my sphere. Whether or not I had particular gifts in that area had not mattered. We divided everything up unconsciously along gender lines I’d thought had been consigned to the cultural ash heap. For a poet, I had a lamentable lack of imagination around my daily life—losing myself in laundry and small fascinations. And Michael was the kind of dad who, when left in charge, would send urgent texts asking questions I’d answered when he was not listening the day before, so that I’d spend half of my time away conducting remote assistance, like a NASCAR crew chief.
Who says smiling isn’t important for men? He asked all his favors with remorseless good nature. He was confident in his actions, whether or not they were the right ones. Sybil would be hopping from foot to foot needing a toilet, but instead Michael would take forty-five minutes to lash a freshly cut Christmas tree to the car rack, as if we were going to drive home via the landing strip at Bradley airport.
But aboard the boat, our spheres overlapped, ungendering us. Because the boat was not just a boat, it was our home. So he understood what it meant to take care of it. On deck, he coiled the lines in perfect chignons. He liked to buff the chain plates and grease the winches. I had to learn how to slop fish guts overboard and start a flooded outboard motor; it was patently ridiculous to wait for someone else to do these things.
At first, my fears were confirmed—I was a barely competent crewmember. I bumped my head on the same things every day—the companionway, the shelving over the children’s berths. There was no learning. I was a cack-handed first mate, a housewife-on-the-run, a poet who’d run out of verse. I had my Ph. but not the D. Someday, due to my inattention, I was sure I’d be hit with the boom and thrown overboard, and the best thing about drowning would be that I wouldn’t have to pump the damned head anymore. The piston stuck. You had to grease it with olive oil every couple of days.
Everything at sea was an effort. Especially in the tropics, where equipment dried stiff or rusty or tacky after a downpour, and every crevice was clogged with salt…
I did not know that I was becoming a sailor.
I did not know what the sea would ask of me.
Naysayers? Turns out they’re everywhere.
One of the guys back in the Bocas boatyard, he used to get under my skin.
You rename the boat? this man asked me.
He wasn’t even the foreman, just some dude the other guys seemed to look up to, the one who considered himself big man. He had a gut, w/ skinny legs, and he wore American-style work boots, which no one else wore. Even I went around in supermini flip-flops. When the men worked, this guy would talk & talk. Literally nonstop, no one else ever taking a turn or interrupting him. It was like he was hypnotizing them w/ this endless monologue, which was only broken up by loud machinery.
Bad luck to change the name, this guy had said to me, shaking his head.
You think so? I said, trying to be friendly. I’ve heard that said.
We looked up at ‘Juliet’ in her cradle, her hull red like the breast of a robin.
Bad luck, he said again, still shaking his head.
Well you know, I said, people rename their boats all the time.
And you ever know what happen to those boats, my friend?
He tapped me on the arm, even though I was right there.
You study what happen to those boats?
Anger twisted in my chest.
Thanks for your concern, man, I said.
No problem, he said.
I really feel your love, thank you.
No problem, he said coldly.
I left him standing there, looking at me. Then he started up again with the talking.
Walking up the path I heard a chorus of laughter at my back.