CHAPTER XV. THE OCEAN SWELL

Your hero takes to sea.

This chapter paints a novel picture. I am now at sea. That change is just location, as there is no call to clarify.

 A city dweller was out of his element? Like any American of sensible stomach, I favor turf over surf. A seafarer might have the legs, but steps safely to dry land, every paddler, yachtsman, ferry passenger assuming an irregular risk. Although when the big one hits, the ocean is the safest place—fish fear no tsunami. A distant splash of white skimmed the gray canvas, the albatross flagging the only life this side of Japan. With my crossbow I shot. What possessed the Mariner? My newspaper was no match for the breeze, but I had scanned the front page while we were roped to the dock. A ferry had capsized in the Philippines, hundreds missing. The gulls would witness spastic thrashing, the circling of sharks. The waters before me were cold and deep, the shore barely visible. Who knows when help would arrive? I am not the strongest swimmer.

And I faced the seas alone. The craft had a crew, but my shipmate was away on business. Balancing himself at the prow, he clutched the rail with one hand while deploying the other for more intimate support. Long khaki shorts revealed stocky legs smeared with industrial-strength white sunblock. A narrow stream departed to starboard, briefly sparkled in the sun before the wind dispersed the spray over the ocean heave. I took advantage of his deserted post to change the CD. The boat’s constant pitching was already troubling my terrestrial innards, and Huey Lewis pushed the torment beyond human capacity. Would the other party possess any passable music, let alone the provision? I rummaged through his monogrammed leather bag—AC/DC make a bigger blast, and I made the substitution before his circuitous return.

“Ahoy Cap’n.” I dug for another icy can. “After half an hour fondling yourself, you must be thirsty.”

“Have I got something to fondle! Drives them crazy. I’m feeling it today, yeah baby.”

“And I’m feeling nauseous. That didn’t help.”

“No doubt, Merrywuss. No action in your bed”—the man taunts like a show wrestler—“other than turning the pages of a book!” But really, what does he know? If I am little inclined to boast, that does not mean . . .

“Nothing coming your way either, sport, I hope. Three men on a boat here.”

The boor bolted his beer. “You might have a surprise coming.” The tease withdrew a phone from the pocket of his shorts, “Meh. No signal!”

“How will the world survive without you?! We’ll get back, and dogs will have forgotten how to fart.”

“Fuck you.” The boor was playing the role, but with little conviction. “Fuck you”—the loudmouth was uncommonly muted—“and your mother.” The villain was preoccupied. “Though let’s wait till you’re out of the hospital, I told her!”

 The lawyer was still on the clock. Bill reads the fine print, subjects his wife’s bank statements to microscopic scrutiny, and depends on a designated driver: a freckled, tousled-haired friend of his son. Emerging sporadically on deck, our helmsman had little to say, his nautical experience on tap for monetary reward rather than love of the sea. The yachting marina trades solid land for a slippery realm of brown skin, bare feet, loose women, and little gainful employment, for which Zeke made no apology, holding his present company in predictable contempt. Bermuda shorts and a surf shop T-shirt bagged his wiry frame. Still, a girl might give him an eye. One had already stepped out of her dress for his benefit, a coupling that an older man might chance to picture? That vision was the farthest thing from my mind, trust me. Bill refused his crew member another brew, and the insolent brat grumbled back to the wheelhouse.

Drake sailed the coast of California. Another expedition was underway, our compass set to north. A brick-red fortress guards the gate, but we escaped the Bay unnoticed, sneaking under the steely span. Our Golden Hind chugged past a raft of pelicans, school of dolphins, and disorientation of kayakers before making the ocean our own. A terrestrial animal only takes to the ark with trepidation, and I had fortified my stomach with Dramamine, wrapped my bones with a thick sweater, and shaded my eyes with a floppy canvas hat that left my face exposed to saltwater spray. The coastline was still visible, though Bill had lost his bearings, his phone out of range.

“How are your kids?” I was just making casual conversation.

“Doing great, man, doing great. Lily’s got a job lined up, going to work for the EPA. Not my first recommendation, but it’s her life.”

“A liberal in the family. Tell me it’s not true.”

“And Noah got the letter a few days ago, accepted at Princeton.”

“Congratulations. No surprise, he’s a smart kid. Unlike some of his buddies.” I nodded behind us.

“Takes after his father.” He checked his phone again, a pigeon forlornly pecking an empty husk. “You hungry? Grub in the cabin, and a microwave. I won’t even charge you.”

“Stomach’s a little dodgy, shame to throw up all over your shorts. Look so good on you.”

“I’d rub your nose in it.” The marauding Viking scanned the distant headlands, closing the book on family news.

“And Alice?” I was taking a risk. The prosecuting attorney is given to cross-examination. But liquor dulls suspicion. In any case, I was entirely above reproach.

“Fine, I guess. Who knows?” He interrogated his beer.

“Not following in your footsteps, huh? Mr. Greed is good.”

“Tell you what, sonny boy, whatever my wife says, I don’t have any special soft spot for Alice. I treat all my kids the same. I’ve given them the opportunity, whatever it takes. Up to them to take advantage. I’m not spoiling anyone, don’t have any time for, you know, Woe is me, I’m so depressed.”

“That’s what she says?”

“What she tells her mother. Knows better than to pull that shit on me.”

“And I was going to share my feelings!”

“I had nothing when I was a kid, had to look after myself, no real parents, you know the story. And I made it just fine. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t know how good you’ve got it.”

Bill is a despicable creature. Yet a dog barks for attention, and booze boosts a show. The lawyer denies favoring the younger daughter, but the case would not stand up in court. “By the way, my friend, you’re very curious about her.”

 “Man, I love this baby.” He fondled the virgin varnish. Greta Garbo rarely sets sail, a craft of harbor display more than maritime adventure. “Cost a fortune, I’m telling you.”

“Just as well your billing statements run to extortion.” I chose to make light. The braggart gives me to believe his ownership, though the yacht belongs to a client. I had a favor to ask.

“And what keeps your precious store going?” His beer consumption over the threshold, his native belligerence spilled. “Porno. Yeah, slap that bitch.”

“We carry some classic erotica, not that your diseased imagination could understand the difference. It’s hard for you to credit, but many people live for serious literature.”

“Merrywuss has been on precious NPR. Whoop-de-doo.” His jacket flapping in the wind, his horn drowning out the throbbing engine, a liberated litigator leaned back and harangued the cloudless sky. “Give me a break. You couldn’t make it as a lawyer, don’t forget, couldn’t take the heat. Mommy’s boy had to have his little nervous breakdown.” Resentment chafes his vittles. A charitable admission, he struggled in law school. Students of better breeding overlooked his rough-and-tumble background, recoiled at his unprovoked animosity, though I saw through the self-protective bluster when we roomed the first year. I had to abet his graduation, and revenge has charted his subsequent career. Although his friendship with a serious bookseller redeems a mercenary reputation, and he accepts the debt. At least he should.

“Water off a duck’s back!” A wave did break over the deck. I gripped the bench, remote from public radio. “Nervous breakdown, chirp chirp chirp. I left the firm of my own free will. I’d rather be Socrates dissatisfied, as a utilitarian once said.” I really don’t care, trust me. What a crock. All right, I might have raised my voice a little, but though the actress belonged to the silent era, our Garbo had a diesel engine.

“Socrates! Nice to meet you, I’m sure. Got it all figured out, haven’t you? I don’t think so, Socrates, your dingy little refuge is an escape from the real world. Harvard was expecting more of you.”

“Indeed. Their endowment is down to forty billion, practically staring at the poorhouse. They hit me up for money every week.”

“Like trying to get laid in Antarctica—”

“I’m not destitute.”

“Yup, you get a woody down there, often enough!” The man dropped a childish finger. “Not that I’ve been looking, but you know how women love to gossip. My wife finds it quite flattering, I’m sorry to say.”

“Connor, you’ll have to try harder than that . . . er, in a manner of speaking.”

“You can’t get any now, never gotten married in the first place if it weren’t for me. Spent life on your lonesome, spanking the monkey sore.”

“I enjoy my own company, more than I can say for—”

“Now your wife, a different story.”

I ignore him, trust me. The savvy stroller steers clear of the gutter. Some accusations are so preposterous that the tongue is simply inadequate for meet response. My dignified and long-suffering sigh would have to serve as his rebuke. The blur of truth in his inebriated outburst was ancient history. Christine was Gloria’s sorority sister at Stanford, a regular guest at their dinner table and visitor to the vacation hotel. He insists they sent her my way, but the claim lacks corroboration. In any case, I have really nothing to thank them for. Better to have loved and lost than not have loved at all, according to Mr. Faulkner, but why such a bleak dichotomy? Seasonal Employment led to fan mail, even some phone calls, if rather awkward. Maybe I could have started something with that woman from Connecticut who wrote. The photograph was quite interesting.

 The sign designates a scoundrel. But the bearer burrows in his books. You might then suppose a delicate nature, like the indoor plant, dairy cow, church mouse, plump house cat. And I rarely set foot in a boat. Miles offshore, at the sea’s mercy, a dignified bookseller had leave to heave, suffered a sun-grilled headache, squinting at the unforgiving churn through salt-encrusted and wind-blasted eyes.

Yet I am no benighted bookworm. The retired ranger still loves the great outdoors. Christine was a cyclist, and I could easily keep up, thank you very much. Hit the road, Jack! I’m going to the country! Climb every mountain! I throw myself at the elements, like a surfer to the wave. Haul away Joe, sing the sea shanty, and pour me another beer.

“Compete with everybody, don’t you Connor? Just can’t relax.”

“What am I doing now?” He popped another beer, took a sloppy draught. Waving round the lurching vessel, he contrived to spill over my sneakers.

“You could say goodbye to your ulcers if you gave up trying to impress the world. Live longer too.”

“Human nature, all about competition.”

“For the developmentally disabled.”

“I’m the truth.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“My constitutional right.” He belched on cue. I would remind him that he failed that class, but the squabble was growing tiresome. And prudence prunes the vine of venom.

 We need the check of conversation. My supposed companion is not the most rewarding source at the best of times, but even that distraction was denied me, the sorry source now slouching in slumber. Another head was swimming. Some fish can really fly. The whale was on the tail of the Pequod. How long before the ghost ship? The song was turning stale, monotonous seas taking their toll, wave upon wave upon wave, our course singularly lacking for island interruption. The most seasoned sailor surely stirs at the sight of shore.

Let’s take a stand. Men belong to the earth. Yet that element, too, wearies the walker, when the long, dusty trail is far from cooling dip. The landlubber is still drawn to the water’s edge, hikes along the creek, picnics by the pond, vacations on the beach, builds a house on the lake. And water stops the gaze of another traveler. Through the airplane window, the setting sun fixes a fascination, a vein of gold that bends across the land, imposing a proportion on the continent, circulating the vital fluid around the world. A river has a mouth. I made out our destination.

 I quite like to paint a picture, as you know. I really love to sing a song.

Rolling, rolling, rolling on the river. A high snow field gives birth to an infant stream, which runs wild through mountain meadow, rushes through steep gorge, carves into inhospitable desert before coming of age between banks of human reinforcement. And the course reverses medieval alchemy, precious metal turning base, quicksilver trout to leaden lamprey, clear creek to muddy estuary, mountain air to industrial smog.

Take me to the river. A bookseller takes pride in his geography section. And a young schoolboy found inspiration in a classroom atlas, whose bright colors patched the Earth into water and dry land, black circles dotting the borders, a graph of townships clustering on the shore.

Down by the river. Our cities find the inlet: How many tribes have settled, writers dreamed, inventors schemed, explorers launched their voyage where the river meets the sea? Neither can we ignore the desperate smuggler, convict stowaway, shanghaied cabin boy, nor forget the bloated flotsam corpse. At the collision of disparate elements, no single law prevails. Fresh water sours into salt, the land’s waste drains into ocean dump, low tide exposes rank mud, and the bend of sluggish river defies correction.

  “I have no problem with charity.” Our skipper assumed the prow. The helmsman had cut the motor, and we were gliding upriver into the once thriving harbor of our destination. “But I’m not supporting your sorry ass all day. Daddy needs an hour to himself.”

“The righteous never rest!”

Little else was moving. A row of dilapidated warehouses lined one bank, while the wooded hillside of the other rose steep and uninhabited. Fishing boats mingled with leisure craft under the high span that carried the coast highway. A couple of raucous gulls had flown out to greet us, and as we slid by a quaint pink houseboat, the giant gray mass on the floating dock resolved into the fur of a lumpen marine mammal. The weathered planks abutted a pier leading to an old canning plant, converted into the inevitable tourist gallery. Passing the sea lion, I had to hold my nose, but we tied up landward of the foul-smelling obstruction.

“That joint has a bar.” Bill motioned towards a mollusk in sailor’s cap, River Clam House waving over the tinkling of moored yachts. “Got me some business. I’ll holler when I’m done.” Our captain signed his orders with a belch.

“Business? You’re wasted.”

“I got this.”

 “Good job, young man. I’m having a blast today. ‘A sailor’s life for me.’” Our ground was allegedly solid, but the world still turned, my head revisiting the swell. The shack featured the usual nautical bric-a-brac and one alleged server, who contrived to ignore my presence. I insisted on the Clam House’s signature dish, before berthing unsteadily by the window, Garbo faking innocence below. The city lay hours down the highway. Bus service was unlikely. I could try and hitch a ride.

“Lend me ten bucks, bruh.” Zeke had followed me ashore, evicted from his post. “Starvin’ like Marvin.”

“No cash, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll put it on your tab.” The youth had stuffed his face all morning, but I thought better of refusal. The seas were rough enough already, without a malevolent hand on the wheel. He did the thumb and pinky thing. “Wanna drink with you, bruh. We got a minor age problem. Waitress don’t care.” She certainly cared little about my lack of utensil. “It’s her boss. Next trip, maybe?”

“Can’t wait.” I saw no need to pretend, the brat to hide a smirk.

“You know Bill’s daughter, right?”

“Our captain has two daughters, at least we are led to believe.”

“Alice. The funny looking one, thinks she’s a nigger.”

“Charming! If I ever see her again, I will be sure to relay the compliment.” His elder and better put the budding Klansman in place. “You know her too, forsooth?”

“For sure.” The buffoon overdid the chortle. “Lots of guys know Alice, haw-haw.”

I steadied myself. But please, suppose no blow of consternation. The high seas had been pounding my equilibrium all morning long.

“Big trouble bruh, gonna get yourself burned.” My oracle shook his wrist, blowing on his fingers. “Whew.”

 I engage in entomology. The giant horsefly, Tabanus bovinus, needs blood to rear its young. The parasite uses scissorlike mandibles and anticoagulant to create a lasting wound, leaving the host susceptible to disease. Some creatures are malignant in the membrane. The fly bites with abandon, although the thick hide of the elephant is impervious to attack.

I swatted him away. A flagrant attempt at mischief, the punk would have to do better than that.

My bottle sat untouched. The stomach had yet to extend permission. The scrounger made his grab, tipped the contents down his underage throat, and fled for more lively company. The greetings he first exchanged with the short-skirted waitress suggested prior acquaintance and forecast my neglect, her tip seeing yet further reduction. The river snaked into the coastal redwood forest in the vapors of the early afternoon sun. And little stirred, the log we brushed past in the channel still floating in midstream. Flags flapped lazily on the mast. A cormorant with outstretched wing perched on a metal piling, the monstrous sea lion still lay on the dock, between our deserted yacht and the pink houseboat. Spent from his ocean battering, another log began to drift.

 I revived to some development. A picturesque woman had materialized on the boards below, her reddish summer dress a splash of color against the hazy riverscape. The arrival lingered at the top of the ramp. She must live on the boat at the end of the walkway and had returned to find an unwelcome visitor, the massive sea lion blocking her way home. Pauline takes floating residence at her peril, but help might be at hand. A man of business emerged on the deck of the yacht, between imperiled and impediment. Noting her hesitation, he jumped onto the same planks that supported the sprawling behemoth. Dizzy from the ocean’s pummel, my vision blurred by glint, I saw Ahab and his nemesis—the monster had turned white and waved a whiskered cudgel.

I move to mammalogy. The California sea lion, Zalophus californiaus, feeds on shrimp and sardine, but half a ton of blubber presents a formidable proposition; no faint heart would dare. Goliath gave a battle cry, a bark that echoed around the harbor, rattled my clams, and frightened the cormorant into flight. I hold the man in habitual contempt, but had to admire the pluck.

The houseboat had a welcome mat. But a dark gray obstacle rose in defiance. The comely tenant keeping her safe distance, a more familiar figure took his stand, between beauty and a beast. And he stood empty-handed. Pleasure craft have little call for lethal weaponry, and the indifferent river could offer no assistance. The still waters were ready to receive. From my arena seat, I looked over an ominous calm, watched a brewing storm, waited a gladiatorial clash. The lady in distress warily approached her savior, but the torment took a yet more troubling twist. The forlorn woman drew level with the yacht. And as she reached her rescue, the man jumped back up on deck, to extend a helping hand. Hayward and Fremont have clients up and down the state, so I withheld censure as he hoisted her onboard. A disgusted sea lion had seen enough, slid off the dock into a watery purge. Perceiving a pat to a posterior, I could reserve judgment no more. The man was bunking the business.