to describe it, so what are my chances? Me, Michael Partlow. Michael Partlow, who can’t tell you the title of a single poem. Just ask my wife, her head is full of them.
* * *
—
A stroke of good luck: There’s a problem at the bridge, and all boats have been held up. I pull in to the marina parking lot just as the captain, Merle, texts me an ETA of twenty minutes. Sybil shoots out of the car before I can pass on the information. She’s already down the footpath and onto the main dock, her feet thundering over the boards. It’s useless to call her back.
The dockmaster, Olin, comes out of his office, shirt sleeves rolled up, squinting uphill as I pull on my sweater. There’s another, younger man with him. They walk toward me.
Good afternoon, Olin calls. It’s the big day.
I laugh. Can you tell we’re excited?
Olin offers his substantial hand my way. He’s a good-looking older man. Older? He’s probably not much older than I am. I like him.
This is Miles, he says, gesturing at his companion. He’s my dockhand. My unofficial photographer. And my nephew.
I shake Miles’s hand. The kid blushes. He’s got a camera around his neck.
Miles wanted to meet you, Olin says. He’s read about you. We all followed your story closely. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.
No, I say. I don’t.
I look out to the open water. With a glance, I know she’s not out there. Only a powerboat, two unfamiliar yachts, and the crisscrossing sails of some student keelboats. It’s funny how every boat has its own gait. I could tell hers in an instant.
We’re thrilled to have Juliet here, Olin says. She’s a special boat to us.
Thank you, I say.
You should know that any of us would be happy to help you crew, he says. If you want to sail her around the Sound. Anytime. When you’re ready.
The sailing community is a tight one. It’s partly pride—sailors are a clan of the sea, invisible to land dwellers. But their bond is also practical. For such brave souls, they have to spend a great deal of time clinging to their VHF radios, to get the news only other sailors know. Some of them dutifully keep the emergency channel open at all times. A steady stream of nautical gossip comes through in this manner. As soon as they’re at port, they hop on one of the online cruising forums and word spreads. I guess that’s how everyone knew about Juliet before I even brought her in to Kingston. I can almost hear Michael chuckling. Nosey know-it-alls. Can’t wait to tell you what you did wrong.
We walk to the end of the main dock, where Sybil already waits, hair blown back. Overhead, the September sky is cobalt. Clouds cross at a clip. Flags on the bridge snap in the wind.
We’re just going to tie Juliet up on the face dock for now, Olin tells me. We’ll fuel her up for you, unload the crew. You’ll have her all to yourself in no time. The captain will most likely give you a list of stuff to fix. Anything that broke on the sail up from Kingston. My advice? Read it later. Olin smiles handsomely. I know of what I speak, he says.
Uh, Mrs. Partlow? stammers Miles. I’d like to get a picture of you with your boat. If it’s OK. I don’t want to—
I look at the kid. He’s got clean, kinky hair, an air of newness.
I smile. It’s OK, really.
Mommy! Sybil cries.
She points. It’s Juliet. Juliet is coming.
She slides out from under the drawbridge. Bowsprit first, with her trademark carvings, her jib unfurled to show the brick-red trim on the luff, the red of her hull glimpsed just above the waterline, her mainsail at a comfortable trim. Behind her skips Oily Residue.