A day of low humidity is a rare summer treat in the Lowcountry. In the drier atmosphere, everything looks clearer, more precise. Laughing gulls swoop high above the marina, casting razor-edged shadows on the parking lot asphalt. The palmetto fronds look as sharp as knives in the high-def light. The reflections off the white hulls of sport fishers are so blinding that I need to look away. Today, the water glitters antically in the wake of two Boston Whalers that weave their way through the marina’s maze of docks and out toward the river.
Kevin waits on the metal ramp. He wears a trucker hat, white tank top, and American flag–themed board shorts. He takes a swig from a Bud Light. “What’s up, Simons?” He tilts his head back and squints hard into the sun, his nostrils two gaping circles. “Everyone else is already on the boat. Crazy assholes have been partying since yesterday.”
I follow him down the ramp to the floating dock. We pass a family readying their boat for a day on the water. The children cling to the boat rails, trying to stay upright in their bulky life jackets. Their mother packs the cooler with Ziplocked sandwiches, juice boxes, brownies. The dad tinkers with the engine and checks the bowlines. It’s a lot like the way my family prepared for a boat trip.
When I gave up Trip, did I give this up, too? I called him last night. I wanted to talk to him about Laudie, tell him about the ballet. He would make me feel better. He would remind me that going was her idea. He’d tell me to focus on how she looked in the lobby—like a monarch.
He didn’t answer. At first, his phone rang and went to voicemail. I called two more times; he’s the type to always have his phone nearby. Still no answer, so I texted: “Can we talk?” I knew I was entering dangerous territory—we had agreed to postpone our conversation until sometime in early winter, a full six months from the breakup, three months from now.
He wrote seconds later. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I called him immediately. He had to answer; the phone was in his hands. Instead, he texted again: “Sorry, I can’t talk right now.” He didn’t even type those words himself. He chose that phrase from the multiple-choice response menu.
That night, I missed our relationship. I mourned it. Finally, though, it felt silly and self-indulgent to cry aloud, so I got a grip and stopped. In my quiet apartment, a singular thought entered my awareness: The only one who can get me out of this hole is me.
That’s when I accepted Kevin’s invitation.
Kevin’s boat is tied up at the end of the docks. It’s large—way larger than any motorboat I’ve ever been on. The center console is as big as a refrigerator; at the stern are three outboard motors.
Four women lounge on the bow. Each sports a glossy bikini. They’re wearing makeup. They look like they showered this morning. My ratty surfing bikini feels childlike. The last time I painted my toenails was in anticipation of Harry’s show. Now, polish covers only the top half of my nails.
Why didn’t I think to put myself together more? Caroline would have arrived in a cute cover-up. She would have brought a stiff canvas tote bag, filled with a fluffy rolled towel and freshly cut cantaloupe for everyone.
He gestures to a spot next to two giant coolers. “You can put your stuff here.” I drop my reusable grocery bag and introduce myself to each of the girls: Jessica, Taylor, Brooke, and Jen. There’s another guy; with lazy curiosity, I wonder which of the girls he’s dating.
Kevin revs the engines. I pull in the fenders and flake the stern line.
“At least someone here knows how to work a boat.” It’s the girl in the sequined cheetah bikini. Jessica? Brooke? They offer me a beer. At first I refuse, saying I have to work this afternoon; but then I think, When in Rome. My decision is greeted with cheers. I raise my beer with a smile. It feels good to smile.
Kevin drives the boat a bit too fast for the marina’s “No Wake” zone; no one else on board seems to notice. Does he know about going idle speed? I chug half my beer, rinsing down any ownership of the boat’s behavior.
We troll past the Charleston Marina’s MegaDock, which is appropriately named. Giant yachts of the world’s super wealthy tie up here for a few nights before zipping off to the Caribbean or across the Atlantic. The girls on the boat wave to the crews scrubbing the decks. They wave their hands back and forth, which is the first sign to me that they are not locals. It’s like spotting an artificial geranium or daffodil in a window box South of Broad—might as well put up a sign that says, “Hey, you guys, I’m from Off!” Instead, Charlestonians do more of a boat salute; when we see another boater, we extend a hand, hold it steady. We also drive Key Wests and Boston Whalers, not inboard wakeboarding boats outfitted with concert speakers that blast rap-rock.
We boat to get away from it all, not to carry it with us. We listen to the waves, look for dolphins, find a spot to swim. And even the most outspoken member of Battery Hall wouldn’t hoist a flag bearing the name of his favorite political candidate.
Once we reach the Ashley River, Kevin guns the engines. Our boat hydroplanes effortlessly. We slice through the harbor, which is glassy on this nearly windless day. Still, there is some chop, bouncing all eight boobs in unison. The girls clasp the speedboat’s metal rails. I hold on, too. We go fast, faster than I’ve ever been in a motorboat. If we were to hit something—if there were a shallow spot, a sandbar, or something large and submerged—we’d be flung off the boat like batter off an eggbeater.
I always felt safe when Trip took his family’s boat out to the lake. At the beginning of every boating season, he checks the expiration dates on his flare, fire extinguisher, and fishing permits. Even for a quick outing, he snaps his navigation lights on and off to ensure they work, just in case the day doesn’t go as planned. On the water, he’s always cognizant of other watercraft, careful to keep a safe distance. When we return to land, he devotes a full hour to running fresh water through the engine and oiling down the motor.
My impatience flared during these fastidious routines; now I realize he was just being responsible. How could I have been so blind? If I had been paying attention, I would have observed his methodical mind in action as he backed the trailer into the water. I would have admired his strong hands as he cranked the winch. Instead, I looked away, annoyed, imagining some sort of better life, barefoot and untethered to the traditional, predictable world.
My face grows hot. Tears brim in my eyes. I root around in my bag for my sunglasses and stare straight ahead, trying to think about nothing.
“Redneck hairdryer!” Kevin shouts, his hair spiked straight by the wind.
A little self-deprecating humor. Nice. I give him a thumbs-up, trying to be in the present. I’m on a boat with fun-loving, carefree people. Why can’t I have fun?
Kevin pulls back on the throttle as we approach the leeward side of Morris Island, an undeveloped spit of land near the mouth of the harbor, accessible only by boat. Looking at the mound of sand, held together by morning glory vines and needle-rush roots, I easily see how the land has shifted dramatically over the years. The lighthouse, originally built on land in 1876, is marooned fifteen hundred feet offshore. Several groups work to preserve this historic landmark. The question is, though, with nearly half of the construction in the United States built on shifting coastal zones, can our country save every structure near the water?
It’s an incoming tide; we could simply beach the boat and be fine. But I don’t say anything for fear that my guidance might be taken for mild castration. The guys figure it out, anyway. Kevin lobs an anchor onto shore. His buddy hops onto the beach and drives it into the sand.
It’s hot now that we’ve stopped. The hummock of trees east of us blocks the offshore breeze. I tell Kevin I’m going for a swim. Only after he turns away do I remove my hat and sunglasses to jump in.
Underwater, I feel at home. Ancient horseshoe crabs crawl beneath me; stingrays glide nearby. I kick hard, swimming away from my thoughts to nowhere in particular. When I emerge, the shore is much farther away than I had anticipated. Kevin’s boat bobs up and down at least fifty yards away.
Fuck. I’m in a riptide. A powerful current sweeps me out to sea. Surfers know to swim with the current, even if it takes them farther from the shore, until the giant stream relinquishes its grip. But the water won’t let go.
I kick hard—going against all safety protocol—and use every bit of energy I can summon to beat the current. Breathing sharply, I glance up to gauge my progress. The island slips by.
I’m losing ground, but instead of succumbing to panic, I yield to a pleasant thought: maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be carried out into the Atlantic Ocean. Where would the water take me? It might be nice for some other force to determine my direction in life. Lately, I’ve found it exhausting to do it on my own.
I let go.
The water, as it tends to do, folds my body into a fetal position. I float soundlessly with the tide. I don’t struggle. I have no wants. This nothingness must be like death, weightless and peaceful. Maybe this is what Laudie dreams of at night—or even when she’s awake. She’s probably tired of the fact that everything these days is a struggle: eating, talking, hearing, being. As I am carried off by the riptide, I imagine Laudie being carried off to the afterlife.
Something large swims past me. It happens again. Curious dolphins have whipped by me before, but they always surface within sight, letting me know that they’re dolphins. Yet on the surface, there are no arcing dorsal fins in sight. Surrendering to the whims of tidal patterns is one thing; getting bitten by a shark is another. I hammer my arms through the chop, catch myself groaning at the effort. I take a half-stroke to orient myself and am surprised to see that I’m actually headed back toward the beach. The riptide apparently makes a U-turn sooner than I’d calculated. In just a few more minutes of strenuous swimming, I reach the boat.
I hang on the ladder, every cell in my body tired and thankful for rest. I’m also thankful that no one seemed to notice that I was missing, busy having a near-death experience. I take a moment to recoup before pulling myself up the little swim ladder attached to the boat’s stern.
Just as I lift myself up from the water, a freshly waxed labia eclipses my view of the open sky. “Oh my God, I have to pee so bad!”
It’s Taylor. Or Brooke?
She squats on the swimming platform, hanging onto the rails. She gives me a drunken smile. “I’ve been holding it forever.”
I should move. I should just swim away and give this woman some privacy and maybe avoid a stream of hot urine flowing my way. But I’m exhausted and afraid that if I let go of the ladder, I’ll sink right to the bottom, never to be seen or heard from again.
Finally, she’s done. She slides her dry bikini bottom back on. Just before she climbs over the stern, she gives me an almost flirtatious look. “You’re a little kinky, huh?” She laughs and tilts her head back.
I have no idea what to say to that. I am so weak from exertion I don’t even smile, which probably makes me seem even creepier.
Mustering my strength, I haul myself up the ladder and all but collapse on the bench behind the center console. Kevin is at the steering wheel, fiddling with the music, his swimming trunks still dry. “What happened to your toe?”
I start to explain my work injury—which has now turned my toe a brownish-blue color—but instead say, “Shark bit it.” Kevin laughs. While he digs around in the cooler for another beer, I take a moment to send a little prayer up to the heavens. I hope Laudie will be taken peacefully to the other side. I also send thanks for a good lesson: that where I want to go, I don’t always have to go against the tide.