I
Victor DeGaul had always known the ocean, or at the
very least, the shore, as Stone Harbor had been his home for all his
38 years. Not a large town, or a small town, he had only left it
once. He knew the ocean, and he loved boats. The boat, to him, was a
sort of subliminal confirmation of wealth and success. The effortless
movement of a yacht represented the life of a better man; born on
third base, and walked into a home run. Being a bartender for much of
his life provided plenty of time to dream, as one is wont to do on a
quiet evening when the seats
have been abandoned for more wholesome pastimes. The sight of
the shore, and the boats, was a constant and intoxicating interest.
On some nights, he could catch conversation from the men of North
Stone Harbor, discussing their days spent before the mast. A day was
enlivened and darkened simultaneously by the intrigue and jealousy he
felt towards these men and their lives. “Most of them haven't even
earned it,” he would think to himself, “they only inherited their
class and their money.”He needed to justify, for himself, why,deep
down in his heart, he knew he would never lead a life like theirs.
The richer men knew as well as he did why they didn't work, why they
didn't sweat. Everything they did was effortless. Perfect and
rehearsed in every way, their every move or word was flawless. He
had, a few times, tried to
familiarize himself with them, but these men were acutely aware of
their standing, and of Victor's. No matter what comment was made
about the Sunfish or
the New Moon, the
conversation to follow was short, and often terminated via drink
order. Oh how he envied these men, these men who he could never be
like.
II
His father had been a dock-worker, and had always said
it was because he got seasick on boats, that he had nothing to do
with them. Victor thought back often, to two memories which may have
been his clearest from childhood. The first was his father returning
home from a rare day off, which he had spent golfing “With some
fellows I met at the docks.” Victor recalled, not asking any
further questions as to who they were. Only later in his life did
Victor realize and understand why his father never spent time with
those men from up North again, and why that night he had heard his
father crying. There was to be no further contact between his father
and the other men. His other, fonder memory was of a walk with his
father, one evening, down Pilot Street behind Ralph & Ann's. Just
as it began to sprinkle and become chilly, he asked his father,
“Why do those men sail around in the bay every
summer?”
“Well,” his father explained, “that's the
fashionable hobby up North of here.”
“They just do it for fun?” Victor said, “But
aren't boats very expensive?”
“Yes, but those men have plenty of money, and don't
need to work very much.”
Victor remembered the
words of slight resentment towards them. His father had explained to
him that sailing wasn't the hobby for them, because of his
seasickness, but as he grew older Victor began to question
that reason's honesty. He remembered
when his father had read aloud the newspaper report on Perry
McPherson, whose boat The Evening Star was
missing. His father made the comment about how dangerous sailing was,
and how he hoped to never find a wrecked ship. Victor remembered the
day when a dock-worker had found a floating piece of wood with a
brass monogrammed compass, prompting P.
M. 's
obituary. Victor and his father often talked about Victor's hopes to
one day have his own boat, and his father had always seemed distant
during these talks, as if there was something he couldn't bring
himself to say. Standing on Pilot Street these many years later, as
little rainwater canals webbed around the cobblestone islands on
which he stood, Victor wondered if his father also envied those men.
III
Victor's
lucky break came from a man named Ellis, who was leaving town for the
California Wine Country. His boat was quite old, and he just needed
it sold for a bit of “travel money”. Even after all the many
years spent gazing out at the little white triangles dancing over a
dark navy stage on a warm afternoon, there was still a sense of
child-like wonder about the life he might gain. Victor immediately
took down a letter to his father, who now lived and worked a few
towns further down the shore, as he wondered to himself how his
life-savings could be spent on travel. He wrote all about the boat,
the fresh orange & white paint, the size, the sails and name,
every detail was excitedly catalogued as he prepared for the maiden
voyage. The other men were suspicious and quietly put-off by Victor's
presence that day on the docks. After several months inexpensively
restoring his little craft by hand, he had never felt prouder as he
stood there, in his satisfaction. She sailed as he had hoped, and
Victor had the happiest day of his life way, way out in the ocean on
The Vesper.
IV
Victor's father
also had a strong memory, and all the thoughts of his son seemed
misguided now, in the hindsight of old age. Victor, it seemed, was
always too concerned with the life he didn't have, and couldn't be
happy and content with his own. His father should have told him about
the evils of envy and pride, and about what's important in life. He
should have told the truth about why he never set foot on a yacht,
and why, he thought to himself with dry, despairing humor, he would
still be working at age 60. All these thoughts flew around his mind
like errant gulls, and his regret clung on his shoulders like an
anchor as he collapsed to his bed, remembering his son's letter. It
was then, for only the second time in his adult life, that he wept,
as he looked down on the tightly gripped piece of splintered wood,
bearing 6 freshly painted orange and white letters.
7/24/11
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing