Читать книгу Perfect Bait - Michael Douglas Fowlkes - Страница 14

Something so special, just a great joy, just to hear you laugh and to see the smile in your eyes.

—Jamie L. P. Stevens

Chapter 6

The smell of bacon frying was too much for my sleeping senses to ignore. I mustered all the energy I had to make my way into the kitchen. Seeing Jennifer standing in front of the old gas-burning Gaffers & Sattler, wearing a white cotton Oxford shirt, open and tied at her waist, with nothing on underneath, took my breath away. Hearing me come in, she half turned, innocently exposing part of her beautiful breasts, her eyes dancing.

“How about a little breakfast for dinner?” she asked.

Before I could answer, we were in each other’s arms again. We’d been in bed for twenty-four hours straight, and yet we still couldn’t get enough of each other. I lifted her onto the edge of the kitchen counter, and our bodies effortlessly blended together. Her legs wrapped around my waist, gently pulling me to her. The room glowed from the evening sun as it poured in through the farm-style curtains she had tied open over the deep trough porcelain sink. The insatiable urgency of our lovemaking had subsided, giving way to gentle desire. Our bodies rejoiced in their union. In contrast to the intense heat and fiery passion of the previous twenty-four hours, our lovemaking built now with its own sweet rhythm. Our bodies—way ahead of our minds—knew we weren’t going anywhere because we were already there.

By the time we sat down to eat, it was dark outside. A nearly full moon made its way over the eastern hillside behind her house, casting a soft blanket of light over the evening. We ate, showered together, and afterwards I brushed her hair—long, strong, healthy strands turned a rich, natural golden color from her days on the beach. Her entire being radiated life. I could almost hear her purring, as the last tangles gently broke free. Now I was able to get full, deep strokes with the brush as her hair shone and cascaded over her bronzed shoulders. We melted into the moment as our lives continued to fuse.

The weeks following were the happiest either of us had ever known. We were as much in love as any two people had ever been. Simple things, everyday activities, took on new textures and new meaning doing them together, from washing dishes, to walking Sierra. Jennifer even tried teaching me to surf, but that was a disaster. I never heard anyone laugh so hard watching me pearl time and again. Being together was all that mattered.

Brushing Jennifer’s hair became one of those little routines couples find themselves doing without really thinking about. It became an evening ritual that we both looked forward to. We’d sit together on the worn wooden steps of her front porch—Jennifer on the lower step between my legs—and I’d gently work through the tangles. We’d watch Sierra in the front yard running out to greet neighbors and strangers alike as they strolled along the sidewalk. We’d talk about the day or explore new ideas.

Jennifer was one of the most intuitive people I’d ever met—well educated, yet equally street-wise. I often had trouble keeping up with her. It didn’t matter, because wherever our conversations took us—from politics or far off lands to civil rights, religion or fame—we always ended up thankful for each other and our love. Some evenings we’d sit quietly, without words, watching the sun as it slipped into the Pacific, simply enjoying the world. We were content in what we’d found in ourselves, an unbreakable trust building between us, fortifying our love, filling us with self-confidence and strength the likes of which neither of us had ever known.

As much as I had always been a fisherman before I took to slinging hash, Jennifer had been an artist. Several of her pencil and charcoal sketches were neatly framed and hung in the short hallway between her bedroom and living room. Their simple, black wooden frames with gray matting directed your attention perfectly to the drawings on the off-white paper.

One sketch of an old fishing boat caught my attention the minute I laid eyes on it. It looked like something that had been built in the late thirties. She had drawn the boat from a perspective off the port quarter. The stern and rails running up to the bow blending into the fog were crowded with anglers standing shoulder to shoulder. A couple of the anglers were holding bent or tangled rods. One was leaning between the rails dipping a gunny sac; another angler was pulling what looked like a small calico over the rail. The captain was watching out of his wheelhouse window.

A deckhand was standing on the bait tank, a torn net by his side; another was reaching out for the calico. The wooden planking along the hull was buckling and worn. Obviously, her days were numbered, but not today. Not for this group. They were fully engaged, and she stood proud. The water around the boat was flat calm. She was anchored up just outside a kelp line, which was barely visible in the foreground.

The sketch stirred something deep within me. For the first time since my dad had been lost at sea, standing there, looking at her drawing, I felt a yearning to be back on the water.

“Whatcha thinking?” she asked, sensing something.

“How long it’s been.”

“Since, what?” she said, putting her arms around me, “since we made love?” Her gentle kisses melted me, melted away the past … repressed fears and pain alike.

“When I was younger, I used to fish with my dad,” I began to explain. “A long time ago. Your picture made me remember how much I used to like being on the water.”

“I actually drew that from memory off an old photograph I saw at a place called The Crab Cooker in Newport Beach.”

“It’s an amazing drawing.”

“Thanks,” she uttered humbly. “Do you miss being out there?”

“Haven’t until now.”

For the first time since we’d been together, I felt her withdraw—ever so slightly, but we’d become so in tune with each other, I noticed it immediately.

“What?” I asked.

Exposing her fears, unashamed and with her eyes open and honest, she hesitated before confessing, “I don’t want to be without you. Not even for a moment.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you just said you missed being on the water, missed fishing with your dad.”

I took her in my arms. “Oh honey, he’s dead, and there’s no way I’m doing anything without you.”

“I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“We got caught in a storm off Saint Matthew Island. The boat rolled over. Everyone got out except him. I haven’t been back out on the water since that night.”

“I’m so sorry,”she repeated.

“It was a long time ago.”

“But that’s horrible. Seeing your dad die. I can’t even imagine.”

“I was just a kid, and I really didn’t see him die. Everything was insane with the wind, the waves, everyone yelling. As soon as we rolled, the main died and a minute later, the generator quit so we lost all our lights. Everything went black. I was asleep in the wheelhouse, in my dad’s bunk. He was on watch. All I remember is him grabbing me out of the bunk, jamming my arms through a life jacket and pulling the straps so tight I could hardly breathe. I was completely disorientated because the boat was lying on her side. I was standing on one of the side windows looking down when suddenly it imploded. The wheelhouse instantly filled with freezing cold water. I remember my dad kicking open a door on the ceiling, which I later realized was the opposite side door of the wheelhouse, and pushing me up and out. Luckily, one of the deckhands was running up that side. He grabbed me, and in one motion, flung me over the side. I landed right next to the life raft that he’d been pulling up the side of the boat. Everyone else had made it into the raft. They pulled me in right as the boat turtled. The guy who had tossed me over the side kept diving down, again and again, trying to get to my dad, but we never saw my dad again.

Jennifer remained silent. Moments passed as the memories of that horrible, freezing cold night faded. “If we hadn’t been fishing with one of our code boats right next to us, we would have all died of hypothermia.”

Deeply in love, we were content spending our days flipping burgers and serving hash. Nights we’d go to a movie, build a fire, either in her river rock fireplace, or on the beach, or we’d just stay home, watching TV or reading. Sometimes we’d take a ride, and tonight we found ourselves driving along Harbor Boulevard, heading toward the tuna docks around G Street when the fog started to roll in. We drove under the Coronado Bay Bridge, past the Naval base along Cummings Road all the way down to Terminal Avenue. We were pretty much at the end of the road. We parked, got out and made our way over to the boardwalk. It was a seedy part of town, a place we’d never been before, so Jennifer was holding onto my arm a little tighter than usual as we headed into the abyss. Even Sierra was staying close, instead of her normal lead distance ahead of us. The thick eerie fog continued to roll in off the harbor. It was getting so thick we could barely make out the sparse weeds scratching a living out of the cracked concrete beneath our feet as we cautiously made our way along the ancient waterfront. Had we been walking in familiar surroundings, the thick silent mist engulfing us would have been romantic. But we were nowhere close to anything familiar.

Even though we were out of our element, it was still exciting exploring new territory, especially because we couldn’t see more than twenty feet in front of us. We made a game out of trying to figure out what the next shadow was lurking in the distance as we got closer and closer to it. All sounds around us were deadened. It was a little spooky as each new image emerged from the fog, taking on proportions larger than life. There was no one else around. The last people we’d passed were a half mile behind us.

We were right along the edge of the harbor, and a slight tidal surge was pushing along the crumbling seawall. Other than that, everything was virtually still. We were parallel with National Avenue, which was a few blocks inland but may as well have been a continent away. With the exception of the distant foghorn sounding off the lighthouse on Point Loma, you couldn’t hear a thing. The world by the water’s edge, past the naval shipyards heading towards National City, was deserted. All along that stretch were long piers designed for huge ships—nothing like the crowded docks around the marinas. Down here between the fingers were vast areas of open water.

“Let’s turn around and head home,” Jennifer said.

As she spoke, something caught my eye just ahead. “Mind if we check this out first?” I asked, pointing ahead.

“Okay,” she slowly agreed, “but after that, let’s go home. I’m getting scared.”

“We can turn around right now,” I said, stopping. “No problem.”

She hesitated, sensing something. She gazed into the dense fog ahead. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing. It’s no big deal. Let’s go home and make some popcorn.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I can tell something’s got your attention. What is it?”

“Nothing, really. I don’t know. Just a feeling. Curiosity is all,” I said, dismissing the feeling and starting to turn around. “I just wanted to see what was next.”

“Then let’s go investigate,” she said without a moment’s hesitation, giving my arm a little squeeze and leading the way. “What do you say, Sierra?”

Sierra wagged her tail and pranced out a few paces ahead of us, but not too far. Maybe only another minute later, as we kept moving south, there it was, just ahead of us, mysteriously shrouded in heavy fog, but taking shape before our very eyes. As we got closer, she loomed larger and larger in the fog. The tide was in, so she was riding high over the seawall. We stopped. My breathing became shallow. Something about that boat reached out and touched me. We’d stumbled onto something I couldn’t resist.

Most people don’t know boats have souls, and the few who do, don’t talk about it much. It doesn’t matter if it’s been carved out of ironwood, cedar, spruce or white oak, welded from half-inch steel plates or aluminum, glued together with layers of marine plywood, cold molded, injected, hand laid or laminated. Once a boat’s keel has touched water and she’s sailed from her safe harbor, she takes on a soul of her own—a soul as real as anything on earth. If you’re one of the fortunate few blessed enough to be able to hear them talking, then you know. You’ve listened to their stories of waves as tall as buildings and winds that blew so hard they took the top of the ocean with them—stories of storms so fierce they reshaped coastlines, taking lives and ships with them. But by the grace of God, the boats recounting such tales—the ones that somehow managed to ride out the fury and stay afloat, delivering their crews safely home—are the ones whose tales of heroism, bravery and tragedy shape the lives of those who work the sea for a living. Every vessel, large or small, has her story, and we were about to become a part of one.

We inched closer to the edge of the seawall. She must have sensed us before we saw her. She was now only a dozen feet away—broken, abandoned and covered with guano, but still holding on like a trapped animal—too wounded and exhausted to run away, too proud to cower. Her dull, lifeless paint was blistered in random, ugly blotches. Jagged pieces of half-inch glass protruded from her cracked and broken wheelhouse windows. Her uneven teak decks were warped, buckling, split and black with fungus and neglect. Rust stains streaked her hull. She was listing hard to port, sitting well below her waterline. Looking at her powerful, bold lines standing out against the fog, I could only imagine how proud she must have once been. She had strong, classic lines, but definitely was now a lady in distress. We stood and listened, but heard not a whimper. No cries for help. Only silence. She’d been beaten hard and put away wet, but she wasn’t dead. How much life she had left was anyone’s guess, but from the looks of things, she didn’t have much. Yet, in spite of everything, she still held herself with pride and dignity, as if she’d accepted her fate and was going down with class.

“How come she’s chained to the dock?” Jennifer asked.

My stomach lurched at the injustice. “I don’t know.”

We moved along the broken chain link fence a little farther. Jennifer spotted a rusty sign hanging off the barbed wire on the rim of the fence.

WARNINGOFF LIMITS TO ALL BUT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL SAN DIEGO COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT HARBOR DIVISION KEEP OUT

“She’s in jail,” Jennifer said chuckling. “Wonder what she got busted for.” I took my eyes off the boat just long enough to give Jen a sideways glance. “What?” she asked, holding her arms out to her side playfully. Looking back at her again from the fog, her eyes dancing, I couldn’t help but laugh with her. Pausing, she asked again, “What is it? You’ve got a look in your eye.”

I answered helplessly. “I think I’m in love.”

“You’d better be,” she said immediately, throwing her arms around my waist and pulling me close. She got up on her tiptoes to half bite and half kiss my lower lip.

“You know how much I love you,” I said after a full kiss, dispelling any jealousy that might have been creeping into her brain.

“More than anything?” she asked.

“More than life, itself.” We kissed again. “But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about her.”

She smiled as both our gazes returned to the old boat. After awhile, Jennifer nestled her head against my chest. “I’ve always wanted to try a threesome.”