The Starboard Sea: A Novel (10 page)

SIX

Among the many tricks I learned from him, Cal taught me the secret to counting waves. He believed that if a sailor paid close attention and knew when to begin counting, he could track waves and predict their size and duration. Cal was convinced that in a series of waves, the seventh wave would always be higher than the sixth. The seventh wave would give a sailor an extra charge. A sailor just had to know when to start counting. “The first wave always looks like it’s going be a killer but then it breaks early, drops out, and doesn’t deliver. When you see one of those, that’s when you start counting.” We spent hours looking for that first wave in order to hunt down our seventh, knowing that longer swells traveled faster than short wind waves. What Cal liked best was to spot waves during an oncoming squall. We both understood that it was always best to sail directly into a storm. Never away. When riding into colder water we could feel the surface air cool, the wind slow and back down. Together we’d calibrate the rise, as gale forces cause the edges of crest to break into spindrift.

Cal and I often talked about what we’d do if we sailed into a hurricane. Revolving winds greater than sixty-three knots. Exceeding force twelve on the Beaufort scale. Beginning as shallow depressions. Settling on a path, then altering their set course without warning. Rotating and building into a warm core with the release of latent heat and rain. A solid wall of cloud. Cal thought that with the right boat, we’d be able to heave to and take the brunt of any storm’s beating.

I’d been at Bellingham for just over two months when a hurricane was predicted to ride up from the Caribbean, miss the Keys, strike Hatteras, and land finally on Cape Cod. A late-season storm, making a slow surge up the Atlantic coast.

The storm inspired Race to organize a hurricane party at his home on Powder Point. I had no interest in spending a night at Race’s house, but Race didn’t invite me. Tazewell did.

The note Tazewell left on my door said, “Come see me.” My dorm room was big, but Tazewell’s was a penthouse. A corner room with a private bath and four windows. When I came in, Tazewell was sitting on his own full-sized bed, not the regulation Bellingham cot. A tackle box filled with safety pins and embroidery floss opened in front of him. Dressed only in teal gym shorts. His naked chest puffed out like a proud peacock. A pile of lacrosse sticks sat like kindling on the floor. Kriffo’s last name, “Dunn,” repeated in silver letters up and down the lengths of all the shafts. I picked up a stick, scooped up a balled-up pair of socks, and cradled the dirty laundry.
“Got something for you,” he said. “Give me your wrist.” Tazewell held out a woven bracelet, similar to the ones that decorated his right arm.
“You make this?” I asked.
“Took me over a week.” He slipped the cord around, tied a reef knot, and turned my wrist over to admire his own handiwork. “Used seven different colors. Call it my cat’s-eye design.”
“It’s incredible.” I ran a finger over the intricate pattern. Both the tight weave and Tazewell’s choice of blues and greens reminded me of Cal, his changing eyes.
“Damn right it’s incredible.” He closed his tackle box. “I’m a fucking artist.”
“You really made this for me?” I asked. “Thank you.”
“Been feeling bad about not hanging out.” Taze picked up another lacrosse stick and shoveled up two paperback novels. “Why don’t we make these books look read? Let’s crack ’em.”
We volleyed the novels back and forth, bending the covers and denting the pages.
“Hurricane party this weekend. You in?”
“Where at?” I asked.
“Race’s. The storm’s supposed to hit on Saturday, so plan on signing out for an overnight. Say that you’re visiting Riegel at Princeton for a college preview. They never check college stuff. I mean, let’s be real, they don’t check much of anything here.” He snatched up a creamcolored paperback. “So are you game for a party?”
“Race doesn’t want me at his house.”
“It’s a party. More people the better.” Tazewell shot
The Awakening
over my head.
I reached back and made the catch, saving a desk lamp from
The Awakening
and obliteration.
“Nice,” Taze said.
I spun around and accidentally tossed the book out a window that was open only a few inches.
“One-in-a-million shot,” he told me. “You know when you do something unconscious like that. Then you try again, for show, and it’s impossible? I dig that.”
“Dumb luck,” I said.
The door swung open, and Kriffo entered, holding a rolled-up newspaper like an ice cream cone. The side of his cheek bulged out at the jaw and he spit brown tobacco juice into the wrapped paper.
“Dumb fucking luck,” Kriffo echoed. “Just heard about some serious bad luck.”
“What’s the word?” Tazewell asked.
“You know that freshman, Skinner?”
“Sure. A little guy,” Tazewell said. “Does cross-country.”
“That’s the one.” Kriffo spit. “Guess his roommate found him choking his chicken.”
“Choking?” I asked.
“He was spanking it, Prosper.” Taze gestured, meaningfully, with his hand. “So is Skinner packed? Is he out of here?”
I put down Tazewell’s lacrosse stick. “They’d kick him out for that?”
“No one’s telling him to leave,” Kriffo said, “but you can’t exactly live that shit down. One thing to do it. Another thing entirely to get busted.”
“The Skinman rides tonight.” Taze reached for his lacrosse stick, rubbing his hands over it and howling.
“The horny little homo.” Kriffo spit and missed his mark. Black liquid tobacco drool punctuated the dimple on his chin and trickled down one of his ironed shirt cuffs. “Couldn’t keep his hands off himself.”
“Remember Dewey Altman?” Tazewell asked me.
I nodded. Tazewell began to tell Kriffo about this epic masturbater we both knew at Kensington. “Dude would sit on his right hand till it fell asleep, then he’d jack himself off with it. Claimed it felt like someone else was doing the work.”
I laughed. “Yeah, Altman called it giving himself ‘the Stranger.’ ”
“Did it work?” Kriffo asked.
“I guess so,” I said without thinking.
“Oh, so you tried it Prosper? You’re a closet Skinman?” Tazewell asked. “Are we going to sneak into your room some night and find you humping your favorite pillow?”
“You must think I’m cute, now, don’t you Tazewell, if you’re making plans to sneak into my bedroom some night.”
“Bitch.” Tazewell dove and grabbed me by the knees. He picked me up, threw me back onto his bed, and straddled me. His groin was in my face. “You want some? Want some Tazewell magic?” He loosened the drawstring on his shorts.
Tazewell’s balls were pressed up against my chin. His naked chest covered with a light sweat that smelled like ivy on brick. As Tazewell looked down on me smiling and laughing, I felt myself stiffen underneath him. I tried to overpower my erection with thoughts of Nancy Reagan. Nancy Reagan on a surfboard. Nancy Reagan pitching horse shoes. Nancy Reagan holding a lacrosse stick.
“Prosper,” Tazewell began, “I want to see if you swallow.”
“I’m going to have to hose you two down.” Kriffo hit Tazewell on the head with his newspaper, spraying brown juice.
Tazewell rolled off me and went over to his bureau. He took out a cigarette, opened the window, and stood by it, smoking.
I sat on the bed with my back against the wall and one of Tazewell’s pillows covering my waist and groin. I looked to Tazewell. To Kriffo. They were just boys. Tall and strong, older looking than most, but still boys. They thrived in the world of games and rules. When someone slipped, they knew how to drag him down with a nod to each other. Down with a well-chosen word. They liked the world that had been created for them and wore this world, with cocksure pride, around their wrists. A birthright of confidence.
They were my friends, and I wished to be effortless with them. I wanted to register the same strength they did in the way I laughed or held chewing tobacco in my cheek. We were alike enough, the three of us, and yet my every gesture felt like a compensation.
I stood up to leave.
“Don’t forget about the party,” Tazewell said. “And don’t dream about me too much.”
I held up the bracelet. “Now that we’re engaged, it’s hard not to.”

With Aidan’s help I was beginning to adjust to life at Bellingham. Despite our stormy pasts, when we came together, we acted like teenagers in some aw-shucks 1950s dream world. Some nights we’d walk into town and buy ice cream sandwiches at the General Store, then head over to the library and watch films in the video room. Black-andwhite classics like
Bringing Up Baby
and
Strangers on a Train.
Aidan knew a lot about old Hollywood. Not trivia but actual stories about her mother hanging out with famous actors. Walking back to Whitehall one night, Aidan told me Cary Grant had once dosed her mom with LSD.

“She dropped acid with Cary Grant?” I asked. “The guy in all those

Hitchcock films?”
“Archie promised Mom it would help her see more clearly. That
was his real name, Archibald Leach.” Aidan pressed her lips together
and looked off into the night. “He’s gone too. Just like Astaire. An end
of an era.” Aidan wasn’t bragging. These stories slipped out only to be
followed by long periods of silence. Like most people who came from
privilege, Aidan was guarded about her family’s connections. I was happy to listen, to not ask for more, and to slowly piece together
her life.
That night, Aidan followed me back to my dorm. She was having
trouble sleeping and I’d promised to lend her a bunch of dreamy music: Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, and even a recording of me singing
Christmas carols with the Kensington Choir. “My rendition of ‘Silent
Night’ will send you right to sleep.”
Girls were allowed in the lobby of Whitehall, but Aidan had never
gone inside. She wanted to see what she’d been missing. As we approached the dorm, we were both hit by the strong smell of pizza.
Aidan asked, “Does Whitehall always reek of sausage and onions?” We entered the dorm only to find Chester Baldwin in the lobby, his
head bowed, his arms crossed at his chest. An older man with a graying ponytail stood beside two towers of pizzas, the boxes leaning perilously on a coffee table. A couple of nights later, I came back to whitehall
and found Chester Baldwin in the lobby arguing with a pizza delivery
guy. The whole dorm smelled of sausage and onions. Two towers of
pizza boxes leaned perilously on a couch. The delivery guy, an older
man with a graying, kept insisting that Chester owed him money.
“Somebody ordered these pizzas,” he said, “and somebody’s got to pay
for them.”
Chester admitted to ordering one pizza but not the twenty he was being charged for. It was a classic prank. One of the Whitehallers had probably heard Chester phone in his order, then called back and added to it. “Can we help?” Aidan asked Chester.
“Do you have two hundred bucks?” Chester didn’t even look at us
as he spoke. He didn’t expect us to have an answer.
Aside from seeing each other in the hallways and nodding hello,
neither Chester nor I had made any effort to become friends. Chester
woke up early, ate all of his meals alone, and went to bed before curfew. He didn’t hang out with anyone. This was my opportunity to
change things between us. I told the delivery guy, “You know this is a
lame prank. Cut my pal some slack. There’s no need to extort funds.” “Are you guys running some sort of scam?” the guy asked. “Or do
you just think you deserve everything for free?”
“Wait right here,” I said. Chester and the pizza guy both looked at
me like I was nuts. They were in a standoff. Neither guy was going
anywhere. Aidan smiled, curious to see what I would do. I knew I had at least a hundred dollars in my room. I grabbed the
cash, then knocked on Yazid Yazid’s door. “Want a pizza?” I asked. I
promised to sell him one for ten bucks. He gave me the money. I
knocked on a few more doors and hit up a few more stoners. Kriffo,
who never stopped eating, was the only guy on my hall who refused to
pay for a pizza. I figured he was the one who’d set up Chester. “Let
me know if there are any leftovers.” Kriffo winked. I almost didn’t care
that Kriffo was such an obvious prick. I was happy and high from trying to help someone out of a jam. By the time I made it down the hall
and then back to the lobby, I had a serious wad of cash.
The delivery driver unwrinkled the stash of bills and examined
them while Chester and I watched. Aidan added twenty dollars of her
own. I kept smiling at Chester, but he just looked at me like I was a
stranger. When the pizza guy was done counting and recounting the
money, he nodded and left. “Thanks for screwing me on my tip,” his
final salvo.
“What a douche,” I said to Chester.
“It’s not his fault,” Chester said. “The guy didn’t want to get stiffed.”
Chester went over to the stack of pizza boxes and opened the top box.
“I’m not even hungry anymore,” he said.
“You should eat something,” Aidan said. “You earned it.” Chester shook his head. “I’ll pay you guys back tomorrow.” “No need,” I said. A bunch of Whitehallers came downstairs to
collect their pizzas. They tore through the boxes. Meanwhile, Chester
went upstairs empty-handed. I thought I’d done something nice but I
couldn’t help feeling like I’d failed.

Coach Tripp stopped by my room later that night carrying a small black case and a set of charts and maps,
A Sailor’s Guide to the Stars
. He unfolded one of the larger maps and said, “We’ll start with all of the major stars and work our way through the constellations. You’ve got to know what you’re looking for before you can navigate by starlight.”

The star finder maps were printed in a fading blue and gold. They reminded me of the dingy ceiling of Grand Central Terminal. My dad had explained how the dirt and grime from trains and smokers obscured the once shimmering stars. “Used to look like heaven,” he’d say. “Now it’s just filth.” Coach Tripp rested the black case on my bed and opened it with care. “Have you ever used one of these?”

I knew enough not to reach for the sextant. The brass contraption looked heavy but it was a delicate instrument. The double mirrors were easily disturbed and misaligned. If I dropped it, I risked bending the arc and rendering the sextant useless. It wasn’t the sort of heirloom a father could hand down to his son. A sextant was something you earned the right to own for yourself. A real sailor bought his own brand-new sextant and took care of it like it was his lifeline, his most precious possession.