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May 1993
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I’VE FINALLY LOCATED a likely prospect, a 1985 Bass Cat, docked right downtown at Marina Quay. It’s only seventeen feet but in mint condition with an upgraded motor. Of course, the seller may be puffing a bit, but he sounds like a decent fellow. It’s been years since I’ve been out on the water and the prospect has taken twenty years off me. I feel as though I’ve regained the inches I’ve lost in my old age and stand my full five foot ten again. When was the last time my heart raced with such anticipation? Of course, my son would have me probated if he knew what I was up to, so I’m not saying a word until I have the title safely in my pocket. So what if the boat shaves a few pennies off his inheritance? No, that’s unfair, Michael’s not concerned about the money, he’s worried about me. They both worry, Michael and his wife Sharon. They’re good kids, but they’re worriers. They’d worry I’d fall overboard, sail off course, or get captured by pirates and shanghaied to Detroit. Who knows what they’d imagine? But I’m not crazy, the Bass Cat’s a simple runabout. I’ve manned sloops twice her size and I can still manage a little putt-putt by myself as long as someone helps me get her in the water.
It’s too early to go downtown, but I’m too excited to wait inside, so I decide to treat myself to lunch at the Village Diner. I walk down Spadina, moving pretty briskly for an old guy who can’t see straight. Despite the heat I’m wearing a windbreaker and a Greek fisherman’s cap which I think project a jaunty, nautical effect.
“Ahoy there,” I call out to Kaleisha as I walk through the door.
“Ahoy to you too,” she calls back. “Your usual table?”
I order the fisherman’s platter even though it’s all fried and Kaleisha clucks her tongue at me. “You’ll be dying young if you’re not careful,” she chides me.
“Too late for that,” I reassure her, “and bring me a piece of strawberry pie with extra whipped cream for dessert.”
She shakes her head disapprovingly but writes it all down. I polish off five shrimp, a piece of halibut, a few chips, and a side of slaw. When was the last time I finished my whole lunch and a piece of pie to boot? I hand Kaleisha a generous tip then leave to catch a streetcar to Queen’s Quay.
The journey is easier than I’d imagined. It’s a straight shot without any nonsense about transfers or changing cars, but troubles begin as soon as I step off the streetcar. Nothing looks familiar and with my bad eyes I can’t even read the signs. But I’m no imbecile. I still know how to get around. I have directions to the Amsterdam Bridge and a boat slip number in my pocket.
A man in a blue uniform is talking to someone just across the street. I pull the paper from my pocket and head in his direction. As I’m almost upon him I stop, alarmed to realize that his uniform is badly ripped exposing a dingy undershirt. His blue pants are denim jeans and his hair is hanging to his shoulders. I squint, wondering if I’ve got his gender wrong as well before backing away to find someone else to ask for help.
Failing eyesight can lead to awkward situations, but then a real policeman, or rather a policewoman, stops to ask me if I’m lost. This is embarrassing, I had no idea that I was behaving oddly or that anyone would guess at my predicament. Still, it’s a relief to see a friendly face, so I show her my paper and explain that I can’t read street signs very well. She assures me it’s not far off, just over a mile, then asks if I need a cab.
“I may be getting on, but I am still fully capable of walking a few blocks on a lovely day. Thank you very much for your assistance.” I tip my hat, a gesture of dismissal more than courtesy, and march off in the direction that she’s indicated.
It’s only one-thirty and Mr. McClaren isn’t expecting me for an hour so I have time to take in the sights as I proceed along the busy water front. It’s been years since I’ve ventured down to the harbor, and I’m surprised by how much it’s changed. There are all sorts of galleries and restaurants where there used to be nothing but shipping docks and warehouses. Even the boats look different, mostly impressive yachts instead of fishing boats and trawlers. Their names are printed on the hulls in large black letters that even my poor eyes can read. I shake my head and chuckle as I walk past For Sail, Cutting Wind, Aqua Holic, and Miss Behavin. I’ve read articles in the Globe and Mail about plans to revitalize the area, but it’s something else to see it for yourself.
A group of shirtless punks with long hair whizz past me on skateboards. They look like hooligans, and I feel inside my jacket pocket for the envelope containing the five crisp hundred-dollar bills Mr. McClaren requires as a good faith deposit on the boat. Reassured that the money’s safe, I pick up my pace and arrive at the Amsterdam Bridge, our agreed meeting place, with time to spare. I don’t recognize Mr. McClaren until he’s nearly beside me. He’s a nice, clean-cut fellow about my grandson’s age, dressed in the Toronto Blue Jays hat and gray sweatshirt he told me he’d be wearing.
I wave him over and we shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. McClaren.”
“Bob,” he says. “Please call me Bob. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me Mr. McClaren before.”
I start to say, “Well then, call me Jacob,” but he’s so young and we’ve only just met so I simply smile and say, “Nice to meet you, Bob.”
We exchange a few pleasantries and then get down to business. Bob waxes euphoric about the boat and I’m thinking that if she’s half the craft he says she is, he has her significantly underpriced.
He may be aware that he’s offering a bargain. “You know, there’s been quite a bit of interest in this boat. If you’re serious, I’ll need a cash deposit to hold her for you.”
Not wanting to give my hand away, I nod noncommittally. “You mentioned that on the phone. I have it right here.” I pat my jacket pocket. “But let’s take a look at her first, don’t you think?” He smiles agreeably and I follow him toward the slip where he has her docked. We’re not halfway there when he feels inside his pants pocket and comes to an abrupt stop, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m a complete idiot. I’ve left the keys inside my car. Would you mind a little extra walk? I’m parked on a side street just around the corner.”
I’m already exhausted, but the poor man is clearly embarrassed, so I assure him there’s no problem, that the extra walk will do me good, and we set off in the opposite direction. True to his word, we come to a small side street, an alley really, where he’s parked illegally. Parking is scarce and quite expensive in this part of town, so I don’t blame him, but I hope he doesn’t have a ticket.
He points to a black car parked beside a large trash dumpster. “It’s right over there. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”
Once we’re standing beside the car, his whole demeanor changes. “I’m not wasting my time if you don’t have that deposit money,” he says. “Let’s see it.”
I’m suddenly aware that we’re in a blind alley with no one nearby. “I told you that I brought it, but if you’ve changed your mind I’d understand. You don’t have to show me your boat if you don’t want to.”
“I just don’t want to waste my time if you’re messing with me. You brought five hundred dollars, right?”
I nod, dry mouthed. My knees are shaking but I’m trying to keep things normal.
“Show it to me,” he demands. “I want to see the money.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope. He grabs it from my hand, slits it open, counts the bills, then gets into the car.
“Wait!” I say stupidly. “I haven’t seen the boat.”
He slams the door and starts the motor while I stand frozen on the street. As he pulls away, I lunge at his door. “Wait!” I shout as the car peels away, throwing me to the side of the road where my head lands hard against the metal dumpster. I sit there dazed for several minutes. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. If I were younger, I could have stood up to him, but it’s not in me anymore. I’m suddenly glad there’s no one around to see me, an old man on his knees in front of a rubbish bin, fumbling for his glasses and blinking back tears.
Some men my age are too weak to pull themselves up from the ground, but not me. I’ve retained much of my strength and flexibility despite my eighty-three years, except now my legs refuse to hold me up and I’m flailing on the pavement like an old bird with a broken wing or Icarus trying to rise from the sea. It’s useless. I’m sitting with my back against the dumpster trying to catch my breath when a car pulls up beside me and a middle-aged woman rolls down her window.
“Are you alright? Do you need some help?”
She’s wearing a white nurse’s uniform and looks kind, but I’m suddenly wary, certain she must take me for a rummy or a homeless person.
“I’m afraid I’ve taken a little fall and can’t get up. Would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Just give me a minute to park my car. I’ll be right with you.” She pulls into the spot just vacated by Bob then comes over and crouches down beside me. “Are you in pain? Do you think you might have broken something?”
“No, no, I just need a hand up. Thank you for stopping.”
“Are you sure? I work at St. Michael’s Hospital. It might be a good idea to get checked out in the ER.”
“No, please, just help me up. I’ll be fine.”
She braces herself, offers me her arm and I’m miraculously on my feet. I do a quick inventory of my various parts and pieces and am relieved to discover that everything seems to be working and intact.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” She still has her hand on my arm to steady me.
“Thank you, but really I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
My gaze goes to the end of the alley where the road seems to shimmer like moving water and I remember the long walk back along the waterfront. “Actually, I would appreciate a ride to the Spadina streetcar stop, if that’s not too far.”
“Not at all, it’s on my way. I’ll have you there in two minutes.” She opens the passenger door and helps me into her car as though I’m one of her patients.
“What in the world brought you down here in the first place? You’re lucky I got a bit lost and had to turn around.”
“I was going to buy a boat, but it didn’t work out.” No point in telling her the whole sordid story. I’m humiliated enough as it is.
“A boat? Really?” She looks doubtful. “You know, if you like boats I hear there’s a new ship in the harbor offering free rides. They might still have some tickets.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough of boats for one day, maybe another time.”
“OK,” she says, turning toward me with a lovely smile. “Your choice, but they say this boat is something special.”
Two minutes later I’m waiting for the Spadina streetcar in the heat of an unseasonably warm afternoon. Streetcars run frequently in Toronto, perhaps that’s why the authorities decided we don’t need benches and shelters at most stops. Maybe they never considered the possibility of a slightly concussed old man waiting for public transportation after being assaulted and robbed by a violent con artist. I have no idea what they were thinking. I only know that I need to sit down. There’s a small coffee shop just behind me, one of those new places that serve continental coffees at exorbitant prices, but it has chairs and air conditioning and looks like salvation at the moment.
As I stand at the counter ordering a small coffee, I realize how fortunate I’ve been. The thief grabbed the deposit money and ran off without demanding my wallet. I hand over a dollar and a quarter to the clerk gloating at the possibility that I may be able to hide this entire incident from Michael. I don’t need him using this as evidence that he should be more diligent about nosing into my private business and scrutinizing my affairs.
I sit in a large leather chair by the front window, although I’m not sure how I’ll hoist myself out of the thing. It’s a pleasure to sink into its deep upholstered cushion and let my head loll against its back. I take a swig of the hot coffee and close my eyes. Well, perhaps my sailing days are over, but at least I still have my wallet and my dignity. It could have been worse. I consider notifying the police, but then think better of it. What would I tell them anyway? I didn’t have the presence of mind to write down the scoundrel’s license plate and it’s unlikely that his name is really Bob McClaren. Call me Bob, indeed. He ought to be in jail, except if I call the police my son will get wind of my little escapade and and I’ll be the one who’ll get locked up. Better to keep my mouth shut and kiss my money good-bye.
I take another sip of coffee and brood over this sorry state of affairs when a string of yellow flags flapping from the roof of a small building just across the street catches my attention. Beneath them is a large banner which I can’t read given the state of my eyes, but I do see a line of people holding brightly colored balloons, congregating nearby. Probably a promotion for some new shop or condo development I tell myself and look away. But a moment later a brass band marches past the coffee shop leading a small parade toward those yellow flags. Good heavens, the band’s playing “The Twelfth Street Rag.” Doesn’t that bring back memories? I smile despite myself and find that my old, tired feet are tapping along with the rhythm. Energized by the music and the festive atmosphere, I pull myself out of my chair and decide to investigate what all the commotion is about.
As soon as I’ve crossed the street a man in a sailor suit offers me a red balloon. I shake my head, waving him away, then proceed along a walkway to where a group of people are standing in line, holding balloons, and eating ice cream as though they’re at a carnival. The band continues to play, and everyone seems excited about something.
“What’s going on?” I ask a young woman pushing a baby stroller.
“It’s the maiden voyage of the Aqua Meridian.” She has to raise her voice to be heard over the tuba that’s drowning out the rest of the musicians.
“They’re giving away the first fifty tickets for free. If you want to go, you should get in line right now. The free ones are almost gone.” She points to a ticket booth where a crowd of people are standing in line.
The sailor with the red balloons seems to have overheard our conversation. “No need to wait.” He hands me a ticket. “Compliments of the Aqua Meridian, enjoy your trip.”
“Well, isn’t this your lucky day. I’d go myself if I didn’t have to start dinner for my family. Have fun.” The young woman wheels off, leaving me holding a ticket and feeling utterly disoriented. What just happened? Am I going on a boat trip after all?
I hear a long blast from a ship’s horn and the crowd of people mingling on the street walk toward the water. I walk with them, clutching my ticket and wondering what’s about to happen. It’s no more than fifty yards to the dock where, what I thought was a small building, turns out to be a ship with yellow flags flying along its top deck. Now that I’m closer, I can read the words, Aqua Meridian, painted along her side. She seems to be a pleasure boat designed for short lake cruises. I imagine there’s a snack shop aboard, perhaps even a small restaurant serving sandwiches and soft drinks. I look up and see a long row of lounge chairs ringing the main deck. The idea of an hour or two reclining in one of those lounges is suddenly appealing. I can take a nap, enjoy the lake breezes while admiring the city skyline. By the time we return to port I’ll have recovered from that unfortunate business and never think of it again. I can tell Michael about the lovely day I had on an excursion boat, and he’ll see that I can still get around in the world and manage quite well for myself.
I allow the crowd to push me toward the gangplank where an amiable young woman in a navy uniform festooned with brass buttons takes our tickets and welcomes us aboard. I grab one of the deck chairs before other passengers claim them all and I’m delighted to find myself stretched out with an unobstructed view of the harbor. The ship’s horn emits another loud blast, there’s a slight lurch, and we pull away from the pier. A moment later we’re in open water with the CN Tower and city skyscrapers receding in the distance. I expect we’ll just circle the Toronto Islands or wander along the coast a bit before heading back to port, but I feel the expansive exhilaration of someone embarking on a voyage. Although the city remains clearly within view, I feel a sense of adventure as though bound for somewhere new and unexpected. It’s a pleasant sensation and I smile to myself as I tip my cap over my face, close my eyes, and let my mind drift off with the little boat.
I may have fallen asleep because I’m startled by a man’s voice. “Sir,” he says, “excuse me, sir. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
I push my cap back and sit up. A waiter in spotless white livery is standing beside me with a silver tray. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. This is certainly unexpected. The Aqua Meridian is apparently pulling out all the stops on its maiden voyage.
“How much for a glass of white?” I ask.
“They’re complimentary, sir.” He lowers the tray, offering me a drink as though I’m a guest at a cocktail party.
“Well, thank you. Yes, thank you very much.” I note that it’s real glass, not one of those plastic throw-away things you’d expect on a harbor cruise. I take a sip and squint out toward shore. Is it just my eyes or has the CN Tower really disappeared beyond the horizon?