Come Alive Ch. 01

'Maybe because you're too fucking old, you asshole?' he said, grinning.

"What are you smelling about?" she asked.

"I can't wait to taste my masala. I bet it's going to burn my lips off."

Rolf laughed, she smiled...a little, too.

Then their plates came.

"You know," he said, looking directly at Britt, "over in the States when we order like this, we share. We each take a little bit from each dish, so that way we get to sample them all."

And she looked right back at him: "No way. I am not so stupid."

"Rolf? You think you're up to the challenge?"

"What did you say? Bring it on, Baby?"

"That's my man. Pass me your plate!"

He split his serving into two portions and put half on Rolf's plate, then he did the same with Rolf's vindaloo. Staring at this culinary armageddon, he ripped off a piece of naan and pushed some vindaloo onto his fork and ate it.

The heat built slowly, and it was noticeably warm but not overwhelmingly hot, so he took a deep breath and loaded his fork with his weapons-grade masala. One look at the fumes rising from his fork should have been ample warning, but he sighed then put the fork in his mouth.

He chewed twice and swallowed, then downed a glass of water - which only made it worse.

"Mother of God..." he whispered, "this shit is hot." He saw his waiter talking to one of the cooks, both were laughing and high-fiving...which, under the circumstances, was not a particularly good sign.

"My turn," Rolf said, scooping up a mega-forkful of the masala and stuffing it unceremoniously into his mouth. His eyes popped wide open, he began sweating, then he swallowed and reached for his water.

"Hey, Buddy, it don't help..."

The kid let loose a string of Norse profanity which, of course, prompted a blistering counterattack by his mother. And while she was so engaged, Henry took a prodigious scoop of his masala and placed it on her fork.

Rolf saw the move and apologized to his mother, who then sat back and picked up her fork. Seconds later the deed was done.

She brought her napkin to her mouth and he heard her mutter something that sounded suspiciously like a Viking war-cry, a new version of "Die, Motherfuckers!" - then she too picked up her glass of water and downed it in one gulp.

All three were now beet red and sweating like hogs, the cooks and waiters were laughing so hard that one had fallen on the floor, but still the other patrons had no idea what was going on...until Henry stood up and announced to one and all that - "Goddamn! My asshole is on fire! Somebody! Quick, give me some ice!"

A waiter brought a scoop full of the stuff, and Taggart took the ice and shoved it down the back of his pants as he hopped towards the bathroom.

Now everyone in the restaurant was howling; Rolf's crimson face was tear-streaked and Britt was laughing so hard she felt light-headed...

Henry Taggart calmed down as soon as he made it to the restroom, then he washed his hands and wiped his face with a paper towel. "You still got it, Champ." With the ice thoroughly broken now, he thought it was time to get to the bottom of this little Britt-Rolf war-thing, and figure out a way to put an end to it...

+++++

They made it back to the Bandit way past Rolf's bedtime, so Britt decided to tuck him in up in the foreword berth, then she rejoined Henry up in the cockpit.

"I don't know how you get used to it?"

"What?" she asked.

"It's a quarter past ten and it looks like three in the afternoon..."

She smiled. "Thank you for the sweaters. That was very sweet."

"I saw the look in his eyes after he put it on. That was worth a million bucks."

"Why didn't you get married? You seem like you'd make a good father."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Yes, but what I saw tonight wasn't deception."

He leaned back, crossed his arms. "What about you? Divorced? From what I can see, a man would have to be crazy to divorce you."

She seemed to hesitate, thinking about how to say what she needed to say. "Rolf's father was in the air force. He died in a training accident."

"I'm sorry. You said...were you, uh, not married?"

"That's right. Everything happened a few months before we were supposed to get married."

"So, you've raised him on your own?"

"Yes."

"Had you finished medical school?"

"I was an intern when he died, yes."

"Sounds like a difficult time."

"You know, I look back on it now and it was the best time of my life. I loved every minute of his childhood."

"You're a good mom."

"You think so?"

"Seems like you care enough for two mothers, so yes, I think so."

"My mother helped."

"Oh? What is she like?"

"You know her. Haven't you made an opinion yet?"

"Excuse me? I know your mother?"

"Yes, she's your Oncologist."

His eyes opened a bit more on hearing that. "Really? I had no idea."

"Yes, I called her as soon as I suspected something. She got you right in."

"She did seem to take a personal interest."

"Yes, because I had taken a personal interest. She still looks after me, you see."

"I think I understand. Has she made your life difficult?"

Britt shook her head. "No, not really. She has controlled my life, but she..."

"I guess some parents do that. Maybe out of instinct, or perhaps because that's the way they were raised."

She shrugged. "Maybe."

"So, about Rolf. Does he have any experience sailing?"

"A little."

"Enough?"

"I don't think so. Conditions off this coast can turn very harsh in a matter of minutes."

"You'd rather he didn't go?"

"I'm not sure, Henry. It could be a marvelous experience for him, and I say that because I think you might be a very good teacher. He is also at an age where he will remember something like this, and for the rest of his life. It could be a very good thing."

"So, maybe a good thing? What are the negatives you see?"

"That you have Parkinson's, and a very serious cancer."

"Oh. That."

"If something happened to you, would he know what to do? Could he take care of the ship and you? And if the weather turned violent, then what?"

"Sounds we need another adult to come."

"I know nothing about sailing, and anyway, I could not take so much time off. This is the clinic's busiest time of the year, and we are state supported so very rigidly controlled."

"Oh well, something else to think about."

"Unfortunately, I know someone perfect. A physician and a more than competent sailor."

"And?"

"My mother."

"I see."

"No, Henry. I don't think you do. But I can promise you one thing. She sees. She sees everything before it happens. She knows everything...before it happens."

"Speaking sarcastically, of course."

"Oh no, not in the least. Those who believe in mysticism, such people call it clairvoyance, others who know her well dismiss her ability as the expression of a profound empathy. But whatever it might be, when you've spent enough time around her, as I have, like Rolf has, you understand that one thing is true. You disregard her at your peril. You listen to her and, well Henry, you learn to have an open mind."

"Empathy. Yes, I saw something like that in her eyes."

"Yes, but it is much more than that. Still, I can tell you little else."

"Should I ask her if she has any interest in coming?"

"You could ask, yes. But she already knows. And she has already made her mind up."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"She is a force of nature, Mr. Taggart. Please try to understand that much before you dismiss her out of hand."

"She is my oncologist. Believe me, I take what she has to say most seriously."

"Your hands are shaking, Henry. Is it time for your medication?"

He looked at his watch. "Damn. Fifteen minutes late."

"You need a better system. Perhaps an alarm clock?"

He reached inside a pocket and pulled out a bottle, then slipped a pill under his tongue. "You know, it's amazing how pleasant it is, even in the middle of the night."

"It's the Gulf Stream. Even this far north it moderates the climate, and in winter most of the coast remains ice free." She yawned, and her eyes watered a little in the breeze.

"Ready for bed? There's room up forward, with Rolf, and there's a tiny stateroom just across from the Galley if you'd prefer."

"Would you make love to me?"

He blinked several times in rapid succession, shook his head a couple of times. "You know, I didn't see that coming."

"A few hours ago, neither did I. Would you?"

"You know, Britt, I think the operant question right now is can I? The thing is, I can't remember the last time..."

"Maybe we should go find out," she said, holding out her hand.

And he took it, led her to his cabin under the aft deck.

It took a few minutes to coax 'things' back to life, but in the end 'things' worked just fine after all.

+++++

There was work to do, of course. Any trans-oceanic crossing exacts a heavy toll on almost every system on a sailing vessel, no matter the size. Rigging had to be inspected, the sails re-installed on their furlers, too. Engine oil had to be drawn and analyzed, the shaft stuffing box repacked. The water-makers membranes had to be flushed, the propane lines checked, and the propane tanks refilled. The main water tanks had to be emptied, flushed, emptied and refreshed until the lines ran clear. Diesel tanks emptied, the contents spun through a series of filters to removed any algae, then the tanks polished and refilled. All thru-hull fittings checked and rechecked...the list was almost endless and, even with professional help, took Taggart ten days to complete. Rolf was still in school, but the boy came down every afternoon and helped out for several hours, retiring to the saloon table down below to finish his homework and study for final exams. After a few days of this, his mother agreed to let him sleep on board; a few days later she started sleeping over, enjoying Henry's company more and more.

On his first Saturday morning onboard, Henry sent the boy up the mast in a bosun's chair; his mission - un-do all electronic fittings and spray with Boe-Shield, let dry and re-attach. Then spray all shrouds and stays with WD-40, then more Boe-Shield. He donned a wetsuit and grabbed a tank out of his locker, then slipped under the water and replaced all the anodes, finishing off the underwater work with a light scrub-down of the anti-fouling paint, clearing the ship's bottom of speed-robbing plant-life.

All of it was a new routine, completely different than the time he'd spent with Time Bandit before he started the crossing. After taking delivery in Connecticut, he taken her up through the Cape Cod Canal to Boston, then up to Northeast Harbor, in Acadia National Park. He spent a few days anchored out in Somes Sound, then refueled before setting out for Norfolk, Virginia. He transited the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, first laid out by George Washington, then worked his way down to Charleston using the Intra-Coastal Waterway. As winter was settling-in up north, he had continued south to Key West, stopping in Miami for meds and a check-up.

It was true, he discovered. The sun was a restorative. He soaked it up for hours on end, and he was amazed at how good it felt after two months on the water. Even more amazing was Key West, and how he fell into the whole Conch-Republic vibe. He rediscovered drinking, then found that his medications and alcohol didn't mix well. He ate foods he'd never tried before, weird stuff like deep-fried alligator tail and chicken wings so hot he cried, and in a way, he felt like he was beginning to shed old layers of skin, ridding himself of old, comfortable ways of being, in the process becoming something new and different...and as he grew more aware of these changes he found he was as confused as he was exhilarated.

The boat scene in Florida was radically different than what he was used to, as well. Many more people were full-time liveaboards down here, and like any alternative community these people gathered and shared experiences and advice; in the Keys they came together around campfires on the beach or at bars in town, and he found himself falling into that vibe, too. He'd never done these kinds of things before, and he found himself pushing out of his comfort zone, sometimes being pushed, because these people had been there, done that, and recognized the symptoms of Henry's long-constricted way of seeing the world.

Though he thought he was an experienced sailor, he soon learned the ins-and-outs of the live-aboard life, and he began to think that - assuming he could manage his Parkinson's - he really could see living this way for the rest of his life. Yet he felt a hollow emptiness more acutely now, too, because most every "liveaboard" he ran across was part of a couple. He felt different, more like he was on the outside looking in. Different, and not just because of his medical condition.

Yet he still found that he had little interest in hooking up, and in a way he understood that his experience in college, watching those blond things latched onto the arms of Saudi princes, had really colored his take on relationships. He questioned the sincerity of things like love and fidelity, reduced them to equations of fiduciary responsibility that he could, in his mind, anyway, reduce to simple lines of code.

One night at a bar a girl came on hard and he'd almost been tempted, then she told him her price, what a few hours in the sack would cost, and with all his prejudices confirmed he washed his hands of the idea for good, prepared to enjoy the rest of his life as a singleton. He pulled away from the boaties after that, began to insulate himself from the world again, relying, as he had since he first started school, on sarcasm to maintain a certain kind of safe distance from people.

As winter washed away he sailed north, followed the Gulf Stream between Bermuda and the mainland as Spring came on, and he stopped off in Connecticut at the dealer, made sure Time Bandit was indeed sound enough for the crossing that lay just ahead. Two weeks later, in late April, he departed US waters on a great circle course that would take him just south of Greenland and Iceland, past the Faroes and Shetlands to Bergen. And in a way, he set his new life's course in motion, too. What Henry Taggart did not, indeed, could not fathom was the depth of uncertainty that lay ahead.

Every journey is fraught with unknown hazards and frequent moments of incredible beauty, even joy, yet here was a man almost completely unprepared to join with others of his own kind. He had insulated himself from the vagaries of human companionship for so long that he simply had no idea what could happen when life caught him unprepared for the obvious, and because words like friendship and love had become ossified abstractions, he was equally unprepared to face the consequences of his previous existence.

Because the human soul craves companionship, and Henry Taggart was a starving man, wandering through a desert of his own creation, living a life tinted through the warped lens of a stunted imagination. Because he could not even imagine what might come next, he was completely unprepared when nature decided to reset his course.

© 2020 adrian leverkühn | abw | here ends part one; look for the conclusion in a week or so.