headsail and sheeted it in, and as I pulled the main out from the mast the boat took off like a demon possessed. She kept pulling to weather, moving to the north, like she knew the course I should steer. A gust slammed into us and she heeled over, and with the wind deep in her belly now we slammed into wave after wave; soon we were rolling along at close to eight knots, and I was burying the rail as I drove her hard to wind. We were charging into a newborn swell, huge walls of spray erupted as I buried the bow, and I yelled as the exhilaration of conflicting forces overtook me.

Oh, yeah baby, we're running now...

I am running...now...

Running, still. Always. Becoming.

Then, I could see the channel buoy ahead that marked the waterway -- that marked the locus of choice. We were making incredible speed over the ground. Ten more minutes to decide. Ten more minutes to challenge fate, to acknowledge Betty's sense of connection, or to keep running, running...

One mile to go...a half mile...a quarter mile...then I stood by as we passed the red buoy marking the channel intersection.

Left, right...what would it be...?

Left, right, left, right, the ticking of a clock, the beating of one human heart. Yes, no, yes, no...

+++++

I hate to keep paraphrasing Nietzsche, but to forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.

Of course I turned to the south, of course I turned away from Betty Hutton. But please, let ole Fred Nietzsche speak for me again, if you'd be so kind: 'To predict the behavior of ordinary people in advance, you have only to assume that they will always try to escape a disagreeable situation with the smallest possible expenditure of intelligence.' Come to think of it, didn't I mention somewhere along the way that I was now the apostate eternal optimist? So let's just dispense with all talk of an assumed native intelligence from here on, okay?

So, yes, I turned toward Beaufort. In order to see the truth, you need to listen with your heart.

And no, that's not Nietzsche. That's the voice of recent experience...

That said, I set my course for Red Nun Number 2 at the entrance to Adams Creek, and as I looked over my shoulder I vowed to never look back ever again. The main channel turned south then west, then south again, and narrowed to a width little wider than necessary for two boats to pass. The miles passed as the sun arced overhead, and with each passing mile my heart began to ache a little more. No sense of the ironic...that's always been my problem...

So no, I didn't listen. Not with my heart, anyway. Maybe with my ass, but that conjured up all sorts of unpleasant images I didn't want to deal with, or maybe I wasn't any good at listening anymore. Take it for granted -- I wasn't listening to my heart; I wasn't listening to Turtle-man, either. And I hadn't listened to Betty Hutton. Why should I trust her? Why?

Couldn't, not really...

Wasn't ready...yet...

No time now, gotta run...

Any number of excuses running through my mind, always running...

Another hour passed and I was at Core Creek, then the Newport River, and as I passed the little airport I turned left down a narrow channel and waited for a bridge to open, then motored into Beaufort proper. During that last stretch, before I docked on the waterfront, I watched as the engine temperature began creeping up and I hastily shut it down right as I pulled into the slip the dock-master indicated.

Fine. So that's the way it was going to be. Even the boat knew I'd made a great choice -and now it was pitching a hissy-fit. What the hell, she was Swedish. What can I say? My boat knows me better than I do.

So, I hopped off the boat, trudged up to the Harbormaster's to pay dockage, then asked where a good diesel mechanic might be found. There was another fellow in the office putting a business card on the bulletin board by the door, and the Harbormaster indicated here was my man, that he was the best in the area. I walked over, detailed symptoms. He listened attentively, looked intelligent. Name was Sven. Hey, is that instant karma, or what?

"I can get to it in the morning if you're in a hurry. Or I can wait 'til Monday. Save you on the overtime that way. Mind if I come down now and take a quick look around?"

"No, not at all. Ready when you are."

"Which one is it?"

"The white Hallberg Rassy down on the end. Liebestod is the name."

"Holy shit, a Wagnernite. Don't see that name around much these days, you know. Pretty fatalistic, don't you think, for a boat."

"It was my wife's idea."

"Oh, she down on board?"

"Only her ghost," I said as I slipped out of the Harbormaster's Office. And just like a ghost, I was getting pretty good at this slipping away thing...

+++++

The mechanic clunked and thumped around in the engine room for a few minutes, then came up topside for some air.

"A Volvo diesel? Don't see many of those anymore. Everything these days is Japanese."

"Swedish boat, ya know."

"Yeah. What is she, forty, forty-two feet?"

"Forty three. A little over a year old."

"Pretty wood down there."

"Well, it's my home now. I didn't want to live in a Clorox bottle."

"Know what you mean. Well, I think I know what's wrong. It shouldn't take more than an hour or so to fix. See ya first thing Monday."

"Well, we'll be here." The mechanic took off and I went below and turned on the heat. After a quick shower I steamed an artichoke and fixed some Earl Grey, then pulled out a cruising guide to the Carolina coast and flipped through the pages before settling on the section detailing the area around Beaufort. Where was the section on running away from things like destiny? Look under the table of contents, perhaps, or was there an index?

But...doesn't your destiny always catch up with you...?

I was looking for answers when I heard a familiar knocking on the hull.

"Marty? You down there?"

Turtle-man.

Oh, JOY. Not exactly what I had been looking for, was he?

+++++

"Howya doin', Hank? So, you decided to head south today?"

"I was about a mile behind you when you cleared the second bridge, and holy shit, Martin, your boat took off like it had been shot out of a cannon. Man, ain't you ever heard of reefing the main? I never seen a sailboat on it's rail like that!"

"Some days, Hank, you just gotta say 'what the fuck'; this was one of 'em."

"So, no Betty Hutton for you, huh. Kinda surprising."

I looked down as he said that, wondered why his talking about it bothered me. Actually, thinking about Betty made me hurt inside, and that's when I finally realized I hadn't been obsessing about Ruth for almost a day.

"I'm still not sure what I'm going to do about that, Hank. I had a temperature problem, you know, with the engine, and thought there'd be better mechanics down here." I hated the lie, but there it was. I was making excuses, covering my ass. Hank, the fucking asshole, looked at me knowingly.

"Sure, buddy. You had dinner yet? Smells weird down here."

"Artichoke. Tea."

"My God in heaven; you trying to poison yourself? There's a great, I mean great burger place up the road a piece. Good honky-tonk music, too."

"No way, Hank. Not tonight. I got way too much sun today."

"Really? Too bad, 'cause you're coming with me."

"Shit, Hank, what is it now? You found some loose women?"

"Always. Got at least one in every port, Marty."

+++++

We walked into town and found Hank's honky-tonk, and I sat with him and had a Coke while he ate his cheeseburger. The place was quiet, not a single bar-fly in sight, and I could see an air of quiet desperation on Hank's face. Alone only a few days and he was desperate, his eyes lonely and hunted, and I could just imagine he and his wife hadn't touched one another in years, and from what I'd seen and heard I couldn't blame him, but that's the trouble with making snap judgments like that. You never know until you hear both sides, and once again ole Fred said it best: Judgments, value judgments concerning life, for or against, can in the last resort never be true: they possess value only as symptoms, they come into consideration only as symptoms -- in themselves such judgments are stupidities.

The trouble with being a cynic, I was learning, was how totally stupid I had become. I had seen flashes of genius in Hank, moments when his goodness of heart shone through like a beacon. Maybe that woman was the same and my stupidity blocked all that from view.

But really, I digress. What could all that possibly have to do with me and Betty? Hadn't I fallen far enough? Did I simply have to pick myself up off the dirt and brush myself off again, jump on that old, worn out horse and chase that woman? Did I really want to fall again?

I guess you could say, after Hank finished his burgers and beer, that I had no interest in riding horses ever again, because gravity always wins.

+++++

I called Betty later that night, after I walked a dead-drunk Hank back to his boat and made sure he found his way down below without breaking his neck. It was late, and I hoped I wouldn't be waking her, but I figured by this point I owed the woman at least an explanation of my recent movements. She picked up, of course, on the first ring.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded elated, anxious, sleepy.

"It's me. Martin."

"Where are you?"

"Beaufort. Engine trouble." I wanted to get that fucking lie out there before I changed my mind. Anyway, I figured it would ease her sense of rejection.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Mechanic will fix it Monday morning."

"Uh-huh. So, what are you doing after that? Headed for South America?"

"I've been thinking. You said you were curious what it's like, what it's like to live aboard, go sailing. Did you mean it?"

"Yes, I did."

"You want to come down next week? Spend some time here, maybe go out a couple of times and get a feel for it?"

There was a long silence. Too long, if you know what I mean, then... "I don't know, Martin. Let me think about it, would you?"

"Sure thing. Take your time." I hung up the phone, disgusted with my growing inability to control what came out of my mouth.

+++++

I woke up the next morning feeling completely stupid. I was in a totally Nietzschean state of mind now, if the way I felt was an accurate indication of my new station in life. What did he say about women? Ah yes, women: They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent. I reckon he said that after getting the clap from that hooker in Köln. Wonder how high he got after that night?

+++++

The mechanic was true to his word and was there first thing Monday morning; I had coffee going when he tapped on the hull, and invited him down for a cup before he got started. We sat by the chart table for a moment, then went topside as the sun rose over dockside buildings and we talked about sailing for a while. Then right on cue, Turtle-man stuck his head out of his little brown shell and squinted at the world before he walked out into the light of day. He saw me sitting in the cockpit and waved, then walked over, and of course, he didn't disappoint.

"That coffee?" He asked as his round turtle eyes zeroed-in on my cup.

"Sure Hank. Help yourself."

"Where you keep the cups and stuff?"

I excused myself and went below -- sighing as I went -- and fixed another cup for Hank, then went back up and handed it to him.

"You gonna head out today, Marty?"

"We'll see what the doc here says about my Volvo, then figure out the next move."

"Oh," Sven said, "you'll be good to go by ten at the latest."

I heard my phone ring; it was down on the chart table so I ducked back below and flipped it on.

"Martin?"

It was Betty, scratchy connection.

"Martin? You there?"

"Ah, yes, I am," I said as I moved up and forward, looking for a better signal...

"You going to stay in Beaufort for a while?"

"Ah, yes, for now."

"Could I take you up on your offer?"

My heart skipped a beat.

"Martin?"

"Ah..."

"Martin, I know. I'm sorry. You reached out to me and I hurt you. I'm sorry, alright?"

"You don't have to apologize."

"Well? I want to join you for a . . . Look, I've found...I have someone looking after the shop this week, an old friend. Could we try it for a week?" The reception faded for a moment while she talked, but her words came on strong.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"In Beaufort."

"I see."

"And I see you."

I turned and looked up to the boardwalk above the docks; there between a host of radio antennae and sailboat masts I could just make her out. She waved at me, and my heart about leapt from my chest.

"Excuse me," I said to Hank and Sven as I jumped from the boat, and I walked hurriedly toward the gate by the Harbormaster's Office. She watched me, then started to walk toward the gate, and we met there and I kissed her. I kissed her hard.

"Stuff's in the car," she said when we finally came up for air. "I didn't bring much. Hope that's okay."

"You're here. That's all that matters." We held hands as we walked. We walked for what felt like hours. All truly great thoughts are conceived when walking, right after you get up and brush the dirt off your aching ass.

+++++

"Hey, y'all," Turtle-man said as we walked up to the boat an hour later. "Mechanic said you could pay his bill at the harbormaster's office; he had to take off. I think he finished all the coffee, too." Funny how you can tell someone's lying -- you know, the way they can't make eye contact, the way they look somewhere else -- and not at you -- when they lie.

"Yeah, thanks, Hank. Hope you enjoyed it."

He hopped down to the dock and scuttled away while I helped Betty board.

"So, where you wanna go?" I asked.

"Doesn't matter."

"OK, well, how about Tahiti? Bermuda? Maybe the Sandwich Islands?"

"The what?"

"Never-mind. I promise, you don't want to go there."

"Well, think in terms of a week."

"Well, we could duck outside, sail around the Outer Banks and up to Norfolk, then come down through the Dismal Swamp, back to Elizabeth City. You really ought to see the docks from the water, if you haven't already."

"Sounds good to me, Martin. Could we leave the car here?"

"Don't see why not, but I'll ask up at the office. What kinda clothes did you bring?" We inventoried her stuff, and she had everything but offshore foul-weather gear, so we ran up and I bought her some basic gear, then stowed her new stuff below. We had to re-park her car, but that was it -- all she had do to cut those ties that bind.

And yet, I think she found that ease disconcerting. I think everyone who cuts the cord and falls off the grid does. You think you really belong, that you're an integral part of all those things we call civilization, and to suddenly realize that 'civilization' really doesn't give a damn about you, that the world will keep on spinning in your absence...well, it's a moment not easily digested.

By noon we backed out of the slip and sailed from Beaufort and regained the Morehead City Channel, taking Fort Macon to the right and Shackleford Point off to our left, and with that we turned around and looked at land slipping away like memories we both no longer needed, or wanted.

Maybe it works both ways, this turning your back on civilization?

+++++

You can question the wisdom of taking someone who's never been sailing into waters off Cape Hatteras all you want, but if you pay attention to the weather and your vessel is sound, the passage is not all that bad. The waters near shore aren't terribly deep and consequently quite rough; not so if you plot a course well offshore and steer east-northeast, well away from Ocracoke -- and the Cape itself -- then head north along Currituck Sound overnight -- until your radar turns it solid mush.

Confused? Well, when radar goes wonky you know you're getting close to Norfolk; as you approach those waters it seems every naval vessel on the east coast turns on it's radar jamming equipment, and you keep a steely-eyed watch out for wandering, mammoth floating islands nominally called aircraft carriers. These goliaths lumber in-to or out-of Chesapeake Bay via the Thimble Shoal Channel, and their passage is quite a sight, really. Unless you manage to get in their way.

But, with perfect weather this passage makes a decent introduction to cruising in a sailboat, for anyone. We covered all the basic stuff, trimming sails and how to steer, and she seemed to enjoy herself as she steered over swells and danced her way across mounting, wind-driven waves as afternoon passed to evening, and as the breeze picked up -- then fell off again. She began to take a beating from the wind and the sun so I lathered her up and cooked dinner while she steered us into our first evening at sea. I set up the cockpit table and carried chow up and we ate as the sun set. This, I thought, had all the makings of a world class evening at sea...

Yet, I was looking ahead -- and just then thought I could make out a hazy speck on the northern horizon -- then I watched in horror as the speck grew insanely fast into a flaming streak. I just had time to say 'watch out' when two Navy jets went silently by a few hundred feet off our starboard beam, and they might have been, I guessed, fifty feet off the deck -- at most.

Then it hit -- their sonic boom -- like a physical blow. The boat - all 45,000 pounds of her - heeled sharply to port as the concussion slammed into us. Food flew off our plates as we listed, and I grabbed Betty as she slipped from her seat toward the water. The boat righted itself after a moment, and I cussed at the jets -- now turning for another pass. And there, about a mile behind us, I saw a U S Coast Guard cutter steaming towards us. Oh, this was getting just ducky!

_____________________________________

"Liebestod, Liebestod, stand-by to be boarded. Liebestod, this is the U S Coast Guard Cutter Hamilton, please acknowledge."

"Coast Guard, this is Liebestod. Understood."

"Roger, Liebestod, maintain present course and speed. Out."

Presently a huge inflatable boat with six uniformed -- and heavily armed -- sailors began to crash through the swell on it's way to our position, and as they pulled alongside I opened the boarding gate in the lifelines on the left side of the boat and stood back as the first of four armed coasties jumped on board.

"Just stay where you are and keep your hands where we can see them!" the first one aboard said.

"Not a problem," I said to the hawk-faced young man with the machine gun in his hand. His eyes flicked about the boat, taking in possible threats as he did, but his hand never left the M4 in his hands. "What can I do for you men, today?" I said.

"Just shut up, sir."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just shut up! We'll ask the questions!"

"I see. Could I speak to your commanding officer, please?"

"Just move out of the way, sir, while we search the boat."

"Help yourself," I said as politely as I could manage. Hawk-face ducked below; another machine-gun toting lad followed. Two more remained on deck; one of them walked over to me.

"Sir, hope you'll excuse Cargill. He's just out of Academy, takes things a little too seriously, if you know what I mean."

I looked at the two on deck; they were sweating and looked ill-at-ease.

"You men like a Coke or something?"

"Not allowed, sir."

"Fun job, huh?"

"Has it's moments, sir."

"Captain!" came the call from below. "Need to examine ship's papers!"

I went down the companionway, but not before asking the sailor to keep an eye on the helm. I slid into the seat behind the chart table and pulled out my binder with all my papers neatly organized, and I passed this to the young officer. He flipped through the pages quickly, then passed the books back to me. He, too, looked hot and sweaty.