Page 45 of Nights Without Night
“Nope. Let’s sleep. Come on,” he says and proceeds to undress my very uncooperating body and then get it under the sheets with him. “Jesus, that was hard work,” he says when he’s finished. I cuddle up against him and he immediately pulls me closer.
“You are a very nice Daddy.”
“Holy God. Please go to sleep.”
“Okay,” I say, and sleep.
**********
We pack our things and take a bus to the coast. It smells like gasoline and the unwashed fabric of the seats, like buses should smell in the summer when you’re trying to escape. Everybody keeps the windows open even on the highway, and the noise and the rush of the air makes it seem like we’re flying.
Isadoro moves with purpose. He grabs my hand as we get off the bus so as not to lose each other in the crowd. I press close to him. The people around us smell like sweat and skin. So do we.
We have to walk to the next bus stop. We wait under its rectangle of shade, licking at melting Ice Pops. The sun scorches the flat land all around us, miles of yellow until you look up and it’s blue, blue, blue.
The next bus arrives. This one is a long, thin bug. It scuttles to a stop in front of us and we hide our bags in its belly. Isadoro lets me have the window seat again. I look outside as we join the other flying bugs, watching the sun bounce off their hard backs, their wings fluttering in the light.
When the sun sets, it transforms everything. Orange and pink and the most diaphanous of blues as far as the eye can see. As night falls, the bugs all around us turn to fireflies.
So do we.
**********
The boat is resting peacefully on the dock water as we finally arrive. Isadoro and I grin at each other at the sight. The smell of sea air, the faint tinge of gasoline, the call of seagulls overhead. It’s not a bad welcome.
We drop our stuff on the wooden walkway and get to work.
Isadoro pulls the line attaching the boat to the docks until it’s close enough. He steps onto the deck, one foot before the other. He gets over the low metal rail and then crouches down and keeps the rope taut as I do the same.
We unhook the thick plastic sheet covering the cockpit. I fold it on the bow of the boat to avoid the boom as Isadoro unlocks the wooden panel hiding the inner part of the boat. He slides the wooden panel up until it leaves the rivets on either side, setting the plank aside. He goes down two miniscule steps to the boat’s belly and I follow, curious.
Inside there is a small, round table in the middle, screwed to the floor and lipped upwards so things don’t fall off it. At either side of the make-shift door extends a thin line of counter-space, sunken to keep things in. On the right, on the bulkhead, is a radio. Stretching from the counters, lining the sides, are low benches covered in flat, foam pillows, travelling the length of the bulkhead until they pass under the table. The rest of the small space, under the bow part of the deck, is an extension of the benches, a triangle bed covered in larger versions of the foam pillows. In the shadow of the peak hide a few real pillows. There are a pair of long nets hanging on either side of the bed to place things, and smaller nets hanging at the opposite corners of the room, by the door. There’s a section of the top that slides back to let more sun in, but we keep it shut for now.
The cockpit is even smaller. It’s made out of a white plastic, rough on the floor and seating to create grip. The seating is just two built-in, bench-like structures. Their tops come off, hiding more storage space. The boom hangs from the mast, cutting the air above the cockpit in half when it’s rigged still, although it swings once it’s loosened. At the stern of the boat is the tiller—the wooden stick that controls the rudder under the boat.
The small boat is equipped with a motor and sails, the latter of which are lowered and tucked against the boom, wrapped in a blue, impermeable cloth. Already stored on the boat are some provisions, including sheets, towels, buckets, fishing line, knives, a lighter, a compass, a tiller extension, goggles, fins, and a navigator, which attaches to the tiller to keep it still at a certain angle.
If you want to cook, or pee, or take a shit, you’ve got to use your imagination.
I pass Isadoro the folded cover-sheet so he can store it inside. He follows me to the deck and pulls the painter—the rope used to tie the boat to the dock—taut as I step out. I pass him our stuff and we store it before sliding the wooden panel back in place and washing the boat with the hose in the water station between our boat and the next.
We’re already sweating by the time we’re done, but we leave the boat to dry as we go and get provisions. Canned foods, dried food, bread, lots of water, chapstick, sunblock. We buy snacks, a boogie board, and two of those floating sticks you inevitably smack your friend against the ass with whenever one is near.
It’s late by the time we’ve done everything. The docks are near a bustling part of the fishing town, and we walk down the lit, open streets. We follow the smell of frying fish and have a dinner of breaded cod and fries. The batter is perfectly seasoned, the potatoes crisp at the edges. We sit outside and watch people walk by. In the low light and the sea air, Isadoro looks so beautiful it hurts.
We keep walking after dinner, but we’re both tired and turn back soon. Everything is muffled at the docks, the sound of people disappearing into the waves. We wash up at the harbour facilities and return to the boat. We climb inside, sliding the top back to let air in, and climb into the bed for the first time. We’ve shed almost all our clothes in the warmth but lay close. I watch Isadoro in the starlight until my eyes drift shut.
The air is a tinkle of boat masts and lapping waves.
We fall asleep.
**********
We wake with the sun, but the docks are already stirring with life. We get everything ready and set off, making sure we have enough gas before turning on the motor and veering out of the harbour.
Open sea meets us.
When we’re far enough from the docks, we turn off the motor. I keep the bow windward, squinting at the little weathervane at the top of the mast as Isadoro unfurls the sails. He pulls the main line until the mainsail hits the top of the mast, luffing wildly in the wind. I pull the tiller so the boat falls to the side, facing the direction we want to go in. Isadoro tightens the line until the sail is taut, billowing into abeam reachposition as the wind hits us from the side. The boat tilts as Isadoro trims the sails to the perfect position and we gain pace.
