Page 96 of If All Else Sails
When I step away, he grabs his shirt and pulls it back over his head.
“All that and you’re wearing a shirt?”
“For now,” he says. “But I’ll be ready for the sun. Grab the bow line.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Bossy,” I mutter.
“I heard that.”
“What was the highlight of your day?” Wyatt asks.
Of course, it’s right after I’ve taken a big bite. Coinjock’s restaurant, like the marina itself, is packed. I’m grateful Wyatt made the reservations for the marina ahead of time, as there’s not much space. Only one long, fixed dock with room for fewer boats than the yacht club in Hampton. The food is far better than the yacht club’s last night, with a much more casual feel. I might die from the sheer number of fried things on my plate: onion rings, hush puppies, clam strips. Zero regrets. It’s all delicious. Wyatt keeps stealing clams off my plate. Which is only fair, as I grabbed his fork a few minutes ago and ate the bite of steak he had halfway to his mouth.
No regrets about that either.
While I’m still chewing, Wyatt adds, “My mom used to ask my brother and me this question every night at dinner.”
I can picture Susan, resting her chin in her hands, listening with interest to a boy version of Wyatt. This is the first time he’swillingly brought up his brother, and I resist the urge to ask one hundred follow-up questions.
“Highlight of the day...let’s see.” I take a sip of water as I think back over the day, which was much more eventful than yesterday.
I think I saw just about every kind of ship in the Norfolk Harbor, including an aircraft carrier and a mothballed—Wyatt tells me that’s the term fordecommissioned—submarine. There were so many things to look at, but it was crowded and loud and smelled like exhaust and diesel fuel. I was too stressed to drive when Wyatt asked. No way do I trust myself with so many potential objects to collide with. I’d probably run into a battleship.
I preferred the calm once we got to the Elizabeth River, though the current was swift and the river had more turns and boats than I expected. Wyatt says there are even more during the fall and winter months when snowbirds head south in their sailboats, houseboats, and yachts. I hate winter, so that sounds like a plan to me. I mean, forgetting about my job, that is.
Which is honestly way too easy to do when we’re on the water. Or when I’m with Wyatt. He makes me forget a lot of things.
“I think I’d have to say the radio was my highlight.” I feel lame as soon as I say it and focus on cutting another piece of steak rather than meeting Wyatt’s gaze head-on.
“The radio,” he repeats, sounding more curious than judgmental. “What about it?”
“I liked talking to the bridgemasters and other boats. It made me feel like an official sailor.”
“Youarean official sailor.”
“More like an official passenger,” I say, but Wyatt shakes his head.
“You’re an integral part of my crew, and I don’t appreciate anyone talking bad about my crew. Stop it.”
“Speaking of your uncle,” I say, needing a respite from Wyatt’s intense, protective gaze. “I couldn’t help but notice you brought him along. I found him yesterday.” I pause, then look over at him. “Behind a block of Swiss.”
Now, it’s Wyatt’s turn to look away, and I regret bringing it up. Sometimes he speaks so easily about his uncle, and other times he seems to close down.
I’m just about to apologize when Wyatt says, “In his will, Tom asked to be scattered along the Intracoastal at various points.”
I let this sink in. Suddenly, I see this trip in a slightly different light. It’s not just a trip Wyatt planned to take in memory of his uncle. It’s a trip he planned because of his uncle’s last wishes as well.
No wonder Wyatt was so frustrated by his injury, by the idea of missing this. His foot wasn’t just an obstacle to a fun sailing trip but to something much more meaningful.
People talk about peeling back the layers of someone like an onion, which I have always found to be an off-putting comparison—mostly because it instantly makes me think about the pungent, tear-inducing smell. Like the idea of learning more about a person is smellier the deeper you go. But getting to know Wyatt is different. It’s like unwrapping a present only to find a smaller wrapped package inside and another one inside that. I’ve peeled back the paper a few times now, moved on to the next box and the next, but I have no idea how many are left to open. I’m learning more about him, learninghim, but there’s still so much I don’t know. I’m getting impatient, ripping the paper now instead of carefully peeling back the tape.
Maybe that’s how it works with people—you never really getto one central truth of who they are. People aren’t static. We’re always in motion—growing, changing, shifting.
“Have you, um, done that yet?” I ask.
Wyatt gives a quick nod. “I’ve started.”
I wonder when. We’ve been together most of the time, and it makes me ache to think of him doing this alone.
