Page 3 of The Sailor in Polynesia
Double-clicking on another video, I watched myself again.
“It’s a real privilege to be spending all this time in Kauehi. There have been other boats passing through while I’ve been here. Right now I’m all alone.”I panned around behind me, showing the empty waters around the boat.
“Sailboats coming through the South Pacific tend to stop for a few nights because it’s so beautiful. But most sailors are on a timeline to get through the islands before cyclone season starts, and since I’m going to storeWelinain Apataki again, I don’t have far to go. So my neighbors usually move on after a few nights.”
The clip ended on my face andGod, I looked haggard. I didn’t want to use any of this footage. How was I going to keep myself afloat without my videos?
* * *
Later, I pored over a cookbook, trying to find some inspiration for cooking with the meager supplies I had. It might be time to go into town again.
My thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar sound.
Living on a boat, I tried to attune myself to unusual noises. An unfamiliar banging of my sails? Might be chafing. Engine making a racket? Might have a blockage.
Blinking, I wiped the sweat off my brow and tilted my head, trying to listen for the noise again.
Clang clang clang...
I sat bolt upright.
“Are you fudging kidding me?” I said toWelina.“Square miles of beautiful water and someone is anchoring right next to us?”
I scanned the view around me and located the offender. Okay, they weren’t anchoringthatclose to me, but I was still irritated anyway.
My new neighbor was big and beautiful. At least, bigger than my home,Welina, the forty-five-foot Morgan sailboat. I recognized the lines: she was an Oyster, maybe fifty-five feet long. A young woman stood at the bow while the anchor chain clanged against the roller, dropping the anchor to the sand beneath the boat’s keel.
A man walked along the deck on the port side, hands passing from one part of the rigging to another as he weaved his way aft toward the cockpit. He was young too: tanned and shirtless, looking a bit scruffy, as cruisers were wont to do.
When he reached the woman on the bow, he slid behind her and gripped her hips affectionately. Together, they bent down and mussed with the anchor chain.
I bit my lip. Were they the owners or crew? It was rare to see young people cruising. I was thirty-five and I hardly ever met people my own age. Most cruisers were older: retired, or in early retirement. The quality of the boat made the crew category more probable; I’d met a few Oysters, and they almost always had crew.
The boat drifted back as her anchor dropped, her bow swinging to port, making it hard for me to see the cockpit. As the weight of the boat fell back onto the anchor, she aligned more with the wind and came to sit parallel to me, about a hundred feet offWelina’s starboard side.
Now I could see the helmsman. He was also young and shirtless, with a shock of nearly white hair pulled back into a small ponytail. He stood at the center cockpit, his hands on the wheel, one foot on the seat next to him. A big Norwegian flag flew off the stern of the boat.
My eyes lingered on the guy at the helm for a moment. I liked the way he held himself. He was relaxed and calm, definitely confident in his boat, his crew, his skills. I wished for a little of that confidence for myself. I used to have it. How could I get it back?
“Oh, poorWelina. Beautiful new boat, gorgeous young people on board.” I patted the canvas Bimini over the cockpit. “We’re a little scruffier, but we’re made of tough stuff, right?”
While I watched, another head popped up from the companionway. A tanned dark-haired woman entered the cockpit and surveyed the landscape.
She took in one of my favorite views in the whole world, and I tried to look at it through her eyes and remember what it was like the first time I sailed here, the first time I dropped anchor with the beach a hundred yards off my bow, coconut trees thick from one side of the motu to the other.
All this was fresh and new to these sailors.
I focused back on my new neighbors and found them looking at me. I also realized I was sprouting bitch wings—hands on hips, elbows cocked out—while I watched them, which wasn’t the friendliest thing to do. My hands fell to my sides.
And of course, my new neighbors waved.
I gave them a stiff wave back and decided maybe if I made myself scarce, they’d get the idea that I wasn’t interested in being chatty. I ducked into the companionway ofWelinaand gave my idle hands some busywork.
Two
Welinawas an excellent place for hiding. And also for being a creeper. Orspy, if you wanted to sound fancy.
I watched my new neighbors from the windows of my salon, confident no one could see me in the porthole. They were too busy to notice me anyway.
