Chapter Eight

Fools and Drunks

 

Dora and Lou sat up late in the galley that first night in Blind Bay, talking. Porter and Thomas had gone to bed early.

“You like him, don’t you?” Lou asked her. They had finished a bottle of wine and half a joint. He was starting to talk louder than the whisper they had been using.

“Shhhhhh!” Dora said, probably too loudly.

“I saw the way you were looking at him, like he was a little puppy with puke on his head.” He stifled a laugh.

“Leave me alone.”

“You’re always going after the ones who need your nurturing. I know you.”

“He’s going to hear you.” Dora extinguished the joint to save it for the next night.

“He’s not going to hear anything tonight. He’s crashed out completely.”

“You don’t approve of him?”

“What, me? I think Porter’s a great guy. He’s pretty funny to be around.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“And it’s a really good deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Porter and Thomas. You get to help both of them. Two for one with these guys . . . a twofer.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I try not to do that any more.”

The expedition left with the tide at nine in the morning bound for Bedwell Harbour and the Canadian Customs dock there. Porter did not want breakfast, choosing to stand in the wheel house nibbling saltine crackers and staring at the horizon and island shorelines--Dora’s suggestion for avoiding seasickness. Thomas was at the wheel, but Dora made Porter promise that one of them would be with him at all times. Lou was in the galley baking cowboy coffee cake and whistling “Dixie.” They had all slept late--it had been so quiet--so they just started the engine and left right away.

They cruised into the narrow Harney channel, past kayakers paddling through the Wasp Islands into the San Juan Channel, then south of Waldron Island approaching Boundary Pass and heading for the border. Just as Dora was telling Porter to watch for the dotted line on the water, the engine quit. The silence after the steady hum made them all look around as if not really believing it.

“What’s wrong?” Porter asked. Thomas kept steering like nothing had happened.

“I don’t know,” Dora said.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Porter looked around the horizon in a slight panic. There were no boats in sight any more, just Bedwell Harbour on South Pender Island ahead six nautical miles, and Orcas Island behind them about the same distance away. “We’re drifting.”

“Yes, I know that,” Dora said. “Let’s go down and take a look.”

“But what should we do until it’s fixed?” Porter asked. “Should we radio someone or something?”

“We drift. There’s a good current, but it’s not like there’s anything to hit for quite a while, is there?”

“Well, no . . . .”

“What happened?” Lou entered the pilot house wiping his hands on a towel.

“She doesn’t know,” Porter said. “I can’t believe this. I knew we should have warmed the engine up longer and not hurried out of the harbor for no good reason this morning.”

“The tide is always a good reason to get going,” Dora said. “Thomas, just keep an eye out for other boats. I’m going below to see if I can figure it out.”

“I’ll make lunch,” Lou said.

“Are you coming, Porter?” Dora raised her eyebrows, mocking him. He is starting to piss me off, she said to herself.

“It’s just that . . . .”

“It’s just that what, Porter? We’re drifting, going no place fast.” She started to climb down to the engine, then stopped and looked up at him. “I figure there are two types of people: those who sit and whine about a problem, and those who take some sort of action and figure it out. Are you going to help me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Buck up.” Dora did not think she had ever heard a man say he was sorry before.

“I will,” Porter said. He followed Dora below.

“A diesel engine only needs two things, fuel and air. It’s not getting one of those, and I’m guessing fuel.” Dora loved this sort of challenge--it was like a puzzle---but most people didn’t like it. That’s why she generally preferred cruising alone on Willow. When she had taken guests they had always complained about something or argued when there was any sort of adversity. Couples were the worst; they would inevitably turn on each other if there was any problem that caused concern. She had listened to outright battles on other boats at night in the anchorages, the voices carrying across the water. Dora just didn’t want to hear it; she had had it with confrontation during this lifetime. She had said for a long time that she had no intention of becoming a part of a couple with anyone, and Porter was reminding her why she had decided that.

Without the steadying influence of the forward propulsion from the engine, Poco bobbed around in the channel like a corked and empty wine bottle. They had to brace themselves while they looked at the engine. Dora’s logic led them to the fuel filter, which she had changed before they left. She opened the top, exposing the fuel and releasing the thick diesel smell into the close quarters. Porter threw up in the bilge. The filter was completely clogged.

“We’ll just have to keep changing it until we find some place that can clean the tanks. They’re fouled.” Dora swapped the filter out with a new one. Soon the engine coughed to life and they continued. She had Porter stay up in the wheel house with Thomas while she kept her eye on the filter and poured buckets of saltwater into the bilge to pump out Porter’s mess.

It was not the great celebration each of them had pictured as they crossed into Canada. Lou kept singing the first two lines of “Oh, Canada” over and over while he made asparagus quiche, but Porter was too nauseated, Dora was in the engine room most of the time, and they were all secretly waiting for the engine to quit again. They no longer trusted it; the engine had failed them once and they were just biding their time, knowing for sure that it would eventually stop once more.

But they limped in the last few miles without any more problems, and Bedwell Harbour made everything all right again. Poco cruised close to shore. The red bark on the muscled arms of the Madrona trees reached out to greet them while the seals jumped out of the water and smacked back on the surface to celebrate their catch. The customs officials invited them to enjoy their stay in Canada without even looking in the boat, and they anchored below a steep cliff further inside the bay. Lou taught Thomas how to fish, and Dora asked Porter if he wanted to go for a swim with her.

“I’m filthy from the diesel fuel and cleaning the bilge,” she said. “You owe it to me, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re crazy, because the water’s about 52 degrees,” Porter said. “But I’ll go with you even without you having to make me feel guilty.”

They swam off the stern, twenty feet from the cliff, around smooth, rounded rocks and worn driftwood logs. They could only spend a few minutes in the cold water, so they rested on the beach, warming in the afternoon sun.

“So are you happy now? Is this what you were looking for?” Dora asked Porter as they looked out at Poco.

“It’s a dream come true,” he said. “I just never pictured the part about the puking. Or the drifting.”

“There’re good times and bad times, even in paradise.”

“And I feel like I’m in paradise.” Porter leaned over and kissed her, so unexpectedly they both pulled back. They heard Thomas and Lou holler, they thought because of the kiss. But as they looked at Poco, they saw that Thomas and Lou were reeling in a fish together, the pole bending over the transom. Dora turned back to Porter. They both smiled, as embarrassed as school children almost getting caught.

“Look, Porter, I don’t really think I can do this,” Dora said. She looked at her feet. “It’s not about you

. . . . It’s about me. Since I moved to Port Cypress, I’ve been content, happy for the first time. And I don’t want to take the chance of screwing it all up. I’m going to be selfish here, and do what I need to do for myself.”

“Okay.”

“I know that’s probably hard for the male ego.”

“Oh, believe me. I have no ego any more; my last relationship sapped the last of that out of me.”

“That’s pretty sad.”

“Well, at least you didn’t call me pathetic.”

They were shocked when Lou was suddenly there; he had rowed the dory in to pick them up and they had not noticed his approach.

“I’m offering one chance for a ride, otherwise you have to swim back,” Lou said from the water. “You can do the rowing, Porter.”

Porter stammered.

“You can’t row either? I thought it was amazing that Thomas couldn’t when I suggested he come and get you. Where’d you guys grow up?”

“Sheltered,” Porter said.

“We’ll start lessons after dinner,”

Dora said. “Maybe take you out of that shelter.”

Thomas helped Lou do the dishes in the galley while Dora took Porter out for a row.

“Watch me,” Dora said.

“I can’t help but do that.” Porter smiled and put his hands on hers, wrapped around the handles of the oars

“Watch me.” She shook his hands loose. “With your hands pushed away from you, dip the oar blades, pull back with your shoulders, lift the oars out of the water, roll your hands to feather the oar and make the blades flatten over the water, then swing the blades forward, roll your hands back and dip again. That’s all there is to it. Rhythm.”

“Sounds great.” Porter smiled and covered her hands again. She pulled them away. The dory hovered motionless on the surface.

“Pay attention,” Dora said, although she liked how he seemed stronger than his usual self. She was afraid he wouldn’t be able to come on to her because he normally seemed too timid.

“I am paying attention. I can guarantee that.”

“Good. Because in case you hadn’t noticed, I like to be paid attention to.”

“I think that’s true of all women.” His eyes widened. “Oops. I didn’t mean that the way . . . .”

“Here, you try rowing. It will keep you out of trouble. This is a peapod dinghy, so you can row it in either direction.”

“At least I won’t be going the wrong way.”

“Even you can’t screw this up.” She meant it to sound funny, but it came out nasty. “Oh, well I didn’t mean that; I really didn’t.”

“It’s okay. One of my greatest strengths is to be able to laugh at myself. Practice makes perfect.”

The way he said that, Dora thought, would have sounded pitiful coming from about anyone else. Why did it not from him? In this man, acknowledging a weakness was not a necessarily a detrimental thing. Porter started rowing them in a circle, one oar digging deep, the other missing the water completely.

The next morning, they decided to head for Ganges Harbor. They could take care of the fuel there and see the little town. Lou wanted fresh vegetables.

Dora changed the filters again before they started the engine. She showed Porter how to do it, since the boat wasn’t moving. Lou made breakfast--eggs and spam--as they got under way. Porter didn’t want any, but he made the short twelve mile trip up Swanson Channel without getting sick. The water calmed when they entered Captain Passage. They passed Second Sister Island, Third Sister Island, First Sister Island, and Deadman Island, and Dora wondered how they were related.

Ganges, the main town, sat tucked into a deep cut on the east side of Saltspring Island. After they secured Poco at the government dock, they walked along the waterfront. They talked to the people at the fuel dock, who said they could pump out the diesel in the morning, then filter it as it went back into Poco’s tanks. They’d be underway by the next afternoon. So Lou and Thomas went into the store to buy fresh vegetables and orange sodas. Porter stopped at the liquor store for Canadian red wine. Dora scored some pot in the Rotary park and on the way back, they all met at the fish market to pick out a King salmon.

Lou stuffed the fish with rice and broccoli and they grilled it slowly on the aft deck. The four sat sipping red wine and orange sodas and feeling like they had discovered the Northwest Passage by themselves. A harvest moon hung over Prevost Island lighting the sky with an orange glow. There was a warm evening breeze off Saltspring, and contentment settled over Poco like a soft linen spread.

“I’ve always heard, God protects fools and drunks,” Lou said, raising his glass. “Here’s to fools and drunks.”

“To fools and drunks,” they all repeated.

That evening Dora approached Porter on the aft deck while Thomas and Lou were cleaning up the galley.

“You asked me things when we first met,” Dora said, “questions that I didn’t want to answer.”

“Well, I’m not asking them any more; I’m unasking them,” Porter said.

“You should know . . . .”

“I learned a long time ago not to ask questions that I didn’t want to know the answers to.”

“But you have to know; I ran a business.”

“I’m not that naive, Dora. I can guess what the ‘entertainment business’ was.”

“I was a madame, a prostitute.”

“And I was a bore. Look, I don’t care what you did. I’ve fallen for you and . . . .”

“What I started to say was that I was a madame, a prostitute, but I don’t apologize for anything. I did what came my way. I think you should know what my life before was, because you deserve honesty. And the other honest truth is that I’m just not interested in a relationship right now. I’m sorry about yesterday, on the beach.”

“Don’t be sorry. I was maybe rushing things.”

“Since you took that so well, there’s one more thing.”

“Uh oh.”

“I killed a man.”

The small percentage of customers at the Black Cat that became violent were considered a part of the trade, a nuisance, a small price to pay. It was usually just a black eye from a backhand, or maybe a bloody lip and some bruised ribs from a couple of punches. Not bad. The stolen dignity was the wound that hurt, being treated like that because of who you were. So Dora, and her aunt before her, made sure the abusive bastards went to jail, and remembered them so they could not come back. When any act of violence happened, they followed the man to the station after having him arrested and took down his name and address when he was booked, threatening him with exposure if he came around again.

“You don’t want me showing up on your porch some Sunday morning,” was their line. It always worked; the men were too embarrassed or ashamed or frightened of their wives to ever show their faces again.

And then one day, one of them did. He came back and Dora was so surprised she didn’t really believe it. He walked into the room and started yelling at her, drunk; Dora stood behind the bar and yelled back.

“You fucking whore, you had me arrested.” He jabbed his finger at the air between them.

“You fucking pig; get out of my bar,” Dora yelled. She glanced over at one of the girls, Anna, and gave a quick nod.

Anna slipped into the back room to call the police, as she had been told to do whenever voices were raised.

“I’ll teach you to trash my reputation.”

“You beat up one of my girls, and you think you’re going to get away with it?” He had broken her nose and knocked out a tooth.

“I paid my money.”

“The police will be here in a couple of minutes. And after they haul your ass off, everyone in this place is going to your house, to meet your family and tell them about you. I noticed your meaningless wedding ring.” Dora dropped her hands on to two of the bottles in the speed rack at her knees in front of her. She clasped the necks, just below the pour spouts.

“You bitch,” he said, and he lunged at her. His hand caught her blouse, and she twisted away, ripping the cloth but not setting herself free. She swung the bottle in her right hand high over her head, in an arc, breaking it on his shoulder. He jerked his arm back, then lunged again. This time the bottle in her left hand broke on his head, as did the next one in the rack, and the one after that and then three more. Bourbon, scotch, gin, vodka, brandy, rum, tequila--she stopped at the end of the speed rack. When the police arrived, the man was sprawled across the bar, his legs sticking up, twisted in the air. His bloodied head drained into one of the sinks and glass shards were scattered everywhere. The police, taken aback by the sight, handcuffed Dora and took her in.

They charged her with second degree murder. She pleaded self-defense. The man’s family and the district attorney wanted to keep the “whole mess” as quiet as possible because of where it had happened, and who he was, a lawyer like them, so they offered her a plea bargain. Manslaughter, out in six months with good behavior. She argued again that she was protecting herself and her employees. The judge looked at her and said: “The first two bottles were self-defense.”

The fuel was clean by late the next afternoon, so they left Ganges for Montague Harbour, a short hop to a new cove. They anchored in the northwest corner, all alone, away from the other boats at the moorings, opposite the government dock and the marina. It was still and calm and beautiful as the sun slid behind Parker Island. They set up a candlelit table on the aft deck and opened the best bottle of wine Porter had bought. Lou made curry chicken soup, poached Coho salmon, a warm spinach salad and a chocolate tort.

“A toast!” Lou said as they all sat down.

Porter raised his glass. “My God we’re spoiled!”

The other three followed: “My God we’re spoiled!”

It was dark by the time they started the main course, the air so still the candles barely flickered. The lights from the marina and other boats seemed miles away from them in their own little part of the bay. But then they heard the engine. It was from a large, fiberglass powerboat pushing a hugh white wake at its bow and heading toward them.

“A Bayliner,” Dora said, almost in a growl. “The scourge of the islands.”

“You suppose he sees us, doesn’t he?” Porter asked. “He better . . . our anchor light is still lit.” He checked up on the mast to be sure.

“Shine your flashlight at him just in case,” Dora said. “What an asshole.”

Porter pointed and waved the beam of light. The boat turned and slowed as it pulled up close, then circled off to starboard. A moment later, the wake caught up to the Bayliner, named Wet Dream, and they wallowed in their own waves, their tall flying bridge swinging above them in a drastic pitching motion. Aboard Poco, Porter, Dora, and Thomas grabbed glasses and plates as the waves bounced them next.

Lou screamed and shook his fist at them. “You sons of bitches!”

They paid no attention, did not even seem to be looking in the direction of Poco. A man appeared on the fore deck and let the chromed anchor loose.

“I don’t know why they have to drop the hook so close; there’s all this space,” Dora said. “This happens all the time. It’s like they think they’re going to be lonely or something.” She paused and shook her head. “Well, it is a U.S. flagged vessel. Figures.”

“They can’t do that,” Lou said.

“Well, as a matter of fact they can,” Dora said. “There’re no set rules, only common courtesy. I never anchor close to anybody--I’ll go someplace else first.”

Wet Dream suddenly became a blaze of spot lights and action. Two couples emerged. A loud, electric crane strained its cable to lower first a large, rigid inflatable with a ninety horse outboard engine, then two red, white and blue jet skis. They revved up the engines on all three, just to hear them roar. They buzzed around the anchorage like a swarm of flies, headlights blazing, then tied up to the yacht and closed themselves in cabin.

Aboard Poco, the loud music from inside Wet Dream was pretty much drowned out because of the diesel generator puffing exhaust from a vent just above the waterline on their side. Since there was no wind, the fumes settled across the anchorage and hung like a fog. They could see the blinking light from a giant T.V. screen in the cabin.

“Don’t they know how horrible that is?” Lou said.

“How would they know?” Dora asked. “They’re locked inside their air-conditioned biosphere.”

“I’m going over there. I’m going to rip them a new . . . .” Lou steeled his eyes.

“It won’t do any good,” Dora said. “I’ll go try to reason with them. I still have some persuasive powers in my bag of tricks.”

She had handled this sort of thing before. Flirt with them a bit, play with the man’s ego. She rowed over and knocked on the hull, several times, then even harder. A man yelled down from the bridge, asking what she wanted.

“Your generator, it’s smoking us out over there.” She stood up in the dory, looked at him, and smiled.

“Then move,” he said. “Or go inside like we do.”

“Look, we were just trying to enjoy a peaceful night. It’s so beautiful out.”

“We taped Monday Night Football, honey, and we haven’t watched it yet. You don’t got a prayer.” She heard him slide the window shut.

Dora returned defeated, but Porter was undaunted.

“I’ll go, reason with him, kill him with kindness. You know how I am.”

He was back in five minutes.

“Okay.” Lou shook his head. “I’ll take care of this.” He went into the galley.

“He’s really mad,” Dora said to Porter. “I’ve seen him mad before, and it isn’t pretty. What’s he doing now?”

Porter looked in through the doorway. “He’s peeling a potato.”

“He’s what?” Thomas looked at him as if their roles were reversed.

“He’s peeling a potato and now he’s taking off all his clothes.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes and tilted his head at his father. “He’s peeling a potato and now he’s taking off all his clothes,” he repeated.

Lou emerged wearing only green and white striped boxer shorts and carrying the potato in his hand. He looked even bigger than he did fully clothed, very round and very white. Dora laughed. Thomas and Porter just stared at him.

“Don’t say anything.” Lou scrunched up his nose and shook his head, then he slid over the side of the boat and into the water with the ease of a sea lion. He held on to the bulwarks and said: “Wish me luck . . . glories of a misspent youth, you know.” Lou put the potato in his mouth and started swimming a breast stroke toward Wet Dream.

No one inside the boat was paying any attention to what was happening outside. Lou swam up to the hull and stuffed the potato into the generator exhaust pipe with the palm of his hand. He swam back to Poco in a slow, calm back stroke. His teeth were chattering as he climbed aboard. “ Just watch”, he said.

Lou Palmer was pissed off, had been for as long as he could remember. It was just the way he was and he couldn’t help it. He had grown used to being a natural curmudgeon; as far as he was concerned, most pessimists were too cheerful. The world was fucked up, and he knew it better than anyone and could recite all the reasons.

First, he basically did not like people, had no respect for most of them and could really only stand a few of them. Most people were cruel, self-centered, and shallow, as far as he was concerned. They were cattle that ignored all that was happening around them as long as their petty lives and television sets appeared to be in working order. And that was their guiding desire--the appearance of order. They wanted everyone to be just like them, only inferior. People could be so mean to others, pushing them out of the way to get what they wanted and justifying it as ambition.

Dora had been a very rare exception; she had been his closest and pretty much only friend for ten years. And now Porter seemed different than most too. But he had to admit it was Thomas who struck a nerve in him more than anyone. Lou could feel the boy’s alienation and he understood how it felt to be ostracized from the mainstream of life. There was no more lonely and frightening an existence, and Thomas couldn’t even express his feelings about it. Yet the boy remained so sweet in spite of his difficulties. He was, in a sense, above the fray.

Second, he saw the government for what it was. He had been a life-long Democrat until they had just morphed with that other party whose name he could not bring himself to say. After the cold war was over, he thought the country was set free; they could do all the things for humanity that they were supposed to do: feed the hungry, house the homeless, cure the ill, teach the children, pamper the elderly. But all the end of the cold war did was release the hawks to slaughter the doves. The country was entering a state of perpetual war, “correcting” problems around the globe with seven hundred military bases spread around the world to squash dissension and empower the ruling class of America. They spread disinformation like Nazi officers, only on a grander scale because of their modern adeptness at manipulation. Once the world loved Americans; now we made them fear us, hate us, and wish to destroy us for what we had taken from them. We had disintegrated into a kleptocracy, where those in power were taking all they could from others who were vulnerable.

Third, he hated modern religion. He had been raised in a row house in Cleveland by his widowed mother, who worked as a maid. She had taught him to love his neighbor, that people should judge not, lest they be judged, that Jesus meant only love. His mother had believed this and taught it and truly lived her life that way. She constantly helped others through her church and other charities. She looked for the good in everyone she met, so sure it was there that she usually managed to find it. She shared what little they had with anyone who needed it. She did not court excess. His mother had started him off in a life of peace and love and happiness. But when she died, so did that purity and love. Lou began to see the seedy world they lived in exactly for what it was.

Organized religion had stolen that message his mother lived and twisted it for their own good. They interpreted the Bible in ways that were never meant, turning the gospel of inclusion her mother so loved into a doctrine of embargo, restriction and seizure. They twisted the message of Jesus to suit their own needs. They’d screw people over in business all week long, then show up in church because ”all was then forgiven.” They’d pass a man starving in the street and scoff at him, spit at him. They’d condemn others while leading their own double life of a saintly exterior shrouding a conniving character. They had usurped Jesus, and He must be rolling over behind the stone, Lou thought. The right wing fundamentalists have stolen Jesus from the rest of us. The real Jesus would have been appalled that these people had created a “new” version in their own image.

Oh, it had all just turned out wrong, Lou thought. He was sickened by it, and it caused him to turn inward away from society, into a sulking loneliness. Go ahead, he said to the world, ignore what’s going on. Have another Prozac.

A moment later loud voices came from inside Wet Dream, and then the doors slid open and the occupants tumbled out on the aft deck, coughing, the smoke billowing out behind them.

“Shut it down! Shut it all down!” they heard the man shout. There was yelling and crying and pandemonium for a few minutes, then the generator and all the lights in the boat went dead. They heard a woman’s loud voice from across the calm water.

“I’m not staying here tonight, not like this, no way,” she said. “It reeks in here.”

“But baby,” the man pleaded.

“There’s a bed and breakfast by the marina.”

“But.”

“We are staying there. Are you?” the woman screamed.

The rigid inflatable sped off to shore, and the silence in the little bay returned.