Chapter Three

A Lifeboat

 

Porter had looked at boats, culled through the magazines and other nautical publications, dreamed and fantasized about his new life in earnest for the final three years of his teaching career. It provided the escape he needed while sitting in the waiting rooms of Thomas’ doctors, the hard bench hallways of the county jails until Thomas could be released into his custody, and the lonely evenings waiting for Amanda to return from her “grueling but rewarding” twelve and fourteen hour days at the school so she could collapse into bed without so much as a kiss.

The task of caregiver Porter did not mind; in fact, he found it to be a role for which he was quite suited. He would comfort the beautiful boy with the shaggy dark hair, the smooth face, the sly, puffy eyes that always looked as if he had just awoken. Six feet tall and slender, Thomas appeared to be completely innocent until he smiled, always slight. And then there was the look of the mischievous rascal to him, the handsome bad boy who would surely get you in trouble.

But Thomas needed Porter when it was obvious that his wife and daughter no longer did. He could count on Thomas’ love and appreciation, and that easily made up for the late night phone calls when he had been picked up by the police or the all night vigils at his bedside in cold hospital rooms. The antics and eccentric behavior that embarrassed Amanda and everyone else only steeled Porter’s desire to protect his son. Porter patiently went along with the erratic speech patterns that often made no sense, or seemed to make some sense and then made none.

When his last year of teaching finally came, he weathered the trite retirement party on a Friday afternoon, where his colleagues, most of whom thought he was crazier than his son, wished him luck and Amanda stood off to the side constantly checking her watch and looking toward the door. In her words, he was “flaking out,” nursing a silly dream they talked about but that was “only a diversion for a young couple, nothing two responsible adults would actually follow through on.” In her opinion, dreams were for fun but not for following. A person needed to improve her lot in life, not escape and digress into child’s play, she said.

Porter practically ran from the school after the party was over. He could not believe how lucky he was to escape the ritualistic life where idealistic young teachers turned bitter and disillusioned over the years, hating their jobs, their colleagues, and their students but chained to the desk only to make sure they had a financially secure future for themselves. They no longer cared about the kids. Porter hated the job, and most of his colleagues, but he still loved his students and he knew it was time to get out while he still could, while he still felt that way. There had to be more, and he was determined to find it. Why was it that people worked so hard to get what they wanted, and then felt that they could do nothing else after that? Why were we programmed to lead only one life, then pass away? Porter had been a teacher, but now he wanted more, a new life very different from his old life. It frightened him, leaving the security, but staying in its clutches scared him even more.

The day after his retirement party he drove out to Port Cypress with Thomas to find a boat. There he met Captain Jack, a cigar chewing boat broker who would make the rounds with them. His main advice to Porter was: “don’t get a hard-on for the first boat you look at,” and while not literally Porter’s anatomical response, it was an exact metaphor. He saw Poco, up the dock, sitting in a ray of sunshine like Jesus in a Sistine Chapel painting. Her wooden windows in the pilot house, her high, sweeping bow, the smoke stack and tall fishing arms, her stout hull--Porter wanted to weep with happiness. The price was, of course, more than he had planned to spend, but he saw Poco and had to have her. He tried to fight off the realization that he had felt the same way when he first saw Amanda, and he rationalized this by telling himself that fishing boats don’t have any aspirations more lofty than to stay afloat.

“What do you think?” he asked Thomas.

“I love it,” he replied while running his fingers over the wheel, pretending to steer, and Porter could not have been happier. Captain Jack finished the paperwork, then left. Porter and his son sat grinning in the pilot house for the rest of the day, pretending to be at sea.

“It’s the last frontier of the Americas, Thomas,” Porter said. “The last frontier. That’s it. They say there are Canadian islands up toward Alaska that haven’t even been charted completely.”

“Wow.” Thomas wandered around and around the pilot house, touching the compass, the depth sounder, the radar, the gear shift, and every time he passed the button, he blew the fog horn. “Do I get to come too? That would be the right thing, and where would we go, you know that, don’t you?”

“I hope so, Thomas. I hope so. I think it would be the right thing for us. We just need to convince your mother that it’ll be okay.” He knew she was dead set against the idea, but he also knew he would somehow make it work.

“I’ll be good--I don’t want to stay behind. I don’t want it; it can’t happen. I’ll just wish it.”

“I know, but there are some things that are out of our control.”

“Why?”

“We’ve talked about this, Thomas; sometimes when you don’t take your medications, you get into trouble.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I remember.” He blew the horn again. “But I don’t really mean it, not the way it seems. I don’t mean to unhinge the door.”

“You don’t mean to cause problems, Thomas. And we’re going to work with that; that’s where we’ll start. If you can stay out of trouble, maybe your mother will think it’s going to work out, you coming with me.”

“I hope so, Dad. Because if the past is any indication whatsoever, I’ll be free to wander around. And wander around I’ll get.”

Porter didn’t know what he meant, yet it somehow seemed to sum up the situation.

But their optimism was short lived. Two days after returning home, Thomas was arrested. He was caught shoplifting a model boat, a lifeboat, from a toy store on his way home from his work as a gardener. He just walked out of the store with it, without even trying to conceal his actions.

Porter went to the police station, convinced the store owner not to press charges, and walked Thomas home.

“Why did you do it, Thomas?”

“I thought we might need it. Last night someone told me we might need it.”

Who told you that, Thomas?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s just a cheap toy--we have a real boat now.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t think about that. But I’m sure someone told me it was a good idea. I didn’t mean it, I don’t think I was thinking about it but it was a good idea.”

“I know, Thomas.” Porter sighed. “You really didn’t think about it.”

And that was always the problem. The spontaneity of his actions got him in trouble. He was not much different than his father.

“I can help him, Amanda,” Porter said later, after Thomas had gone to bed.

“Help him?” She stared right through Porter. “Once again, this is your fault. Once again, if you hadn’t put a bunch of fool notions of boats in his head, if you had a little stability, rationality, he probably wouldn’t do these things.”

“It’s not working for him the way it is.” Porter ignored her accusations. “Maybe a different life would help him with a new outlook. A simpler life, Amanda. You even said you wanted it at one time. Remember? We were going to have a simpler life together. I think it would be good for him, keep his mind occupied with new adventures.”

“You are such a pathetic dreamer, Porter.” She sounded repulsed. “You can continue to deny reality, have your mid-life crisis or whatever’s happening. But you are not going to drag him down with you. I am not going to let him end up like you. He’s going to stay here in town, in his own apartment, work a job, however menial, and learn to become a responsible adult. Even if you can’t grow up, Porter, I haven’t given up on him.”

The morning after Amanda dropped Thomas off--having apparently given up on him--Porter awoke to Luke’s ringing voice, preaching from the ground up to Poco.

“‘. . . and bring the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ And they began to make merry. The savior has arrived.”

Porter took Thomas on a tour, first to show him the slip where Poco would be tied up when she someday returned to the water. Lila came trotting down the dock, full body swaying, wild hair flying.

“That your son, Porter? I heard he was here staying with you.” She hurried past them. “He’s a snack!” She marched right up to where a visiting Bennateau sloop was docked, the occupants sitting quietly in the cockpit sipping their morning coffee. She untied the two bow lines and threw them aboard, then pushed past the protesting husband as he climbed off the boat onto the dock. Lila yanked the stern line off the cleat and threw it aboard.

“What are you doing?” the man yelled.

“Checkout time is 11 AM. It’s 11:15. No late departures unless it’s approved by the office ahead of time.” She grabbed the lifeline and started pushing the boat away from the dock. The man had to jump aboard and rush back to the helm.

“You could have at least let me start the engine,” he whined, fiddling with the controls.

“You could have at least left on time . . . get this piece of shit away from my dock,” Lila said, clapping her hands together as the boat drifted away. She turned and left them. The couple raced around, the woman spilling her coffee, and the engine coughed to life just before the boat smacked into a piling.

The man yelled after her, “I’ll . . . . I’ll . . . .” but there was nothing he could do.

“I mean it, Porter,” Lila said as she swished by in a flurry of hip movements. “That boy is cute. Send him my way if he needs anything.” She paused to wink at Thomas. Porter thought his son would shy away, but Thomas smiled at her.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, nodding his head. They followed her up the ramp to the shoreline.

Luke stood before them, and Lila grabbed his shoulder and pushed him aside.

“Get the fuck out of the way,” she said.

“‘. . . for every one who exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted,’” Luke said as they passed him.

Lila continued into her office and slammed the door. Porter and Thomas headed to Lou’s for breakfast. As was often the case, they were the only customers.

“Lou, this is my son, Thomas,” Porter said.

Lou wiped his hand on his apron and extended it to Thomas. They held their grips and looked right at each other.

“I heard you were here, Thomas. How do you like the place so far?”

“It is . . . interesting,” Thomas said. He seemed to be thinking very hard about Lou’s question. “I’m pretty sure I will like it here, that’s for sure.” They sat down at the counter and took off their jackets.

“What’s for breakfast today, Lou?” Porter asked.

“Banana and marmalade omelette.”

“Really?” Porter asked. It sounded . . . unsettling.

“That sounds great,” Thomas said, before Porter could summon an opinion. “Yes, pretty soon we’ll be there. That sounds great.”

Porter looked at his son. “Then we’ll take two,” he said. He was briefly elated when Dora came through the door, but she was followed by George and Mel, who headed for the corner booth.

Porter tried to ignore them and he introduced Thomas to Dora, who joined them at the counter.

“It’s nice to meet you, Thomas,” Dora said. “I heard you were here staying with your father.”

Porter couldn’t figure out how everyone knew.

“That’s your son?” George shouted from the corner. “I always figured you for a guy with just daughters.” He and Mel laughed. “Just daughters.”

Porter ignored them. Dora started to speak to Porter, but she stopped when Thomas stood up and walked over to George, standing close over him.

“I’m Thomas,” he said. “So, how many sons do you have, I was thinking, and then I . . . what?” he started to ask George, then stopped and wrinkled his forehead.

“Well, I . . . .” George responded.

“Daughters are for wondering.”

“Huh?” George stammered. “I don’t have any kids.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. “Do you have a dog?”

“No, I . . . .”

“When a dog, and mankind, are sick, they seem to be humble and remarkable. The dog can aspire to rise to the position of humans and be French. Where was I?”

“What?”

“Do you have a wife or a girlfriend? Because when I was young, I never did understand what engines and boats have to do with anything anyway.”

“What is this? You’re not making any sense.”

“Oh, I see. I’m the one not making sense, huh? Think again, mister, think again. I’m not the one making sense?”

“You’re nuts,” George said.

“I’m not the one with a problem here.”

“You’re a fucking lunatic.”

“Where did you get those shoes?” Thomas cocked his head to peer under the table. “I like those shoes.”

“Well, yes.” George looked confused. “I just bought them, at the chandlery over at . . . .”

“So . . . he’s with you? Then the dog and mankind are one and the same.” Thomas pointed at Mel. “The poetry society where I come from says it’s okay. And you can be sure that it is.” Thomas winked at Mel, nodded his head, then turned to his father. “It’s okay if they are that way, isn’t it, Dad?” He faced George again. “It’s okay. Really. Some people have a problem with it, though.”

“It’s okay with me,” Porter said, and for the first time, he was enjoying his son’s disorganized speech although, as usual, he was not exactly sure what Thomas was talking about. Dora held her hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh. Thomas pointed at George, then at Mel, nodding his head again.

“Wait a minute--what are you saying? Wait a minute . . . . We . . . no.” Both George and Mel pushed back from the table top, away from each other, repulsed. They kept shaking their heads. “No way, we’re not . . . .”

“No way,” Mel said.

“Use the outtakes; that’s what you need to do,” Thomas said. “You’d probably be a lot happier ‘cause they’re usually a lot better.” He returned to his stool at the counter and sat down with Porter and Dora.

“No way,” said George.

“That’s revolting,” Mel said. “No way.”

They got up and walked out the door. “No fucking way,” they each repeated.

“That’s about the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time, Thomas,” Dora said.

“What?” Thomas asked. “What’s everyone think is so funny? We probably shouldn’t be laughing should we be? What? What were we laughing at anyway?”

“You’re probably right,” Dora said.

“We just can’t help it,” Porter said.

“I was going to go for a sail today, Porter.” Dora wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Would you and Thomas like to come?”

Porter was elated; he turned to his son. “Would you like to go sailing, Thomas?”

“That sounds great,” Thomas said. “I’ve never been sailing before. But then again I haven’t done a lot of things that I will eventually do.” He looked at Dora through his puffy eyes and slipped her a smile, then dove into his breakfast as if he had not eaten in weeks.

 

On Dora’s boat, Willow, they sailed out the Admiralty Inlet, past the swirling tide waters of Point Wilson, and into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

“Willow is an Alden designed yawl, Thomas,” Dora explained. “She was built in 1948 in Argentina by German craftsmen who fled their country after the war. Honduras Mahogany over oak frames; you can’t find that quality of wood any more. Or craftsmanship, for that matter. That’s why boats like this need to be saved and taken care of.”

“She’s beautiful,” Thomas said. “Yes, get down to the good wood, good wood.” He kept tracing his hands around the curves of the cabin face and cockpit coamings.

Porter watched Dora with his son, who watched every move she made as they sailed effortlessly along. The sky was gray but bright; the boat heeled over in the strong breeze and raced through the chop.

“What are you doing now?” Thomas asked. “What are we doing now?”

“We’re getting ready to tack, so the bow of the boat is going to cross the wind and the sails will move over to the starboard side.”

“Okay.” Thomas said. “We’re going to tack.” He studied the rigging.

The boat slid through the wind and Dora cleated the jib on the other side.

“Would you like to steer, Thomas?”

His eyes sparked. “Yes. Yes I would, Dora. I’d like to steer and take us all away from here.”

They both held the tiller and Dora showed him when the boat was pinching too close to the wind and when she was falling away too much. Soon Thomas was steering by himself.

“You’re a natural,” Dora said.

Thomas seemed unable to speak.

“So what project do you have going on Poco?” Dora asked Porter.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m kind of overwhelmed at this point. I think I fixed the head, but I won’t know until she’s back in the water.”

“So what’s keeping you from launching her?”

“So many things. Two frames are punked out, four planks need to go back in. While she’s out, I should . . . .”

“Wait a minute. You can’t think that way, not unless you’re a millionaire who can hire people to do everything. Even then, it takes months.”

“I can’t afford that.”

“That’s my point. She’s not a yacht; she’s a workboat. You have the luxury of treating her that way. Do what you need to do to put her back in the water and then use her. Next year when you haul out to paint the bottom, take care of something else--the next thing, and she gets better every year. You need to realize she’s never going to be perfect.”

“I guess.”

“So tomorrow we’ll start working on the planks, then caulk the seams over the weekend, and she’ll be back in the water by mid week, Friday at the latest.”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . .”

“What are you afraid of, Porter?”

“Yeah, Dad. Let’s go. We have to be somewhere, you know. Why not somewhere else?” Thomas nodded his head.

Porter knew that he was too afraid, had been too scared to finish the project and see if she’d float. He’d had nightmares about every seam leaking, about a disaster that he caused and then the boat would never be the same, never float again, all because of him. Dora seemed to be reading his mind.

“That boat has been floating for more than half a century,” she said. “What makes you think you’re so influential with her that she’d sink now?”

“Well, I . . . .”

“I’ll help you; you’ll see. It’ll be all right. Are you ready to tack again, Thomas?”

“I am ready, Dora,” he said, smiling at her. “I am ready for anything.”

“You are an irresistible rogue.”

“I’m a pirate,” Thomas said.

Dora laughed and released the jib as Thomas turned Willow through the wind.