Page 48 of The Words We Lost

My mental gears spin on the wordsprivate tour, imagining Joel driving a hotel van in a town that isn’t even eight square miles. Perhaps he’s created a route to showcase all three hundred of the original Victorian homes and the tales that go along with them for any visiting history buffs?

“We’ve retired our charter fishing excursions for the time being and replaced them with sightseeing tours that include a pre-prepared meal, drinks, and binoculars for whale-watching.”

I slow-blink and try to process. Not a private van tour, then, but a charteredboattour. Areplacementboat with areplacementcaptain. “Who’s at the helm?”

A beat passes before Joel says, “I am.”

I’m too stunned to acknowledge any one of the questions whipping through my brain at this revelation, and yet my curiosity is too piqued not to try. “You have your captain’s license?”

“I do. It’s not often I get the chance to take guests out, which is why we also have a small rotation of captains we contract with, but I enjoy saying yes to a booking when everything lines up and I have a first mate. Unfortunately, this time I don’t have the available personnel.”

It’s impossible for me not to picture my father in his favorite red beanie and his yellow rain slicker with the Campbell family logo stenciled on the back. But of course, my father hasn’t captained a boat for Joel’s family for over five years now. Sometimes, during restless nights, I allow myself to wonder about the replacement Stephen Campbell must have hired after my father’s shipwreck. I’ve wondered if the faceless man is the kind of captain who willtake young families out during Christmas break and wrap the deck with festive lights and tinsel. If he’ll tell the children to keep their eyes peeled for signs to the North Pole. If he, too, will hand out hot cocoa in Styrofoam cups and belt out “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” in a horrendous, tone-deaf baritone that’s sure to break even the most stoic of passengers.

But never once in any of my imaginings did I picture Joel at the helm.

“Don’t cancel on the anniversary couple. I can help.” The words pass over my tongue before they’ve even had a chance to check in with my brain. And yet, they feel right. Like being handed a compass after being lost for days without any real sense of direction. “What time do you want to depart?”

“Ingrid,” Joel murmurs in a tone that causes my stomach to swoop. “I would never expect you to—”

I straighten my spine. “Are you headed toward Victoria or Marrowstone?”

“They’ve actually lined up a driver to meet them in Port Williams. They’re headed to the lavender fields in Sequim for a picnic dinner and then an overnight at the inn. I was going to head west around the point and then return to the marina—about a four-hour venture.”

“So what time were you planning to depart?” I ask again.

“They’re supposed to meet me at the marina at three.”

I pull on a smile I can almost feel. “Then I’ll be there at two-thirty for prep.”

He studies me quietly for several seconds before he asks, “You’re really sure about this?”

I’m not even on the same planet as sure,I think to myself. “Absolutely.”

As I step onto the deck of the unfamiliar, fifty-foot flybridge charter yacht, my brain switches into a mode it hasn’t needed in along time, one I’ve been too afraid to access for just as long. The finishes on this gently used seacraft are as stunning as the three private staterooms and head compartments below the expansive salon and dinette area of the main cabin. It’s clear to see the trade-off of chartering fishing tours to sightseeing pleasure rides has afforded a far more luxurious form of sea travel. Unlike the forty-foot cabin cruiser my father captained for the Campbells, the emphasis of this vessel is all about passenger comfort for guests who want to relax in style. Absent is the large utilitarian deck suitable for tourists and deckhands reeling in their catches ... or for a romantic dance under a midnight moon between two fictional muses. I push that last thought aside and focus on why I’m here.

Joel starts out in the flybridge cockpit over the main cabin. The deck up top is a third of the length of the boat overall, with benches and chairs and an unsurpassed view of the sea, but he doesn’t stay up there for long. Unlike the unease that passed between us after the reading this morning, now we’re a united front, readying the boat for our arriving passengers together. I work through a departure checklist I memorized by the time I was eight years old and find it takes no effort at all to slip back into the role of first mate. And instead of the anxiety I’d anticipated upon boarding, there’s a strange kind of comfort in working around dock lines and stowing hatch covers again. Oddly, the comfort deepens when I observe Joel verifying the operation of the twin diesel engines and double-checking our intended course on his GPS.

When Wayne and Jan—a sweet couple from west Texas in their mid-sixties—board the yacht, I get busy wrapping cables and retrieving bumpers. As soon as Joel gives me the go-ahead, I leap off the deck to release the dock lines. And though my jump back on board is out of practice and less than lady-like, Jan applauds me, and I’m smiling when I give Joel the all-clear to navigate us out of the harbor.

Once at sea, I slip on the hotel apron and head inside the salon, where Wayne and Jan are cuddled on a white, L-shaped sofa directlyopposite the cabin cockpit where Joel is positioned. While he points out landmarks on the Salish Sea and tells some history about the ports around the peninsula, I set the prepared snack boxes—courtesy of the hotel kitchen staff—on the sofa table in front of our guests. I congratulate them on their special anniversary.

“This is all just beyond extraordinary,” Jan exclaims with unbridled joy. “Thank you both—this is such a treat.” Her cropped silver hair frames her slender face and highlights her sky-blue eyes. “Port Townsend has been on our radar since the early 2000s. One of Wayne’s staff pastors performed a wedding out here years ago, and when we saw the pictures, we added it to our retirement list straightaway.”

Wayne slips an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Don’t let my bride’s romantic talk fool you. She’s really only here to see a whale—orca, humpback, gray, doesn’t matter. It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type, because I’m third in line after Jesus and marine life.”

Jan elbows him in the side, and when the two laugh, Joel catches my eye and neither of us can keep a straight face.

Jan works to unfasten her binocular case, and I encourage her to keep her focus starboard as the pods tend to stay west this time of year. She thanks me, and I decide to stick close in case she needs any more pointers. As we roll over the sea at a leisurely pace, I’m all too aware of Joel’s presence at the helm. His technique is smooth and relaxed, as is the way he converses with our passengers about how the pods are tracked and named and how they’re known by all the whale-watching boats who frequent these waters.

While Wayne asks dozens of questions about the area, I assist Jan with the binoculars again, showing her how to focus them and giving her tips on how to sweep the waves in search of marine life. It’s a bit too windy for her out on the deck, so she uses the viewing window inside and braces herself against the back of the sofa like an eager child.

Once she gets the hang of it, I do another refill on drinks, retrieving a Sprite from the fridge for Joel. He tolerated Cece’s lemonadeslushies, but a cold soda has always been his favorite summertime beverage.

Our fingertips brush in the handoff, and despite the chilled can a hotzingzips up my spine. “You should come sit down with us, Indy,” Joel invites. “I can help with the other tasks once we’re docked.”

“Yes, come join us, there’s no shortage of space,” Wayne says, scooting over to give me the end of the sofa, just across the narrow aisle from where Joel sits at the helm. “You can take my seat if the two of you want to—”

“Oh no, that’s all right. I’m keeping my eyes peeled for whales. I have a better vantage point if I remain standing.”

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