THE COVE
What in the world had I been thinking? It's one thing to
have dinner and gaze longingly into her eyes for a few short
hours, but another entirely to invite her to accompany me
to the island. It is my alone place. My island. My cove.
The night is warm, the stars wink, and the quarter moon
smiles at me as I plot the simple three-legged course that
will bring us to the small harbor opening sixty one point
three nautical miles offshore. My boat is a dependable old
trawler and this evening's gentle Pacific swells lift her
stern and slip smoothly under us as we quietly tick off
the miles. I planned to arrive about an hour after sunrise
since the entrance is oft times tricky. We might be a little
early, but it is still three in the morning and dawn seems
an eon away as I glance over at her and smile.
She is sleeping, curled deeply in the corner of my pilothouse,
wearing my favorite sweater. Her breathing is shallow and
it is only my mind's eye that sees the supple curves of
body swaying with the easy roll of the boat. The smile on
my lips widens as I softly probe my recent memories of watching
her move into her new boat on the dock near my own. I had
intended to write a small piece for a friend of mine who
owns a little boat maintenance company about women live-aboards.
That idea simply washed away in the brilliance of the most
radiant smile I'd ever experienced. Oh, I've seen lots of
those perfect teeth, perfect shape smiles from Hollywood
sound stages to the runways of New York, but they were never
real. This smile, HER smile, changed the quality of the
light on a rainy gray day in her depressingly small cabin
into a sun-filled lanai on a super-yacht.
She was to be the story's lead but I had difficulty taking
my eyes off of her to make notes. Yes, I was captivated
instantly and yes she had the sexiest lower lip I had ever
lusted after. And yes, I was sure she had seen right through
me. A few dinners and many hours of phone conversation had
brought us to this moonlit night, still an enigma to each
other, still virgins sailing blissfully along the straight
early course of friendship, before the convolutions of reality
washed over us. Me, I was intensely interested, she... well,
I wasn't sure. This hardly happens to me these days and
the shock of what I was doing this very moment had not yet
set in. I do not share certain parts of my life, and the
Island is one of those I have kept hidden from others, simply
because it has always been my final port of refuge, the
fount of healing for the hurts of my life. And my healing
has always worked best in solitude. But here she was, only
a few hours away from rupturing the hymen of my sanctuary.
As I look at her, she wrinkles her nose and curls more tightly
into the corner as if looking for the safety of a long lost
womb.
A stray lock of her dark hair slips across her left eye
and immediately I am graphically reminded of how she affects
me. I desperately want to wake her with my kisses, stroke
her face with my fingers, see the fog of passion cloud her
eyes. It is there. I can sense it, but given my obsession
with gentlemanly reserve, I know I shall probably never
taste the fruit of those full lips. And that is acceptable
to me, because I live the other portions of my life with
passion. Only once has a woman been part of that passion,
and I have long ago recognized that it would, in all likelihood,
not happen again. A man is fortunate to be loved with passion
once, but greedy to hope for it a second time. And yet,
I promised her this outing. It is a grand mystery to me
and I do not know why I did such an unheard of thing. And
a promise? If a promise is not sacred, what can be?
And so, because I promised it to her, she dreams of the
tiny white powder sand beach hidden amongst the Areca palms
lining the shore of my secluded cove. That healing beach
where I have lain in recovery many times over the years.
That cove, protecting the boat that carries me through the
harsher waves of my personal oceans. Protecting me from
everything, because in this place, nothing knows me.
The RPM's on my control panel read exactly 2000 and I
know from experience, we are moving at 8.2 knots through
the crisp deep blue of reflected moonlight. The crystalline
surface erupts in a shower of diamonds and the stern wake
bubbles up, as if a '69 Tattinger coursing into the fluted
vessel. Her fingers are long and I imagine them sensuously
exploring me, not the cabled knit wool of the sweater in
which she rests so easily. Does she know the immensity of
the change in my life come this strange dawn? Will my Island
offer me the same refuge when I appear in it's quiet waters,
but am not alone? Will splashing my anchor in the pristine
cove still heal my pain if the secret place is shared with
another? As I look at her slender fingers, I am frightened.
I do not frighten easily, having stared into the Reaper's
face a time or two, so why am I feeling that all too familiar
tightening in my throat?
Her errant lock of hair is joined now by another and the
left side of her face is hidden from my view, but the loose
sweater reveals the pale white of a moon-shaped scar low
on her neck. Would she wake if my breath warmed her neck?
Would she feel the tip of my tongue touching the tiny scar?
Why do I torture myself with such triviality when the rocks
of a turbulent reef lie so close to the surface of my current
course? Surely they present a danger more befitting that
of a man, a mensch? I want her. There, I've said it. And
I want her to want me. It is the way it is supposed to be.
But of course it will not be, because life is not a garden
without thorns, and what could thorns be but the point of
hurt in the most sensitive of tender spots. If there be
thorns, must they not be meant for pain?
Although the eastern sky has begun it's eternal bleeding
transformation with a gray streak smearing the horizon,
the sea has turned and the wind builds and buffets as I
begin to search for the telltale landmarks confirming my
electronic knowledge. The boat now carries the seas well,
but there is considerable motion and yet she sleeps sound.
I am glad, for this will be a tense moment, finding the
minuscule entrance, timing the lull between rollers and
shooting the gap into the serenity of my lagoon. Best she
remain quiet in the cocoon of her dreams. The concentration
needed for our safety will erase my senseless thoughts only
thinkable in the predawn blackness. Only then will I be
able to return again to my safe haven and admire, desire...
her aura, her.
The boat snap-rolls violently from a headland-reflected
rogue wave and my hands are now busy since the autopilot
can no longer deal with the seas. Quiet for so many hours,
the ocean quickly teaches and reminds me of it's power.
Spray from my bow speckles and spatters the windshield,
clouding my vision momentarily and still I sense her sleeping
soundly, nestled securely in the corner of the pilothouse.
The reef opening is a hundred yards ahead, invisible on
the water, known only to me by the familiar landmarks ashore.
It is the moment of decision. Go in now, trusting to my
skill, my memory, my fear? Or wait? Wait for another time.
More light. Less seas. Something. It is a moment characteristic
of many in life. Risk. Risk of failure, and just as scary,
risk of success. Sooner or later we must all stand before
the on-rushing Horsemen and choose our own fate. As the
boat lifts and crashes down from the quartering seas, I
know my course. I must go beyond the fear, and seek the
serenity of my cove.
The engine roars in response to my demands as I judge
the steep walls of foaming water and put the bow directly
toward the cruel rocks I know to be waiting patiently for
the error of my ways. Waiting patiently to tear out the
life from my boat. Tear out the life from me. But it will
not be this gray morn. I will cheat them once more of their
desire. As the bow rises on the sharp plane of the breaking
wave-face, I recognize and know this small part of my world
well. Now the stern rises precipitously as if a parting
shot from the sea, and then suddenly, as though out of the
cannon, StarDreamer shoots through the gap and glides silently
into the glycerin surface of my protected cove. The anchor
reaches through the invisible blue for the sandy bottom,
and the stark, first ray of sunlight welcomes me home. I
look to the vision sleeping a mere three feet from me, and
I pause. For, whatever may come next, wind, cloud, storm,
I have crossed my Rubicon. She has entered my cove. I cannot
deny what I have done. I cannot change it. I cannot go back.
And... I would not choose to do so. The river flows only
downstream.
The End
