The Memory of Place Ch. 01

"When are you going to leave? I mean, any plans firming up?"

I shook my head. I didn't know where this was going. "No, gonna play it by ear for a while."

"Well, one thing's for certain." She looked down at her watch. "We gotta be headin' back or the tide's gonna smack us head on the nose."

Life's like that, you know? If you don't watch out, you spend your whole life swimming against the tide.

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The wind faded with the afternoon, and we motored the last mile or so back into Charleston Harbor. I watched Lisa again, her calm self-assurance, the practiced eye she cast on Soliloquy's sails and other traffic crossing ahead. As we drew near the marina, I set out dock lines and dropped fenders over the sides to shield against a hard landing, and stood up by the bow-sprit for a while, enjoying the sunset and the history that was all around us as we turned by the Battery. It was beautiful. Quiet, and beautiful. I looked over toward my boat, and saw the outlines of a woman sitting in the cockpit. I squinted through the fading sunset, and could just make out Liz sitting there.

I turned, looked at Lisa, and saw the expression on her face. She had seen Liz, too, and suddenly to me she looked hurt, almost betrayed.

We docked gently, and I turned to help Lisa sort out the lines, but she stopped me short.

"You need to go now, Tom. She's come back for you, you know. Be careful."

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"Well, it didn't take you long to land on your feet."

I was just stepping onto our boat - our boat - when she let go with this first assault.

"Hey, you know, I didn't file for a divorce. You did. Tell me again what I'm doing wrong here, would you?"

"Oh, Tom, I'm sorry. I didn't come down here to fight with you. I, well, to tell you the truth, I half expected to find you shacked up down below with a girl when I came."

"Well, you know, if you'd given me another hour . . ." I let the meanness in my voice trail off into the air. She looked at me for a moment, then shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I really am. I should never have done this to you. To us."

"Well, breaking news, kiddo. We're divorced. You said you wanted one, in writing, as I recall." I was trying to be as obtuse as I could possibly be, and I think I was succeeding pretty well, too. "I'm just curious, is this a social call, or was there something you wanted from the boat?"

"No, no Tom. Nothing."

It was almost dark now, and I could barely make her out in the looming night. Suddenly she was crying. I knew that quiver in her voice. I remembered the air of alarm that sound used to imply, how uncomfortable I used to feel when she cried. She was a manipulative crier, cried when she wanted something and didn't get it, or when she didn't get her way. Now she was facing the consequences of her actions. Maybe she was sorry, or maybe she was feeling sorry for herself. There was no way to tell, maybe there never had been, and standing there on the boat I realized that I didn't care anymore one way of the other.

"Yeah, well, mind if I go below? I wanna change clothes."

"Was that your lawyer, Tom?"

"Uh-huh."

"She's kinda pretty - in a dumpy kind of way. Never would have thought of her as your type, though."

I moved past her through the cockpit, unlocked the companionway and began to lift the boards out, then moved to place them on the seat next to me. Liz reached out and took the first board and placed it gently on the seat, taking care not to scratch the ten coats of varnish she had so lovingly applied to the teak not a year ago. Automatically I handed her the next one, then the last board, and I was caught short by my reaction to the familiar within my mind.

Caught within the memory of place, within the echoes of a heartbeat, I saw Liz as she was twenty years ago on a Saturday in San Francisco when we had gone out sailing on our first date, and within that moment I saw her face as she looked up at mine on our wedding day, her eyes so full of love, and I remembered my love for her on that day as an absolute. As something time could never rip asunder.

I paused before I pushed the companionway hatch open, unsure of where I was, unsure if I was still on the boat or caught within the shadows of a never-ending dream. I saw her standing next to me when we first saw our boat taking form at the yard in Southwest Harbor, I saw the pride in her eyes, the will to take this creation to the limits of our imagination.

Were we really so bound together through the life we had shared on this boat? Had we really been such a well oiled machine that we sailed half way around the world - and back - trusting each other so completely, knowing how the other would react in the face of a storm, knowing that if we worked together we could overcome any obstacle, reach any destination?

"Do you want me to leave, Tom?"

I didn't have an a pithy comeback waiting that time, did I?

"Liz, just tell me what you want."

"I want us. Us, Tom. We belong together."

"Yeah, we did once."

"We can again."

"Liz? If you don't mind, this is just too weird. Maybe in a few days."

"OK, Tom. Could you still help out at the restaurant. We haven't found a new manager yet, and it would be a big help."

Ah. That was it.

"Uh, no Liz. I've got other plans."

"Oh. Right, well, I'll give you a call."

I could hear it in her voice. I wouldn't hear from her again. Not unless she needed me for something, not unless she wanted somebody else's dreams to call her own again. I made my way down the companionway steps and flipped on the breakers, then turned on the red light over the chart table. I felt the boat move as she hopped off, heard her footsteps recede in the darkness. I'd never felt so utterly alone in all my life.

What was I doing? What had I done?

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Moving forward through the boat, I managed to get my clothes off and into the head before I lost it. That thundering realization in the cockpit had been the single most nauseating moment of my life. I flipped on the shower and stood under the water, felt the grief from my soul wash away as the hot water beat down on the back of my neck. Everything seemed to be moving like the boat was at sea in a storm, but I viscerally knew that the boat was tied up to the dock. Everything felt out of place, my senses weren't reliable anymore.

I don't know how long I stood there. The water cooled, then it stopped completely. I'd run the tanks dry. Maybe a hundred and fifty gallons of water, gone. I was shivering, and hallucinating. I smelled bacon frying, and coffee.

Walking into the forward cabin, I heard her in the galley, knew she'd come back and was now making me bacon and eggs. I didn't want to face her, not now, not ever again. I didn't want to ever see her face again, and as I put on a shirt I grew angry at her audacity, at her contempt for my feelings.

She had what she wanted. Why couldn't she just take it at that and leave it be.

I knew then that I'd have to leave this place as soon as I could get the boat provisioned, leave and follow my heart over the next horizon. I pulled on some sweatpants and slipped on an old pair of boat shoes, then stood and took a deep breath. I thought of what I needed to say, how I wanted to say it. Turning, I opened the door into the main cabin of the boat, prepared to let the full fury of my loathing run its course.

She was in the galley with her back to me, cracking eggs in a bowl when I walked in. She turned and I stumbled, and my world lurched again. It wasn't Liz, and suddenly it hit me: I'd never been so happy to see a lawyer in all my life.

"You want some rum in your coffee?" Now that was an ice-breaker if I ever heard one.

"I, uh . . ."

"Look, I heard Liz storming up the ramp, cussing under her breath. I came over here and heard you in the shower. You didn't, well, didn't sound too good. Anyway. Bacon and eggs usually get me over these rough spots. Thought I'd get some going for you."

"I'm glad you're here." She looked up from the stove, looked over at me.

"Yeah? Well, what's it gonna be? Coffee black, or coffee with a little kick in it?"

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Over the next week or so I got all my stuff back on board and worked on getting everything stowed away. Not too hard a job when your head's screwed on tight, but I was having a time of it. Maybe I was depressed, or just tired, but I was having a hard time making sense of things, and everything I did seemed like it was filtered through molasses. It felt like tar on hot pavement - oozing around, getting stuck on everything, and ultimately just making a mess. And I found that my thought process wasn't doing any better. Hot and messy, know what I mean?

I'd never thought of Liz as the devious type, as a shrew. In almost five years of sailing, she'd never once been as overtly manipulative as she had been that last Sunday night. What was going on? Had we simply lost our way, or had I been missing something vital for almost twenty years? It just didn't make sense! Anyway, as I worked around down below, thoughts like those kept bouncing around in my head. After a few days of this nonsense I was beginning to question just about every assumption I'd ever made.

Then there was Lisa Mullins.

Of course I knew better.

That didn't make our first night together any less interesting. She turned out to be an imaginative lover. Actually, maybe enthusiastic would be a better descriptive. Just about every time I touched her she launched into blistering wet orgasms, and yes, I'm using the plural here deliberately. I have never seen anyone so 'multi-orgasmic' in my life. It wasn't me, of that I'm fairly certain. I think a light breeze hitting her down there would have sent her over the edge. Anyway, the first time I went down on her it was like spontaneous combustion. She grabbed my face and pulled it into her and started yelling and pulling my hair and carrying on like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. After about a half hour and three hundred orgasms later I think she collapsed. I say 'I think' because I had about a two minute reprieve before she went down on me, rallied round the flag, so to speak, then hopped on top of me.

The poor thing.

At first I thought - after she'd captured the flag - was that she was having an epileptic seizure. Her body went rigid at first - enough so I thought something might have been terribly wrong - then tremors somewhat akin to shockwaves ripped through her body. She was soon flailing about and yelling so loud I was sure everyone in the marina was going to be dialing 911, and just when I thought she couldn't possibly get any louder the girl launched into a frenzied orgasm that, well, still leaves me speechless when I think about how I might possibly describe what happened.

You gotta keep in mind that I was, well, just laying there. Anything else on my part might have been dangerous. I mean, it wasn't like she borrowed a cup of sugar for a minute - it wasn't that detached - but in a way I felt superfluous to the proceedings. I don't think she needed me at all, really, well, other than having the use of my hardware. When all was said and done (at least for me, anyway), the whole episode was kind of a letdown. She seemed kind of embarrassed for a minute, then got real sweet and cuddled up next to me and fell asleep. I guess she just assumed that somewhere in the maelstrom I had managed an orgasm of my own. How she would have known that was beside me. She hardly knew I was in the, well, room.

Like I said, it was an interesting night. She took off in the morning, sometime around four or so, I think. Never said a word, no kiss on the forehead, nothing.

She came by that night, knocked on the side of the boat, called out my name.

I looked around quickly, wondered if there was a back way out of the place (kinda hard to pull that one off on a boat), then I popped up through the companionway hatch.

"Howdy," said I, ever the suave urbanite.

"How're y'all doin' today, big guy?"

OK, lets get this straight right now. I'm not real tall, and I'm not fat, either. Big Guy? Me?

"Fine, Lisa. You have a good day?"

"Well, kinda." She moved around, feigning pelvic discomfort. "Kinda sore, you know?"

"Hmm. Wonder why?" I tried not to smile. She smiled.

"Up for a encore tonight?" Now for some odd reason that put the fear of God into me, so I just looked at her, indicated at best a passive receptivity. "Ooh, goody!" she said reflexively. "I've got some paperwork to do. Could I work on it here? I really don't want to go home." It was then that I noticed she had an overnight bag with her.

You know, I had a decision to make.

I could send her packing, or by golly, I could take matters in hand and try to fuck her brains out.

For some odd reason, I chose the latter. Call it ego, but I was damned if I was going to let this broad get off again without returning the favor, so as soon as he got to the bottom of the companionway I was on her like Preparation H on hemorrhoids.

I didn't have a chance.

I think, after about an hour of her riding my face, I might have cried 'Uncle', but no way was this woman about to quit. Finally I threw her over and tore into her. At that point I felt like a crazed wolf and wailed into her with the hardest, deepest thrusts I'd ever delivered anytime to anyone, and after a whopping minute or so I hit the short strokes and popped off.

Well, not having had any in a while, I think it fair to say that I let loose a doozey and a half. She was coaxing me along the whole time, and as I slowed down a bit, spent as I was, Lisa just got foul-mouthed-horny and started in on me to rise to the occasion and go for two.

I shoulda known that was, ah, coming.

I lasted a little longer that second time. About two hours, give or take, and the creature underneath me was like a thing possessed. By the time I noticed her fingernails digging in to my back I really didn't give a damn, and when her not-so-short high-heels started digging into my calves, well, shit, I didn't care about those, either.

Once I slowed down and she slapped me, hard yet playfully, and told me to stop now only if I was prepared to die. Ahem. Not exaggerating here, Kemosabe. This chick was into her orgasms, and during my second orgasm she started in on me big-time. Do not to quit now. That was the message. Yes, Ma'am!

Now, give me a break. I'm trying to be modest here, and, well, you know, there was no way I was going for round three. Maybe fifteen, twenty years ago. Today? Nope. No way.

Anyway, after my stalwart friend deserted me Lisa rolled me over and mounted my face again.

Lawyers!

And you know what? About four hours later she was set up in the salon working away on some depositions. I wonder how many hours she billed that night, and for what services?

______________________

Lisa didn't come to the boat again. In fact, I didn't see her for a couple of weeks, and then only in passing out on the docks. It was pretty disconcerting. When we did get a chance to talk for a minute or so a month later, she kinda let on that she'd given me a 'mercy-fuck' . . . that she'd sensed I was really down and needed a quick pick-me-up.

Was she for real?

I saw Liz one day during that period, too.

I was working up on the foredeck, tearing down the anchor windlass and lubing the paws, and I looked up to wipe some sweat from my forehead and saw her up in the marina parking lot. She was looking down at me, down when I looked up. I think we looked at each other for a few minutes, then she waved at me before she walked off. I looked at the empty spot where she had been, for, I don't know, maybe an hour or so. There was a hole in my heart, and I didn't know how to fix it. I did, however, know how to fix a broken windlass.

A week after that, all my things stowed just so on the boat, I sailed out of Charleston Harbor, alone. I passed Fort Sumter, this time off to starboard, and I thought about civil wars again, and about who fired the first shot in our little war. I thought about that place in my heart, so far removed from the pain now, but still so empty.

What memories would flood that wounded land?

Clearing the harbor, I looked to the right, to the south, then north. I didn't know which way to turn. So I turned around and looked deep into the wake that trailed behind me, looked back past the old Fort, back toward the Battery, and thought about my life up to that moment.

I could turn back, I thought. Turn back, chase my past. Live within the memory of place.

Or I could just move on, forge a new course.

I sat behind the wheel, looked at the chart-plotter and it's readout sitting silently in my face, almost daring me to dream again. I scrolled out, moved the cursor across the Atlantic until it rested right in the middle of the English Channel, and pressed the Calculate New Course button. A few seconds later the screen flashed a new heading, indicated the new course to steer, and just how far I had to go to get there.

There was a prompt on the screen.

Press Enter to start the new route.

Was it really so simple? Turn away from everything I had known for almost twenty years? Start a new life?

Or turn around? Find my way back to the past, and live there.

My finger moved to the screen, hit the Enter button. The machine thought for a moment, and a new screen emerged. Me and my little floating world appeared as a small red arrow just off the mid-Atlantic coast of North America, and a new course was projected across the ocean to the waters between England and France. I settled in behind the wheel, put my feet up in the sun, and listened to the water as it trailed off behind.

Part II forthcoming.