“Yes Ma’am” I smiled at her
.
“It really is frightful out, Gregori.” She said, with her scratchy, old voice, a lifetime of cigarettes and laughter behind it.
“Oh, no not for me… I love it like this!” As my eyes lit up. I smiled. Looking at the skies, the clouds, seeing the winds whipping the trees about like tiny blades of grass. Half my smile for the weather, and half was for her… she was the only one to call me Gregory. Well, since my mom.
And with that, I paid, loaded up my little folding wagon and made my way across the street into the marina. Once every couple of weeks, I ventured to the sweet older woman’s small grocery across from the marina’s main entrance, to fill up and resupply. As I pulled the wagon behind me, I could her the young boy’s laughter, even from this distance. He was in the waves, at the marina-side beach, laughing and bobbing on a float, being tossed about like a tiny cork in rough seas.
“Daaaaad….please, just 5 more minutes? I promise I won’t ask for more…” and in that voice, every young boy across the world made promises that, they truly meant to keep, and yet, every dad across the planet knew the young boy never would. After all, every dad was still a little young boy, bouncing in the waves, inside. So, of course, 5 more minutes it was.
“Gregori!” The little boy in the waves looked up. As did the young father watching him. “AND YOU! I told you, home by noon. And where were you? I KNEW, here. And letting him into that sea. He’ll catch his death. Or drown.” She scolded her child’s father. “GET OUT here this minute, GREGORI ILYICH!” Both his eyes and his father’s went wide at that. My own were wider than an owl’s, on the hunt.
“Gregori Ilyich, get out of that water this instant.” Gone, in an instant, was the game I was playing. I loved the surf rough like this. My mother and stepfather were apologizing for the weather on my 7th birthday, as if they somehow controlled it. They had given me a little float board, to play at the beach. For the past year, all I could talk about was the US Coast Guard. They were my heroes.
A year ago, we were all loaded onto a cargo ship, foundering, off the coast of America, when the storm has suddenly taken a turn for worse. I will too young, at 6, to know why, but I could see it in the faces of the adults. Fear. But I loved the sea. Something my dedushka had taught me: my love of the sea. He was an old fishermen, one of many wrinkled, leather faced, old men, with a shot glass in hand, at the corner table in the park. Since that rescue, I had come to dream of one day, being a Coast Guard man. I too, wanted to brave waves taller than buildings and make scared moms and boys smile again. Maybe I could even save someone’s father, this time?
“Gregori Ilyich, how many times have I told you, you STAY AWAY from the sea when it is angry?”I looked at that poor boy, being hauled by the arm, down the beach towards the small village of fishing families.
“Stocking up I see?” The old dockhand asked.
“Again. Once in a while, good to get off the ship and look about!” I laughed.
“Right, but even better to get back aboard.” His leathery face showed age, but the sparkle in his eyes showed his first, one best love. He was eyeing my boat. I’d taken him out a few times, on day trips, and he forgot all his aches and pains, and smiled. We both looked towards my berth.
Anyone looking at the Nordhavn, knew her pedigree. Sure, she was new, only a year or so since commissioning. But place her in front of any lobsterman in Maine, or Salmon fisherman, in Alaska or even a Cod Fisherman in Norway a hundred years ago, and you knew her lineage, her makeup and her seaworthiness. She was first, and foremost, a solid, sea worthy boat. She epitomized “You have to go out, but you don't have to come back!" And immediately, I was my own 7 year old self, imagining I was in a storm, being tossed about, rescuing fathers.
That love of the ocean never died. Of course, the dream of being in the Coast Guard withered, when, as a young man in college, I met a girl. She wanted me home, every night, to make her warm. happy. Make love. When I married her, I expected to do that. So, I gave up my dream of Coastie. She never gave up her dream of other men. I found that out, too late. I was in my 9th year of teaching history. She was gone before the month was out.
A week before classes started, my friend in the Mathematics department asked to meet me in the Pub. I agreed, although, I rarely went out, since she left me. When I arrived, he motioned me to the booth, and I noticed a couple of drinks in front of where I was seated.
“Sit. Have a sip. We need to talk.” Now, anyone who has ever breathed, knows, those four words absolutely draw every last bit if relaxation OUT, and bring tension fast to each muscle in the body. Those were the exact words out of her mouth to start the last conversation we ever had.
“You need to get your head wired straight. You are in such a depression you don’t even notice, that you’re screwing up in class, and the Dean is thinking of moving you out of academics into either admin or research. What’s going on? Are you still not over her? It’s been two years.” He kept staring at me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t answer. Almost couldn’t breathe. I did the only thing I could at that point, and took a sip. Told him, “I will try, thanks.” Stood and left.
I made it almost through the semester. Almost.
There was a knock at my office door, and in she walked. Dressed in white button down shirt, and black yoga pants. Some sensible bright white Converse on. She entered, no, she moved like a predator. Always did when she moved through the halls and into my classroom.
“Katya, what can I do for you today?”
“I am sorry to bother you, Professor. I am here for some paperwork.”
Blue stormy eyes were looking at me. I know exactly what a gazelle feels like on the Savanah, as a Cheetah is bearing down. She was a predator. I was prey. Her gaze was always fixed. Distant, but behind them, a storm awaits.
I finally looked away from that beautiful face, and down at my desk. “PERMISSION TO WITHDRAW?”
“Katya, but, …But why?”
“I am moving. I must. My mother and I are moving to away from here.” She looked down too.
I sat back into my chair.
“Why are you so sad, professor? You are always so sad…” As I said, I almost made it through the Semester. Almost made it through the storm.
No idea why NOW of all times, I simply sat in my office chair, and cried. No idea why, in front of a student. And her, of all of my students.
I sat and poured whatever tears I had left. And poured it all out. Some time later, I realized, I was till in my office chair. My voice was in tatters. My eyes, barely seeing, as the last of my tears fell. And Katya was on my lap, holding me. My face in her soft neck and silky hair. That deep caramel, vanilla-scented hair. I could almost taste vanilla. She kept me wrapped in her arms, while I finished my story.
Me, 30, her, maybe 10 years younger, and yet, I was the baby, and she was the mature, nurturing, mother. And then, Katya did something no one has done in a couple of years… those soft, bright red lips kissed me. She had the softest mouth I have ever felt. She stood, then, and turned to walk out.
“It will be all right. You will see.” It was the last I saw of her.
A the end of the next semester, I took leave. I simply was doing no one any good, there. Sure, some of my colleagues were sad, and a student or two came to see me off. But my bags were packed in my Jeep. House, finally sold. The last of the life I had with my ex, a footnote in my own personal history.
—
The last of my groceries and supplies moved aboard, the old dockhand wished me a good night, and he made his way down the dock for home. I settled in for my evening Gin and Tonic, in the aft cockpit chair, facing the dock. The sun was setting off to my right. I hadn’t thought of the time before I came here, a few years ago, in quite some time. No idea what brought it from the depths of my mind. Maybe the little boy on the beach earlier? Maybe.
—
I woke the next morning, to laughter, running feet, and a little boy giggling. Faintly, I heard a mother calling out for him. I rose, with my morning hot chocolate, and made my way to the cockpit aft. I loved to sit and watch the comings and going of people on the docks. Setting my cup down, I stepped to the dock to see about tightening a line, when I was hit by a little ball of energy and mop of brown hair.
“I am so sorry!" I heard behind me. I was struggling to get back to my feet, with the little boy’s arms tangled in me. Finally, made it to my feet, turned and looked into those Blue Stormy eyes.
“Katya?”
She stopped and looked at me. “Professor?” softly. “What, what are you doing here?” She looked around.
“I live here,” I pointed to my boat. “For a while now.”
“Alexsei, come here. I told you, no running. Now look, you’ve hurt the very old man.” I turned to her, and saw a gleam in those blue eyes.
“Very Old..?”
She laughed at me.
“Tell the old man you are very sorry.”
“I am sorry, Old Man.” He sounded so sincere.
“It is all right, little one. I will live.” This brightened him.
“Alexsei, go find momma. I will visit with the old man and make sure he can get back onto his boat, ok.”
“You little…” I started sputtering and she burst out laughing. Alexsei, meanwhile was off at a dead run, back up the docks.
“SLOW DOWN” Katya yelled after him.
“Yours?”
“Oh, goodness no!” I felt, what? “Are you jealous, Professor?” How did she get the upper hand so fast? “You seem so much happier, here. Is there a Missus Professor, Aboard?”
“Jealous?” I turned the tables right back. Me? Flirting? For the first time since.
“Come, let me help you, old dedushka, aboard this boat you call home. Show me what takes your sadness away, here.” She took my hand, gently and led me back onto my boat.
I gave her a quick tour, and ended up making her a nice lunch. We ate at the aft table, and caught up. Her mom, and the little boy came, just as we finished lunch.
“Momma, I will be back later, maybe tomorrow. My old friend here, will see take care of me, and then, see me home. I am going to see how this boat of his rides the seas.” I looked at her, confused. What was she talking about? “He tells stories like grandfather does, of the sea. I would like to see if he is truthful, or, if he tells tales, like Grandfather, too.” I vaguely remember her helping me, and adeptly I might add, with line handling, that day, as we set off.
The clouds were thick. Grey Storms Ahead. And the wind ripped, and waves were angry, dark blue-green, with white topped caps.
Me, smiling, at both the storm on the seas, and inside those bright, blue eyes.
Happy Gardening and Cheers,
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All Images by Bluefin Studios unless specified.
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