West End
Kyle switched hands on the tiller and gave Regina his used toothpick. She looked at the frayed end and flipped the pick into the Atlantic.
“Regina, you know we only have half a pack left. I wanted you to put that back in the galley to save for tomorrow.”
“Sorry, Kyle, I thought it was finished. I can do without my share.”
“There was one end left. Just ask if you’re not sure. Always ask. Remember that.”
He turned his head the other way and she saluted. He looked so distinguished with his graying hair curling from under his hat, but he never lightened up on her sailing education. They had been sailing the Spring Fling together for the last six years of their marriage. Kyle was a sailor above all else, even when the idea of owning a boat had just been a twinkle in his eye.
“Nice turn of the bilge,” he’d said to her the first time they slept together, when she was just nineteen, nearly twenty years in the past. At the time she didn’t know he was comparing the shape of her buttocks to the hull of a sailboat.
He turned back to face her. “Do me a favour. Go down in the cabin.” He looked off to port.
“And do what?”
“Go down and I’ll tell you when you get there.”
She felt a retort like backwash in her throat but swallowed it. She turned to step down the companionway steps.
“Regina!”
“What?”
“Oh, I thought you were going to walk down forward instead of backward,” he said.
“Don’t you think I know anything?”
He didn’t answer, was staring off into the horizon again.
“Okay. I’m waiting. Kyle?”
“Go into the forward starboard locker on the second shelf toward midships.”
“And?”
“Get the little black leather case and find my fingernail clippers.”
“Why didn’t you just ask for the clippers? I know where you keep them.”
No answer.
She didn’t expect one. She took the clippers up and pressed them into his hand.
“Now take the tiller. Keep the compass on ninety degrees.”
“Gotcha, Skipper.”
Regina took the smooth varnished tiller and held it gently with two fingers as Kyle had shown her again and again. She shifted her eyes from the compass to the top of the mast to check the wind vane. They were sailing on a run, straight downwind, with the jib to port and the main to starboard. It was going to be tricky to keep the boat on course and the sails filled. She didn’t want to jibe. Even in these light conditions, Kyle would have a fit. The Pearson forty-two-footer was their only child.
Kyle put his head down and began working on his nail.
Regina was sailing well, keeping the course, barely moving the tiller. She’d found the groove.
Kyle said he needed to go down to take off his foul-weather gear and get into some lighter clothes.
“Fine, honey,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
He stepped below and she filled herself with fresh salty air. She looked at the small islands in the distance, Carter Cays. They only had three miles to go until they could anchor for the night and make a nice conch chowder for dinner. Conch. Conch had become her favourite seafood. She remembered the conch fritters she’d had at the Star Bar in West End a few days before.
She thought of one of the locals, Rodney. She’d danced three times with him. Ooh, the sway of his young hips, the way he smoothed her hair behind her ear. He said he liked long blond hair. He was probably fifteen years younger than she was. Kyle was fifteen years older. That was balance, she thought. Just like the sails. If the sails are balanced, the slot is just right for maximum speed and stability. Sailing, that’s what she should be thinking about.
The jib began to flutter. “Starboard!” Kyle said. He always caught the least sound, didn’t even look up.
She’d already turned slightly to starboard, but as always, she jumped at his order and turned some more. It was too much. The wind caught the backside of the main and, before she could correct her course, banged the boom across to the other side. The noise sent lightning zinging through Regina’s brain.
“Fuck. God damn, Regina. You trying to tear the rigging off the fucking boat? Can’t I count on you to do anything for one second? Jesus Christ!”
She didn’t answer. It was true, she’d let her mind wander and her hand follow. She needed practice. But maybe she didn’t want any. She looked at the mast. Luckily no harm was done. Kyle went forward to inspect.
The long day became longer when Kyle felt it necessary to re-anchor three times at Carter Cays. He refused to get an electric winch, being a purist in every sense. He refused anything to make sailing easier and only used the engine for docking, anchoring, and emergency. They’d sit for days if the wind died or tack for a week with the wind tight on the nose. He even anchored and picked up under sail, if possible.
Today, thank God, it wasn’t possible in the small space between the island and the shoal. Kyle pulled in the anchor from the bow while Regina worked the tiller and throttle.
“Starboard, more, more!” Kyle screamed.
“Starboard!” She repeated his order as instructed. She had pushed the tiller immediately, but the boat never responded fast enough for Kyle to realise. Soon she’d gone too far.
“Port! Port!”
“Port!”
“Neutral! Neutral!”
“Neutral!” she yelled.
She went through it at every stop, every spring, when Kyle decided it was time for a couple relaxing months in the Bahamas. She loved the water and exploring the small islands and snorkeling across the shallows to find conch. She could swim with the exotic fish and nosy barracudas all day, but Kyle’s anal attitude never ceased to make her nervous.
He dropped the main and told her to get the sail cover, although she was already bringing it up from below. She tied the cover over his neatly rolled sail, exactly as he had instructed her over the years, shifting and straightening it until it was perfect and she was dripping with sweat.
“Sit down,” Kyle said when she’d finished. He was sipping a gin and tonic. He motioned her to the cockpit.
She thought of having a drink herself, but decided to wait until after his lecture. Kyle wouldn’t think she was attentive enough.
“Do you know why you jibed today?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” she answered.
“Then tell me.”
She gave a long and tedious description of how she’d turned too far and the wind had gotten behind the sail, then waited through his repetition of everything she already knew. Her mind floated back to the Star Bar. She was caught up in a warm breeze of memory and feeling, swaying next to Rodney, although she had never touched him.