On an afternoon in late July—warm and cloudless, with a light breeze on Quitsa Pond—Whitney and Ben rowed the dinghy to the Barkley’s Herreshoff. She had passed the test, naming each component of the boat. Now it was time for her to sail.
Sitting behind him, Whitney said, “I guess you saw that the Senate killed the gun control bill. Republicans, mostly.”
Ben turned to her, a bitter light in his eyes. “Surprise, Whitney. Nixon needs the NRA. A few nuts with guns kill people every day, so why should one more dead guy make a difference—especially Bobby Kennedy.” He started rowing again, speaking over his shoulder in a low, angry voice. “But it wasn’t just the Republicans. That pompous prick Gene McCarthy said we shouldn’t pass it under ‘panic conditions.’ His last chance to piss on Bobby’s grave.”
He lapsed into silence, rowing fiercely. Whitney regretted saying anything at all.
Reaching the mooring, they tied up the dinghy and climbed into the sailboat. Under Ben’s tutelage, Whitney helped him rig the sails, his concentration on their task leveling his mood. Manning the tiller, he pointed to a passage between Quitsa and Menemsha Pond. “I’ll get us through the narrows. After that, you’ll take over.”
Propelled by a southeast wind, they headed toward the passage. “It’s called Chaukers,” Ben explained. “It’s shallow there, easy to run aground. To thread the needle requires tacking with each wind shift, consistently moving the mainsail. You’ll have to keep ducking or the boom will take your head off.”
As they headed toward the opening, Ben started tacking with the wind, fighting the tide from Menemsha Pond. Caught by each shift, the mainsail swept across the boat, Whitney ducking beneath the heavy wooden boom. Atop the mast, the arrow that showed wind direction kept veering. Taut and intent, Ben tacked again as the banks of Chaukers closed around them. Thirty feet of width, then twenty. “Notice where the water’s brown,” Ben said between his teeth. “That’s where it’s shallow enough to run aground.”
Swiftly tacking, he guided the Herreshoff along a ribbon of blue between the smudged brown nearer the banks. A gust of wind carried them into Menemsha Pond. “One of my favorite places on the Vineyard,” he told her. “About a mile across and over a hundred feet deep, left by a glacier millions of years ago. God’s gift to sailors.”
Ben still held the tiller, allowing Whitney to take in the expanse of blue water, the direction of the wind. “Now it’s coming from the side of us,” he pointed out to her. “We’re sailing sixty degrees off the wind—a full reach, the perfect tack to be on.”
All at once they were moving faster. As they cut through the water, Whitney felt her spirits lift. “I wish you could see us,” Ben told her. “There’s nothing prettier than a Herreshoff under sail.”
Gaining speed, they headed toward the soft green banks of Herring Creek. “Closer to land, Whitney, the wind will change direction. If you know where and when that happens, it can help you win a race.”
He was different now, she thought—fully absorbed in a task that seemed to touch the deepest part of him, happy in a primal way that perhaps only sailing could create. For a moment it was as if she were not there. Then he turned the boat in a semicircle, away from land. “Your turn, Whitney.”
She sat sideways to the tiller, Ben beside her. As he handed her the mainsheet, she felt the mainsail tugging on it. “Can you tell where the wind’s coming from?” he asked.
“Right at us.”
Looking up at the arrow, Ben nodded. “You can’t sail into a headwind. So you tack off starboard, or port, depending on where you want to go. Pick a direction.”
Whitney pointed toward the far bank. “See the white house? The one peeking through the trees?”
“Head for it, then. Move the tiller toward you, and the boat will go in the opposite direction. Same thing when you move it away. It may seem counterintuitive, but you’ll catch on.”
Unsure of herself, Whitney gripped the tiller tightly. “No white knuckles,” Ben said in the same even tone. “Just keep three fingers on it, with a light touch. Don’t worry that you’ve never done this. You’re not going to break this boat, and you’ve got me to help you.”
He was different than on land, Whitney thought—calm and reassuring. Her grip lightening, she moved the tiller toward her, and saw the mainsail fill with wind. In a half minute, she had them gliding along the water, experimenting with the feel of a boat responding to her hand. Suddenly, she felt the exhilaration of being in control—that she, the wind, and the sailboat were working together. It took Ben’s chuckle to make her realize that she was grinning from sheer pleasure.
“I love this feeling, Ben.”
“I know. I want to do this all my life, sail everywhere there is to sail. I hope I get the chance.”
Hearing the softness in his voice, Whitney felt she knew him in a different way. For a brief moment, she was aware of how close they were sitting. Then a powerboat rocked the sailboat sideways, and left them foundering in its wake. “These boats don’t capsize,” Ben assured her. “Check the wind, then get us back on course.”
Glancing at the arrow, she saw that the wind was shifting and angled the mainsail to catch it. Instantly, they were skimming along the water again. Pointing ahead, Ben told her, “You’ll want to miss that lobster pot.”
Moving the tiller away from her, she cleared the pot. “The wind’s behind us now, Whitney. Use it.”
Within seconds they were racing so close to the wind that the water sped by. In a fresh burst of elation, Whitney thought that she was doing something no one in her family ever had, something all her own. She loved this new sense of mastery—now nothing mattered but the boat, the water, and her. “Want to take us back through Chaukers?” Ben asked.
“Sure.”
“Turn it around, then. You’ll have to be patient, and you’ll be fighting the wind. But I can help you tack.”
As the boat circled, sailing became work again. With Ben’s guidance, she tacked back and forth for endless minutes as the sailboat struggled closer to the passage. Whitney felt herself tense, unsure of where the shallows were. She tacked again, then again.
Abruptly, the boat lurched, stuck in mud she could not see. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Happens all the time,” Ben said with a shrug. “Hard to see these shallows in the afternoon light.”
Peeling off his shirt, he lowered himself into the waist-deep water and began pushing the boat off the mud. As he pulled himself back in, Whitney saw again how lean and muscular he was, the line of dark hair down the center of his chest. For a moment, she imagined herself as Clarice.
Taking the tiller, Ben worked them through the narrows. “Did you ever swim here?” she asked.
“Sure. When I was sixteen, I swam across the pond.”
“The whole mile?”
“Uh-huh. It was a point of pride for me, because my father never learned to swim. That’s a common superstition among fishermen—they take learning to swim as an admission they might drown. So Dad didn’t, cementing his chance of drowning. One of the many reasons I don’t use him as a role model.”
With a final tack, they made it through the narrows. Then Ben let her sail them to the mooring.
Together, they took down the sails. This time, Whitney felt different—his partner as well as his student. “Thank you,” she said. “That was even better than I’d imagined.”
Ben nodded. “I think you have a feel for this, Whitney. Not everyone does.”
His approval warmed her. “You made it easy for me, really. You’re very patient on the water.”
Ben started folding canvas. “As opposed to on land, you mean? Another reverse lesson from Dad. On the lobster boat he would shout and curse—the worst way to teach anyone. The trick is to never make a beginner feel intimidated by the water. That makes it easier to learn, as does this boat.”
Whitney thought again of her friend. “I should thank Clarice for both of us.”
Ben shrugged. “The boat means nothing to her. She knows just enough to know that I won’t sink it.”
Whitney looked up at him. “You don’t like her much, do you?
“To the contrary, I admire her clarity of purpose. As I perceive it, she’s a girl who knows exactly what she wants—which is what she already has. What’s most intriguing about Clarice is the steely quality she tries so hard to conceal.” He smiled. “To all outward appearances, she has no ambition but to keep on living the life she was born to, killing her allotted time on earth as pleasurably as she can.”
To Whitney’s surprise, his assessment had an uncomfortable ring of truth. “You could say at least some of that about me.”
Ben gave her a thin smile. “I could. But I won’t. Though you may not think so, you’re different.”
Whitney stared at him. “Why do you say that?”
“At the risk of being presumptuous, you’ve been living your life on autopilot, sleepwalking toward eternity. The challenge presented by Clarice is her relentless self-interest, and whether anyone could ever penetrate that. But unlike Miss Barkley, you ask questions, and you’re curious. I also think you’re questioning yourself.” He shot her a quick grin. “A dangerous tendency, Whitney. Trust me about that.”
Whitney felt the remark jangle her nerve ends. There was something uncanny about him, she thought, that made her want to hide. “I think you’re imagining things.”
“Am I? Would you mind if I read your diary?”
“Actually, I would,” she said stiffly. “It’s private.”
“Obviously.” Pausing, he regarded her with surprising seriousness. “You’re more like me than you think—a loner. Except that you’re surrounded by other people.”
Whitney shook her head, resistant. “I certainly don’t feel alone.”
“I think you are,” Ben retorted calmly. “You want to write, but I’d guess no one urges you on. You taught black kids, but I’d give odds that everyone in your family—and certainly your intended—saw it as an experiment in idealism, from which you managed to escape without being gang-raped by a pack of subliterate schoolyard basketball players . . .”
“That’s not fair,” Whitney snapped.
“Isn’t it? Has your fiancé ever encouraged you to do anything other than get married?”
Whitney sat straighter. “I have to say that you wear better under sail. Here on land, it’s my dim understanding married people grow together . . .”
“Actually, mine shriveled.”
“Maybe so,” Whitney retorted sharply. “But most men don’t beat their wives.”
“Most men don’t have to. Would you say that your mother has grown in her marriage?”
Whitney gave herself a moment to speak more calmly. “You’re in no position to ask that question, let alone to answer it. My mother raised us, and helped my Dad in every way she could. That’s how she wanted to spend her life, and there’s a lot of good in that for everyone. In spite of your jibes about Clarice.”
Ben smiled at this. “I certainly didn’t call Clarice a fool. I’m quite sure that beneath her very pretty and vivacious surface she’s coolly determined to find a husband capable of protecting her many prerogatives in life.”
Once again, the accuracy of his perceptions unsettled Whitney. “So was my mother,” she told him. “At least if you mean that its easier to stay in love with a man you admire and respect, rather than to some guy you have to prop up every minute. Even if he has money.”
“Didn’t your father?”
“Hardly. Despite your seemingly unshakable prejudices, my dad came from nowhere. In fact, oddly enough, Clarice gave you a bigger compliment than you deserve. She said you reminded her of him.”
Surprise bled the irony from Ben’s expression. “Interesting coming from Clarice, who I take to be a keen judge of men. At least the ones she knows well. But it’s odd she should pick your father as my soul mate. From what I can gather, we’re nothing alike.”
Whitney gave him a wintry smile. “True. Dad’s far more generous of spirit.”
The trace of humor reappeared in his eyes. “A pretty low bar, I guess. But have you ever defied him, or known anyone who has? Not your fiancé, certainly. Seems like Dad’s arranged life precisely the way he wants it.”
Once again, Whitney felt herself bridle at his presumption. “Let’s talk about something else. You can pick the topic.”
Ben smiled again. “But they’re narrowing so quickly. First Peter, then Clarice, and now your father.”
“Then choose one you know something about, like sailing. I thought you were here to teach me.”
A new and unreadable emotion moved through his eyes, then vanished. “I am,” he said simply.