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THE STREETCAR RAN SOUTH down Palafox Street, toward the bay, on a crystal clear morning for sailing. Alexandra leaned against a window. A sack of groceries filled her hands, and her long hair kicked up in the warm breeze from under her beret.
Holding additional bags beside her stood Charles Thompson. He seemed an ostensibly decent Floridian businessman of age thirty, and one eager to take his new yacht to sea. Alexandra had been wary of taking this job, but the fact he had a solid chin and offered to carry her suitcase aided a good first impression. They had purchased staples to stock the yacht’s galley, with Thompson stating plans to earn dinner by catching fish along the way. He had spoken much about his life in Key West and planned for a five-day voyage across the Gulf of Mexico to bring his ship home. He had mentioned recruiting a friend to help work the helm, sails, and riggings.
“You don’t strike me, Mister Thompson, as one of those laid-back ‘conch’ types.”
“It’s more a state of mind. Just call me Karl. Everyone on the island goes by a nickname, and for whatever reason, that is mine.”
They disembarked a few blocks from the Pensacola Yacht Club. Alexandra wanted to pry more information out of “Karl” before boarding. “Have you much sailing experience?”
“I’ve taken out lesser crafts. Never tried night sailing, but nothing like learning by doing. Hemmy’s in it for the fishing.” Noting her alarmed expression, he added, “We’ll be fine.”
That a third party was involved troubled Alexandra. She had yet to meet this “Hemmy” whom Thompson had stated was new to Key West and an acquaintance of only a few weeks. She had taken the assignment because it would provide a free berth and board to get a step closer to British Guiana. It filled her with apprehension as a young woman; isolated with two strange men, adrift in an unforgiving sea. Thompson admitted he had only sent her his letter as a lark since her newspaper advertisement held a waggish appeal.
As they stepped onto the pier, he pointed her out.
“She’s that beautiful Dickies of Tarbert, gaff-rigged ketch.” He spoke with the pride of a new father, or at least a man who had worked hard to attain one simple dream.
Alexandra’s face lit up. It was a beauty. The ketch was forty-eight feet long, 11.5 across the beam, and featured a Perkins Saber diesel engine for when the wind was down. Varnished wood planked its hull, deck, and cabin. Its canvas sails were down; the mainmast to the fore and smaller mizzen astern.
Manning the deck making final preparations stood Hemmy.
From a distance, Alexandra thought him to be of similar age to Thompson, but they were clearly two different breeds of men. The refined skipper would set sail clean-shaven and wearing a tie. His bullish first mate sported a dark mustache, a stubble-covered jawline, and wore a stained Breton shirt over rolled-up trousers. Noting how vigorously he moved about testing the riggings, she suspected this Hemmy to be a hard-boiled, lean-forward type of guy. He hopped onto the pier. “She’s all set, Karl.”
“I’m Alexandra.” She extended a hand. “You must be Hemmy?”
He took her suitcase, nodded, and boarded without a word. Alexandra stepped aboard, flashing Hemmy a sour glance. She adjusted the red neckerchief that dangled from her blue middy blouse. If her body were to wash ashore in the coming days, the authorities would start their investigation at the nearest French naval yard or inquire along Broadway if one of their Rockettes was missing.
She felt his gaze while heading down the companionway and turned. Hemmy stood arms folded; cheerless eyes squinted at the sun. “What is it, sir?”
“I’m contemplating if you can swim.”
“As swift as a mermaid,” she responded, before descending into the cabin. It held multiple sleeping berths, a gas cooker, sink, and head, all outfitted in upscale mahogany and brass fittings.
They would sail in comfort as long as they didn’t capsize her.
Resting on the small dinette table was a copy of The Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of La Mancha.
—‡—
THE FIRST THREE DAYS aboard were a whirlwind of desperate activity and breathless learning on the fly. As an experienced angler, Thompson had many photographs of himself holding an impressive catch upon deck or dock. He was looking to add images of a sailor’s struggles captured in the moment rather than after the fact. Through her camera lens, Alexandra found the grit and sweat of big-game fishing appeared akin to the strains of sailing. The bend of a stressed rod was like the boat’s tilt in a steep leeward heel. Blood-flushed forearms battling a sizeable Amberjack burst veins no less red than when gybing the mainsail. Teeth were clenched in either endeavor. She attained splendid shots of Thompson hand-feeding a pod of dolphins racing alongside the hull. Her favorite was Hemmy’s prolonged duel with a swordfish; the prize being his forlorn gaze after his line snapped to the indomitable force of the victor jumping the surface.
Everyone played a role. Hemmy would reel in dinner, Thompson would cook up a well-seasoned tarpon, and Alexandra had taken command in serving meals and breakfast preparations.
The only time they had to leisurely chat over coffee spiked with Jamaican rum was at sunset. Alexandra came to trust Thompson implicitly but attaining any sense of Hemmy remained elusive. With brief comments here and there, she gathered he had recently moved from Paris. He was gentlemanly enough to leave the deck when a rain shower afforded her a quick wash in the buff. Otherwise, he had placed more attention on ignoring her than casting any interest or a favorable eye.
Most of their time, however, focused on mastering the intricacies of sailing. Outsmarting the swift fickleness of wind and surf required full insight and constant adjustments. Thompson had the advantage of fair weather to teach his novices basic nautical skills such as the “points of sail” and how to trim them when heading up or ease the sheets when bearing away. Alexandra soon felt more confident in manning the helm than in driving a car, as there were no tedious street signs to ignore. They took the precaution of keeping two on deck, which had lent for little rest.
Their course was southeasterly, with favorable morning winds shifting west each afternoon. On the third day, they found anchorage near St. Petersburg, which would allow for a sound night’s sleep.
—‡—
ALEXANDRA WRAPPED UP washing the dishes as the men sat playing cards at the galley’s table. At sea, on the move, the pitching of the boat was hardly noticeable, but now anchored, the wakes stirred by passing vessels made balance a persistent nuisance. It was close-quarter living, and she planned to go topside and read by lantern light once wrapping up her cleaning. Until then, Thompson continued in further sailing instruction and she did her best to follow along.
He lifted his eyes off his cards. “Did you get that, Alexandra?”
She repeated, verbatim, “‘If another boat is approaching, port tack gives way to starboard tack.’”
“You’ve picked up the rules of sailing most astutely.”
“It’s clean and logical.” She turned off the faucet and dried her hands. Half-facetiously, she added, “It’s everything else in life that remains so very confusing.”
“We can deal you in next hand,” offered Hemmy.
“Disturb a game amongst chums? I resent being the only one aboard without a nickname.”
The men placed down their cards. Thompson said, “Name it.”
“A nickname must derive from others,” she countered. “If you can fashion one that meets my approval, I’ll join the game. Mind you, ‘Bumsy’ and ‘Cheeky’ have previously been rejected.”
Thompson rubbed his chin. Hemmy tapped a finger to his cheek. Both smiled but elicited nothing.
She rolled her eyes, figuring their silence veiled saucy options. “May I borrow this book by Miguel de Cervantes? Is it interesting?”
“You’ve never read Don Quixote?” asked Hemmy. “No wonder life makes no sense to you.”
She said, “I read voraciously. What is it about?”
“What is it about?” Thompson repeated. He continued rubbing his chin. Hemmy’s finger was still tapping his cheek. They looked at each other. Thompson blinked. “It’s about a quest. The noble mission to overcome life’s trials without conceding one’s courage or honor. To be better far than you are.”
To Alexandra, Don Quixote sounded like the fanciful delusions of an impossible dreamer. “The world is too overbearing to meet such impeccable standards. What say you, Hemmy?”
“Thus, the challenge of the quest,” he responded. “It’s a book a man can better understand.”
The nonchalant manner in which Hemmy had said it seemed like a shot across her bow. “Are you saying that I, among those of the fairer sex, cannot grasp the value of courage and honor?”
“I’m not saying that.” He lifted his uncompromising, dark eyes to her. “I’m saying it’s different.”
She sat, not wanting to pitch battle on wobbly legs. “I might have entertained such an argument from my brothers. They’ve been to war and would have stated it without generic ridicule of half the planet.”
“I’ve been to war,” Hemmy snapped, “and only speak for me. Have you been to war?”
He had her there. “My father taught me that courage and honor must be daily affairs.”
“Yet, it is a discussion unlikely held with a mother,” he noted. “Whatever your brothers have told you of war, they shared with you most protectively. I won’t burden you with the reason.”
“As they are not here,” Alexandra challenged, “tell me of your war experience in fullest brutality. I’ve noticed the scars on your legs. Perhaps your candid words will leave me enlightened.”
“My personal affairs are not your concern,” Hemmy rumbled. “Seek illumination by asking your brothers to man up and teach you about life straightforwardly. Better yet, read the book!”
“Take it easy, Hem,” Thompson pleaded. “Points well taken.”
Alexandra was already up from the table. Her impulse to fight had shifted to flight, and her body quivered under the weight of Hemmy’s jutted gaze. She fired her last salvo in a composed, but much-shaken voice. “My brother William lost an arm and half his face at Amiens. They obliterated my Thomas at Cambrai. How more vivid, Hemmy, do you expect them to be?”
With that, she fled the galley for the deck, entertaining thoughts to jump overboard and swim for shore.
It was thirty pages into Don Quixote that she heard the footsteps. Alexandra sat cross-legged at the bow, her lantern’s flame dancing with the bobbing lights of the other moored vessels within the harbor. She did not grant her visitor a look and continued to focus on the novel between slow puffs on a cigarette. She knew it was Hemmy. If he were seeking direction, he could try his luck with the sexton. She was not interested in fostering friendly social bearings.
“I tried to join up in 1918,” he said, settling beside her and peering at the sea. “Unfit because of poor vision... Me! I left my newspaper job in Missouri to drive a Red Cross ambulance in Italy.”
Alexandra lifted her eyes. The fighting along the Isonzo River had been brutal. Hemmy related the Italians were fearful of the Austro-Hungarians, who stormed the trenches in sheepskin cloaks wielding primitive weapons such as war hammers and spiked maces. He had arrived after the disaster of Caporetto, with the front collapsed to the gates of Venice and the Italian Army in disarray. Soldiers were being lined up and executed for cowardice.
The battle line had stabilized along the Piave River.
“Just months in, I was bringing up provisions when a mortar hit,” he continued, taking a seat. “It tore two soldiers next to me into pieces. I took shrapnel carrying another man to the rear.”
Alexandra’s sympathetic gaze offered peace. “I’ve asked many men about their experiences in the war, not to pry, but to better understand how they persevere. My brother has self-exiled for his injuries. He will know nothing of love or happiness unless I can drag him back into the world of the living. I reckon it is among my quests. How do you cope?”
Sailboats were built to get away from such thoughts. Hemmy tossed his indomitable manner overboard. “I’m a writer, so I write.”
She smiled. “What has been the hardest, if I may ask?”
“Coming to terms they labeled me ‘unfit to serve.’” The corner of Hemmy’s lip that had lifted collapsed back down. “The needs placed on a man to act bravely weigh daily. There is no shortage of rogues who have abandoned such callings, but to most men, a single lapse in honor proves forever haunting. We are born with less a fear to face certain death than endure the shame of having tucked tail and run.”
“My father served in South Africa,” she shared. “He told me of an artillery officer who found a white feather on his cot after abandoning his field gun to the Boers at Colenso. The gunner in seeing it stepped outside, lifted revolver to head, and fired.”
“That is of what I speak.” Hemmy exhaled. “We do not spare such things from the women in our lives out of vanity or disregard, but out of love. Will any of this help you with your brother?”
“It has helped me to understand that he deserves my forgiveness,” she said, determining herself an awful and selfish person. “Thank you for this chat. I hope you write great works.”
Hemmy stood to leave. “Long two days ahead. You should retire.”
Alexandra felt too worn out for sleep. “I need to catch up on better judging men, and so much else. I finally have a book to guide me.”
He smiled. “I introduced myself curtly. My name is Ernest.”
“And I remain, Alexandra,” she teased.
“Karl and I settled that. For this voyage, you are ‘Dulcinea.’”
She thought it had a certain flair to it. “Will I like this nickname?”
Hemmy headed down the companionway. “Quit malingering and read the book.”
The following day, Alexandra read aloud to her boatmates as they harnessed a favorable breeze and sailed it for all it was worth.
On their last morning, a red sky greeted them.
The wind and surf picked up, and a squall along the western horizon started chasing them with a gnashing intent to its lightning and thunderclaps. They affixed life vests, donned slickers, and went about battening down the hatches and doubling the lines. Every decision to stay ahead of the beast was of grave consequence. It worried Alexandra in seeing the men whisper and flash askance looks her way, but Hemmy had stated the manly code of keeping the darkest details private. They raced to within view of the island, with only traces of rain pinging the deck. Thompson ordered the sails dropped so he could bring them home on diesel.
Soon, the shoreline was but a hundred yards off.
They had made it.
Hemmy unexpectedly cut the engine. Thompson seemed fidgety. He said, “We need a word, Dulcinea.”
Alexandra presented herself. “What is it, Skipper?”
Thompson asked, “Can you take off your slicker and shoes?”
She complied. It left her in a thin camisole under her life vest and a high waist wrap skirt.
“We’ve been talking. You see, I’m happily married, and Hemmy’s recently remarried, and—”
“And you want fashion tips for beach attire to purchase gifts for your wives!” she chanced.
“—and we’re worried how it might appear coming into port with a young woman aboard,” Thompson finished. “Island folk love to gossip. So, with you looking how you look, untoward rumors—”
Hemmy, having little patience for elongated sentences, barged in with, “He’s taking forever to say we don’t want the town to think we brought along a prostitute.”
“An exceptionally high-end prostitute, mind you,” Thompson specified, wiping his brow. “And—”
“And in the finest tradition of knight-errant extraordinaire, Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha, you plot to disguise me as a man to safeguard my reputation from such scurrilous tomes of dishonor!”
“Well... that, too,” Thompson said, “but mostly we wish to spare ourselves any marital strife. I’m afraid we must throw you overboard.”
Before Alexandra could protest, Hemmy scooped her up and sent her airborne over the side. As she cursed their decision, he advised, “Swim to shore and walk up to Duval Street. We’ll meet you outside the Strand Theater and take you out to dinner. Hasta luego!”
Alexandra could bob the surf in a huff or get swimming.
She got swimming.
—‡—
THE ISLAND’S POWER was out, and Alexandra found herself a storm refugee trapped in an otherwise empty restaurant. She held plans to check into the La Concha Hotel and then catch the ferry to Havana out of Trumbo Point. Thompson and Hemmy had placed calls to their wives to drive down to collect them, but love only ran so deep, so they remained stranded. After dinner, they had tried poker by candlelight, but playing for peanuts became a bore.
Alexandra broke out her travel portfolio and ushered them from Papua to Switzerland to pass the time. While speaking of her follies in Africa, Hemmy showed great interest.
“And that’s how I ended up near-naked in the Acacia tree.”
“Are there any pictures of that?” asked Hemmy.
Alexandra pointed to a photograph of her bare feet just above the impaled lion. “I have destroyed all other evidence.”
They shared a friendly laugh. If Hemmy ever ventured to Kenya to hunt, she could see him matching up with Bror Blixen, though they’d waste a lot of time arm-wrestling.
Thompson remained perplexed about her business concept. He asked, “Will you realize a profit?”
“Not likely,” Alexandra projected. “Regardless, I’ve walked in the footsteps of Jesus and seen the snows of Kilimanjaro. Someday, I hope to be a contributing photographer for National Geographic. Everything will fall into place thereafter.”
The torrential rain that had chased them down was unrelenting, filling Duval Street with a torrent of water that even a frisky salmon could not surmount. The two young men staffing the joint were taking turns sweeping out the creeping lake formed at the front doorway.
Alexandra stood to stretch out her back and walked to the door. A brilliant flash filled the windows, and the ensuing boom followed close behind. “Let’s give five-card draw another go.”
Thompson shuffled the deck. “What’s the ante?”
“An article of clothing,” Hemmy suggested.
Alexandra snorted, judging the idea madcap. “I think not.”
“Strip poker. First one naked has to run two blocks and back.”
“Do I need to remind you we live here?” Thompson asked Hemmy. They were all down to their driest essentials. “I have six articles on. You only changed into two. As for Dulcinea?”
Alexandra was back in her sailor outfit, a lace camisole, and with undies, came in at four. She asked, “Where do you come up with these bohemian ideas, Hemmy?”
“Paris, where else?” He was sticking his neck out, only wearing a sweater and pants. “I played in mixed company at this little café along Montparnasse. Fortunately for all those participating, Gertrude Stein is an excellent card player. No one’s outside, anyway.”
Oh, to be one of the boys she thought. Why not? “I’m in!”
Thompson was cornered. He asked the workers, “Do you guys mind if we play strip poker?”
The two men rested their brooms and looked at him, puzzled, then to Alexandra. One said, “Sure. Good luck to you and Hemmy!”
“Let’s hope the electricity stays out.” Thompson started dealing.
They took their cards in hand. Alexandra tossed three back, then sighed. “Goodbye, blouse.”
Hemmy won the round with two pair. Thompson lost his tie and Alexandra her top. The restaurant staffers hailed a new hero.
Thompson shuffled and dealt again.
Alexandra kicked back two, then sighed.
Thompson took the round with three jacks.
Alexandra looked over to the workers, who would knight him if it were within their power. Circumstances were growing dire. She slid out of her panties and tossed them atop her blouse laying the floor. As she surmised by his forearms, Hemmy had a hairy chest.
“Anyone like to bow out?” Thompson asked. “No shame in it.”
Alexandra matched Hemmy’s stoic gaze with her own. She was down to only her skirt and camisole, he to his pants. He smirked but refused to blink. She pleaded, “I need a winner, Karl. Deal away.”
Hemmy picked up his first five cards, offering no hint to his take on them. “What I like about you, Dulcinea, is you can act one of the boys without being any less of a lady.”
She thought it a superb compliment. “What I like about you, Ernest, will be the sight of your pale buttocks as you sprint through the rain.”
It was the moment of truth. After the draw, Alexandra had three sevens. She showed her hand. Hemmy groaned and presented two pair.
Thompson folded and removed his sweater vest. As for the workers who had hovered, paradise was lost.
Hemmy walked to the door. Everyone followed.
It was pitch dark and the odds of being struck by lightning outdoors appeared even-money. Alexandra said, “It’s time, Ernest, to run where the buck-naked dare not go.”
Hemmy dropped his pants and was off like a rocket. He displayed remarkable speed running with the current, but at the turn, he slowed down.
Everyone cheered him on.
Alexandra shielded her eyes, taking one peek. “You threw the last hand, didn’t you, Karl?”
He only chuckled and patted her shoulder.
She shouted, “Naked man afoot!” to reignite Hemmy’s pace.
Somewhere lost in the night, a ship’s bell tolled.
The electric streetlamps flickered all at once, allowing observers to take full heed of Ernest “Hemmy” Hemingway: a man among men.