LITMIR.BIZ

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me to dinner so we could talk and that he’d explain his relationship with her. Also, we could talk about the South Pacific. He would be sailing there next year, without her, and he’d love to pick my brain about it in a peaceful setting—like a quiet restaurant. I thought about saying no, but after all, I did know a lot about the South Pacific. And how could I say no, when my heart was sending a Morse code “Y-E-S?” I agreed to have dinner with him later that night.

      I could hardly wait. The whole day I dreamed about Richard, his attractive good looks and buff body. I decided to wear my new peach-colored dress. It was simple, but I knew the spaghetti straps showed off my sculpted shoulders and arms—features I was proud of.

      That evening over dinner, Richard explained to me that he and Lizzie had split up, but that she was still living on his boat while she made plans to return to England. He said that after meeting me he’d finally had enough of keeping his life and feelings on hold. After I had accepted his dinner invitation, he told her about it. She didn’t like it, he confessed, but he explained to her he was ready to get on with his life and she should get on with hers. He apologized for her showing up and hoped it hadn’t embarrassed me. The electricity between us, I’m sure, could be felt throughout the restaurant.

      I felt much better, actually greatly relieved, that he would soon not be entangled with anyone. We had a wonderful evening and learned a lot about each other. He was an only child, with a half-sister, Susie, thirteen years older than he. I told him about my family and that I had been an only child until I was twenty-two, when my father had a son, Dane. But, more important, we learned of each other’s great passion for the sea.

      Richard had been born in England, in 1949, to an upper-middle-class family. His father was a retired navy man who did well after the war. His mother, unfortunately, had committed suicide when he was seven. His father soon remarried, and Richard thought of his stepmother as his “mum.”

      He was enrolled in a naval academy near London, being prepped as an officer in the navy. But once of age, he started to rebel against his father’s wishes and the officers’ demands and got kicked out for insubordination. He finished his schooling in another private school, but felt his father had never forgiven him for going against his wishes.

      After Richard graduated he went to work for Olivetti, a manufacturing and sales company for electronic office equipment. He was good at sales and ended up buying a flat in London. He gathered a fine wardrobe and went through a few racy cars (and a few racy women too, I’m sure). But with a faraway look in his eyes, he admitted he had still felt unfulfilled. When a position in the company opened up in South Africa, Richard grabbed it. He adjusted quickly to South Africa and began to thrive on its beauty and diversity. But he despised apartheid and the way it limited people.

      While with Olivetti, Richard met a man at a boatyard that built ferro-cement boats. They became fast friends, and soon Richard was offered a partnership in the yard. He eagerly took the job, quitting Olivetti with no regret. He loved being involved in building the thirty- to fifty-foot yachts. It was at this point that Richard met Eric, the skipper who had hired me to help deliver the racing sailboat to San Francisco.

      I asked when Lizzie had come into the picture. Richard said he had met her in the Caribbean while he was waiting out the hurricane season. They hit it off, and Lizzie had decided to sail to San Diego with him. He had chosen San Diego after receiving a letter from Eric telling him what a great place it was to “winter over.” Richard also was told he could prepare his boat for the South Pacific there and, with his skills, could easily find work on boats.

      If Richard could have read my mind just then, he would have heard me thinking, You came here because you were meant to find me.

      Richard totally captured my attention when his electric blue eyes penetrated mine, and he confessed Lizzie just wasn’t the one—they weren’t cut from the same cloth. He was born to see the world, and nothing—nobody—would stop him. It was clear he wanted me to know this right from the start.

      I wondered what his plans would be after he’d sailed around the world. Would he just keep going around and around? I found a subtle way of asking this, and he said he didn’t know for sure, but thought he would like to have a family one day. Maybe he’d even buy a little boatyard he’d seen in the south of England, if it went up for sale. But first, the South Pacific. He asked somewhat cavalierly whether I would like to go with him.

      I laughed, but deep down inside, I tingled. Was he serious? “It’s late; we need to slow down,” I said, even though one part of me wanted to jump on his boat and leave for the South Pacific that night.

      When we walked to my car, he leaned over and gave me a light kiss good night. It was like heaven, but hell too. I was dying to abandon all “good girl” protocol and throw my arms around him and never let him go. But, to my dismay, the sensible side of me won out, as it usually does. Lizzie needed to be out of his life before I could let myself in.

      As I drove home I was smiling from ear to ear. I had never felt this way about any man before. I knew then and there I was going back to the South Pacific. “Mauruuru, mauruuru, mauruuru roa, atua. Thank you, thank you, thank you very much, God.”

      About a week later, Richard told me his grandmother had passed away in England, and he needed to go home for the funeral. Lizzie would be on the same flight. I felt he was trying to tell me it was over between us. Clenching my fists, I politely offered my condolences, turned around, and walked away. He caught up to me and explained Lizzie was going home to England and not returning to America, but he would be back soon. As Richard said good-bye to me, he said, “Tami, now that I’ve found you, I’ll never let you go.”

Three

       Coming To

      I opened my eyes and saw blue sky and wispy, white clouds. My head throbbed. I went to touch it, but things, I didn’t know what, lay on top of me, smothering me, crushing me. What was going on? I couldn’t think, I couldn’t remember. Where was I? My hammock hung cockeyed. I dangled near the floor. A can of WD-40 clanged against the table post. I moved, and a book splashed into the water.

      I struggled to free myself. Dead weight pinned me down. Cans of food, books, pillows, clothes, a door, and panels of the main salon’s overhead liner spilled off me as I struggled to sit up. I recoiled for I was covered in blood. I could feel a horrendous cut burning my left shin.

      Where was I? What had happened? I was confused. I couldn’t orient myself. The clock on the wall ticked a beat. 4 P.M.? That didn’t seem right . . . My tether, still clipped onto the table post, confined me. I was obviously on a boat—what boat? My weakened hands frantically tried to unclip the tether.

      Once unclipped, I strained to see around me. My vision was blurry; the pain in my head excruciating. Putting hand to brow, I flinched. I looked at my hand and saw crimson. Uncontrollable shivers engulfed me.

      Laboriously, I crawled out of the labyrinth of wreckage. I stood up unsteadily. My back was wet and the water was over knee high. I felt faint. Slowly, one careful step at a time, I waded, negotiating my way through the obstacles floating in the two feet of water that lapped above the floor frames. This was crazy. The interior of the boat was chaotic. My God, what had happened? Books, charts, pillows, silverware, floorboards, cups, clothing, cans of food, spare parts, beans, flour, oatmeal—everything was either floating or stuck to the overhead, or to the bulkheads, or to the hull. The oven had been ripped from the starboard side of the boat and was now wedged into the nav station’s bookshelf on the port side. What boat is this? Where am I?

      I headed for the forward cabin—the V-berth. “Hello?” I called out. My voice sounded strange. I gaped at the turmoil in every nook and cranny. Cautiously moving toward the bow, I peeked in the head. There, in the mirror, I saw a frazzled image, its face covered in blood, the forehead cut wide open. Long strands of hair, wild and matted with blood, shot out from its skull. In fear, my hands flew to my mouth. I screamed. Then I screamed again. The ungodly sight was me.

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