The man who beheld that sky was unimpressed. Chuck didn’t have the time to take in the beauty of converging land, sea, and sky at that moment. It had been eight months since he was last inside a man, and for some reason the first one of the season was always the hardest. He should have been done already; his sailboat was approaching a rocky inlet, no one was at the helm, yet more to the point Chuck had made a deal with himself long ago that if he was to engage in such an act there needed to be standards to abide by. The man was old school. Gay on the bay, but no way he’d do that crap on or even near shore.
Four hours ago he tried to articulate as much; making a speech he thought in their limited English they might understand, “Okay everyone, let me explain some things around here, now that I’m older I know who I am and what I want. Having said that we also need to acknowledge there are several different sides to who I am, I want different things in different circumstances, and one doesn’t negate the other. If I like a ham sandwich for lunch one day that doesn’t mean my identity is solely a pork eater the rest of the year, same thing goes if I have a hankering for fried cod one day, it doesn’t mean I can only eat fish, you get my drift?” The brown skinned men looked back at him quizzically, blinked, then smiled politely. “What I’m trying to say is what we are about to do, is okay, okay? It doesn’t mean it’s who we are, nor all who we are, it’s just a small part of us, comprehende?” Chuck scanned their faces again. They were still smiling, not saying anything. “Allright, nevermind, who wants to go fishing?”
When their baited hooks dragged across the bay bottom they got bites, and one after another, porgies were pulled from the sea. By the time Pedro landed a decent fluke, with the help of Chuck and a net, which had to be dug out from the cabin beneath decades of trash, cold beers were flying out of the cooler as quickly as the fish went in. Even Chuck, who could hook a porgy in his sleep, couldn’t help smiling at the sight of all those silver bodies slapping the deck, sparkling in the sun like diamonds.
The four of them, Pedro, Juan, Carlos and Chuck carried on like this for several hours until the deepening light began to roast the soft, white fish bellies a beer gold. Slowly the tone of the day had changed. They were exhausted. Chuck closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The afternoon smelled of the sea, fresh fish, and brassy beer. A feeling came over him he hadn’t felt in years. It was like the sun was thawing him out after many seasons of his soul being wintered. He knew why.—The man fishing to his left. At that moment he needed to embrace someone. He needed to embrace Pedro, though he couldn’t. Only one man had gained access to those emotions. Pete’s gone… he’s not coming back, just get over it already. Now wasn't the time to think of Pete; for five years Chuck tried to do nothing if not forget him.
Chuck tilted his face towards the sky, and with his head on the life lines he watched dollops of whipped cream pass over him speedlessly. He wanted to burst into song but thought better of it. Maybe save it for later, Chuckie, after you’ve done the thing you set out to achieve today.
He knew there was still work to be done. When the fish stopped biting, Juan and Carlos went to the bow to be alone. Chuck eyed them pensively. Looking over at Pedro, who did not return his gaze, he felt a worry begin in his gut. Stripping to his worn swimming trunks, sun-bleached from a Nantucket red to a watery lobster-bisque, Chuck dived off the stern. Beckoning Pedro to join him, Pedro shook his head. He didn’t have a bathing suit.
“Just go in your underwear, it’s so refreshing. How do’ya say?” Chuck thought for a moment while treading water, “Oh yeah, refrescante! The water is refrescante, Pedro.” Pedro smiled. He liked it when Chuck spoke Spanish, he sounded like such an idiot that it made him laugh. As Pedro stayed put Chuck dived underwater again, and began a breastroke. His form was perfect and the three brown men watched in awe as he drew circles around the boat. Under the surface his long, rangy body glided along, and with every stroke it looked like he was being taken apart and put back together again in a beautiful way. The display made Pedro think of a majestic beast of the sea, ferocious and balletic in the water, but clumsy on land.
Climbing back into the boat, he brushed past Pedro and slapped his trunks a couple times, sprinkling Pedro with water. Without looking back for a reaction he hurried down into the cabin below.
With the fishing over, they were in the wind-down part of the trip, and Pedro’s energy seemed to mirror that of the setting sun; he was tightening up like a clam. Chuck had lost men during these crucial moments before and saw signs it was happening again. And why wouldn't it? It was only early June; the water was still cold, and a man who doesn't know himself completely has yet to awaken to his true desires. He looked around the cabin for something, anything that might entice. He didn't get far in his search, the cabin was a wreck. How the hell am I supposed to find anything amongst all these goddamn beer cans, empty chip bags, and loose tools strewn about? Carrying on despite the filth, he opened up a cabinet and noticed the shelves were soggy. Somehow freshwater had been seeping in from above, causing the cabinet’s veneer to warp and separate. He paused to look around. All across the cabin walls and ceiling streaks of black mold had spread like vines. The outside of the boat was even worse; the spars were crusted over with moss and corrosion, the gel coat on the hull and decking had long worn away, and the finish on the bright work was brittle and peeling.
Chuck had let his beloved Hinckley go to shit. He had thought his business would make him rich someday, that all his hard work would pay off and he could siphon money back into the boat. It was tempting to blame everything on recessions and external factors he couldn’t control, but Chuck knew. He wasn’t a good businessman. He cut corners to save on cost, he over-promised deadlines he couldn’t keep, he refused to replace broken down tools, and he mismanaged resources. And of course he had no time for a boat, but the next question was even harder for him, did he even deserve such a beautiful thing? A rage roared inside him and he felt like taking the rusty crowbar lying across a moldy, plaid bench pillow, and smashing the cabinets into oblivion.
Like the storm that passed the night before, dark clouds kept descending. Once he started indicting himself there was no way to end it without drinking or fighting. He scanned the cabin again, somehow, all he could do was stare at the mess. It might have been the perfect metaphor for what his life had become. As his eyes moved about something off in the corner got his attention. Behind a dusty and worn golf bag, he spied a small fishing rod affixed with a spinning reel. He knew that rod. Who did it belong to? Oh, that's right. It was Jimmy's. Fuck.
Chuck heard laughing above him. Juan and Carlos were having a gay old time, yet, Pedro still wasn’t making a peep. Chuck stepped into the head. Pouring some beer onto his fingers he wiped away enough grime covering the mirror for his face to come through. He needed something to feel good about and he found it; his jawline was sharp, his chin still strong and leading, and his nose had as much character as it ever had. That beak has never let me down, after all the times I’ve had my ass kicked, it only broke twice. Pouring more beer into his cupped hand he cleared the rest of the mirror, and the remainder of his body came through. Though sun baked, wrinkly, and sagging in some places, it was nicely toned and bespoke a life fully lived. He worked harder and longer than anyone on his crew, and on his days off he went to his beloved boxing gym.
Suddenly, Chuck was struck with inspiration. He opened up the cabinet door underneath the sink. In a bucket was some cleaning supplies and hidden amongst them in a glass capsule was the thing he was looking for.
As more conversation and laughter trickled down to him he knew it was time to rejoin the party. Quickly, he changed back into his khaki trousers, and a denim button down, well eaten by moths, then stuffed the thing into his pocket. Combing back his wavy salt drenched hair, he couldn't help notice he was balding in that elegant way a patrician does, where the hair says goodbye slowly without turning its back; receding with the tide.
Back in the daylight Chuck stole a few rays from the descending sun, knowing he needed energy for his next move. Chuck stood up to his full height of six foot three, casting a long shadow that covered Pedro and extended out onto the water like a dark, piercing mast.
“Hey Pedro,”
Pedro squinted up at Chuck.
“Want a toke?” He asked. Pedro grinned.
“Sí. Yes, please Mr. Carmichael.”
He handed Pedro a lighter but nothing more. Pedro waited for the rest. It didn’t come.
“The reefer and pipe are in my trouser pocket.” Chuck said oddly.
Pedro kept his palm out.
Chuck continued, “If you really want a hit, you can fish it out yourself. I don’t mind.” Pedro stared back at him. Pedro glanced at Chuck's pocket, then noticed something behind it. Chuck was at full mast.
Right before they reached the outcropping of the jetty which protected the entrance of the Harbor Chuck finished. Instant relief washed over him. He had made it just under the wire. On the water it was okay for him to give into that stuff, but any entrance to a Harbor, where kids might be around, his tendencies were to be recoiled. It was time to bring it home.
With the bay behind them Chuck motored the boat through the narrow inlet bordered on either side by jetty rocks that gave way to sandy shores. It being a weekend, there were people out on its east side. White families were camped out amongst brown families, and their colorful umbrellas looked like different flavors of ice cream melting in the sun. The thought that one day it could be him and Pedro amongst the other families having a normal picnic between two guys brought Chuck joy. Though he was a bit flummoxed. How had he and Pedro gotten to this point so quickly? They hadn’t kissed, yet here they were, post-fuck. He wants something from me, he thought, and I suppose I should honor my side of the deal, which I always have. The thought didn’t bring him any comfort. Wouldn’t it be nice if Pedro feels what I feel? He’s so goddamn mysterious, maybe he does. Briefly, he thought of putting his hand on Pedro’s but decided against it. “Hey Pedro, grab me another cerveza,” Chuck said, speaking to him like an officer would to a subordinate. Pedro started down to the cabin.
Chuck remembered something; Juan and Carlos were still in the forepeak going at it.
“Pedro!”
“Yes, Mr. Carmichael?”
“Tell Juan and Carlos to wrap it up, we’re gonna be back at the Marina soon, and my boat isn’t the kind you rent by the hour. I have a life to get back to.”
“Yes sir, Mr.Carmichael.”
“That sunset out here is beautiful anyway, boy is it beautiful. Tell them they need to come out here and look.”
The inlet had opened up, and the Harbor spanned over a mile at its widest point. In twenty minutes Chuck would be back in his boat slip, securing lines and closing up the companion way. When the sun fell below a tree line standing tall on top of the bluffs on the west side, the land turned a twilight blue tinged with purple. Chuck felt a shiver of melancholy uncoil within him. The day was over. How many evening suns, with the sky stained a bloody red, had him and Pete enjoyed together, he couldn’t even count?
Pedro came back up with two beers and handed one to Chuck. After two hits of pot, six beers and a couple rum and cokes, he had a pretty good buzz going on, and didn’t need more, but he wanted something to put against his lips. Feeling a chill blow up his shirt he increased the throttle. Soon after Juan and Carlos climbed out from the cabin to join them. Carlos was the first to surface. His face was beaming, behind him, Juan’s face was heavy and stoic. Carlos’ face was chubby and always smiling, and that evening he wore a cowboy hat with rhinestones in its crown, and a strange, kind of toga-sorong that fell over his legs like a dress and had a lot of tropical green and crimson in it. Chuck had never seen anything like it before. Ghawd! He looks so frickin’ gay, this is downright embarrassing!
The Harbor was narrowing again, which meant they were close to the Marina. On the eastern shore Chuck saw a couple figures with fishing poles standing close to the water's edge. Their lines were in the water. Chuck strained to see who they were. It was a grown man and boy, probably father and son, and when fragments of Spanish reached them like stones skipping across water. He looked over at Pedro and smiled. Pedro smiled back.
All of a sudden, he heard some shouts coming from shore. Chuck looked back at the fishermen and saw there was a sharp bend in the boy’s rod. Chuck bet his life the boy had a striper or a big blue on the end of his line. The boy’s father had dropped his pole, run over, and stood behind him yelling directions, trying to coach him how to reel in the fish without losing it. Chuck laughed out loud. What a marvelous sight. Then a dark cloud came. The dusty rod below in the cabin; it belonged to Jimmy, his eldest. His smile inverted itself. That rod had barely been used. Fifteen years ago, when Jimmy was nine, Chuck had promised him they’d go on a fishing trip with Pete, who knew all the secret spots, but Chuck kept putting it off. They never went. Chuck was a son of a bitch that didn’t deserve the gift of life sometimes. How could he have been such a lousy father? How? He couldn’t answer the question. He wanted to get away from everything, he wanted to flee his own life. How old Jimmy was now? He didn’t know. It had probably been around ten years since Jimmy moved down to Florida with his mother and two sisters to escape the orbit of Chuck’ destruction.
Enough Chuck, let it go. He couldn’t take it anymore. His boat was supposed to be his escape, and now all that life crap was heaping on endless piles of guilt. It was time to end it, he couldn’t be blamed for everything shitty that happened, after all, Shit happens, right? He needed to rescue himself from himself and, more importantly, the evening, after all, it had been a great one; everyone got laid, everyone was drunk, and everybody was bringing home fresh fish. He didn’t want it to end like this. He knew what would lighten the mood.
“Hey Pedro, sing us a song, will ya?” Pedro looked at him.
“A song? What song?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Sing us a song in Spanish! But one that I know too, one we can all sing together”
Pedro looked around, trying to think. He turned to Chuck, “You have one?” Chuck asked happily.
“No, no. I’m not gonna sing.” Said Pedro firmly.
"Oh! Yes, you will sing."
Pedro shook his head and looked straight at Chuck, challenging his authority. He didn't like that, what Chuck needed that moment was joy.
“Oh no, don't shake your head at me. You will sing, because I said so! I'm the captain and what I say goes!"
Pedro didn't respond and for the first time Chuck knew him, Pedro looked uneasy.
“All right, screw you! Who needs you anyway? Carlos, sing us a damn song!”
Carlos giggled and started singing weakly. Chuck didn’t recognize the song, and apparently neither did anyone else because no one sang with him. Chuck interjected, “Oh, I know one, I know one…” They all looked at him and waited. Chuck started belting out–
“Feliz navidad, Feliz navidad, Feliz navidad!” at the top of his lungs. The three brown men looked at each other and giggled. Chuck didn’t know anymore in Spanish, so he continued the rest in English. But it didn’t matter, Pedro and Carlos started singing along. After a few verses and choruses they laughed except for Juan. He didn’t look happy. He was staring down into the water, and a heavy frown had set in his face. Chuck didn’t like it.
“Hey Juan, you good?” Chuck asked.
“Yes, I’m good.” Replied Juan, too quickly.
“What’s the matter, you don’t like our singing?”
“Song’s okay. I want to go home, I’m cold.” Chuck wasn’t buying it. Something was amiss. But he didn't care that much, and began a new round of singing with La Cucaracha. Pedro and Carlos joined him again, while Juan continued sulking.
Mid-song a seagull landed on the bow of the boat, “Look, that gull wants to join our singing group, now we can have a Barber shop quartet compadres! I’ve always wanted to be in one of those!” Chuck exclaimed.
With no warning Juan threw a beer can at the gull. The can missed and fell in the water, “What the fuck are you doing, Juan? You can’t do that! You’re littering, and that’s a perfectly good beer.” Yelled Chuck.
“Shut up, Chuck! I do what I want to do!” Juan yelled back at him.
Chuck was surprised by Juan’s bold anger, “What’s that? Not on my boat, you don’t! You have to obey the rules just like everyone else! That’s why you’ve been replaced by Pedro, he obeys what I say. So look here, you want to throw another can in the water? go right ahead, but then you’re banned from the boat! Comprehende?”
Juan turned away, and went back to his brooding. Chuck increased the throttle. When they got to his slip, Chuck put the boat in neutral and then gunned it into reverse, but it was too late, he forgot his old engine always had a delay to it, he was going too fast and the bow was about to slam into the bulkhead.
“Oh shit! Fuck! I’m coming in too hot! Help! Help!” He yelled. Quick as a gazelle Pedro jumped onto the dock and tried fending the boat off. But he couldn’t stop it. The bow smashed in and the sound of fiberglass splintering was unmistakable. Juan and Carlos were thrown forward. Chuck’s path on impact was broken by the wheel.
“Everyone all right?” He asked with great concern in his voice. “Sorry, my compadres, sorry I didn’t know I was coming in so goddamn hot, fuck!"
After the crash, the tie up was chaotic and as Chuck was checking to see if the spring lines were on, he heard voices bickering in Spanish. Then one of them yelled out in pain. It was Carlos.
“Now what? What happened?” Asked Chuck.
“Juan, he hit me!” Exclaimed Carlos.
Juan was cursing at Carlos in Spanish, and slapping his arm like a little kid would.
“Hey! Stop it! No hittin’ on this boat, that’s a rule, okay? Hey! I said knock it off!” Chuck growled.
Juan ignored him and kept at it. Carlos started crying, “He’s crazy, he’s crazy!” He whimpered. Juan began punching Carlos like someone who doesn’t know how to fight, then tried to rip off Carlos’ toga. He couldn’t, so he grabbed his cowboy hat and threw it in the water and began pulling Carlos’ hair. Poor Carlos was hysterical, “Mi sombrero, mi sombrero!” he yelled, and he clung to the lifelines as Juan continued to rain blows on him. Watching from shore, Pedro was dumbstruck. Chuck had to do something. He ran amidships, ripped Juan off of Carlos, then slapped Juan hard in the face.
“Juan, that’s enough, stop! Stop! What the hell has gotten into you?!”
Juan looked at Chuck as if waking from a dream, “I hate him! I hate him!” he screamed
Chuck shot a hard look back at him, “Who? Carlos?
“Yes, I hate him! Él es un maricon!” Juan yelled back.
“Stop yelling Juan. First of all, there’s no violence allowed on this boat. Now listen up, you better calm down right now, okay..? or I'll kick your goddamn ass. Comprehende?”
Juan looked away. Chuck continued, “Okay, we can work this out, tell me, why you hate Carlos?”
“He make me do things I not like! You make me do things I not like, I not gay, I not a maricon!”
Chuck was too overwhelmed with frustration to speak. Finally, he did, “Don’t you remember what I told you earlier? None of us are gay! If I like eating ham sandwiches, it doesn’t mean I only eat ham sandwiches! Comprehende?”
Juan looked at him blankly, then shook his head, and Chuck sighed loudly. Quickly he walked to the bow of the boat. “Okay, look and listen carefully, I’m only going to explain this one more time, on the boat,” He stamped his feet on the deck of the boat, “on the water, I like doing that stuff,” then Chuck hopped onto the dock, “But back on land, I’m back to normal, I have a family, I’m married to a woman, my third wife now.” He stepped back onto the boat, “Now I’m gay,” He stepped back onto land, “Now I’m straight again, but on the bay,” He pointed back towards where they came from, the realm he was happiest, “I’m gay, okay? I’m gay on the bay.”
Juan looked at him, understanding was on his face like the twilight that now imprisoned it. He nodded his head, but then the nods turned into shakes. “No, Chuck, No. I not gay, I never gay.”
Chuck stared him down.
“Okay, well get the fuck off my boat then! Go home and get sober.” He marched past Juan, nearly knocking him off over the lifelines with a shoulder check as he headed to the cockpit. “Never getting on my boat again. It’s just me, Pedro, and Carlos for now on.”
Juan grabbed the hoodie he left in the cockpit and stepped off the boat. Chuck turned to Pedro, knowing he couldn’t fire Juan, he was too valuable as a worker, he said, “He’s not allowed back on the boat again, Pedro! Don’t bring him with you next time.”
Pedro nodded his head in somber agreement.
“I’ve got enough trouble with the Colombians, I don’t need trouble from the Ecuadorians, also!” He continued.
“Yes, Mr Carmichael. Next time, he won’t be here.”
“Okay, have a goodnight, I’m gonna finish up here, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Carmichael.”
Pedro turned around and walked back to his car in the half-darkness. When he left, Chuck grabbed the boat hook and fished Carlos’ hat from the water, wrung it out, then tenderly laid it on his head. He looked down at the pitiful, chubby form of Carlos shivering in his own tears. Suddenly, Chuck felt an emotion swell inside him he had nearly forgotten about. Normally, a man weeping would have filled him with disgust, but instead, he felt a faint pulse of tenderness. He hadn’t allowed himself that emotion since his son was once taken badly ill and bedridden. As his pity grew Chuck had to do something. Instinctively, he bent down and wrapped his arms around Carlos, then started to rock him gently. Cars, with their headlights on, were passing by on the busy road that connected Springs to East Hampton, but Chuck didn’t care, he felt safe in the darkness. Chuck gave an exhale of contentment; it had been one of the most memorable evenings of the season, and sitting there with Carlos in his arms, a small thought occurred to him; God had created the perfect evening, one of the best since Pete left, and Chuck wouldn’t change a thing about it, not a damn thing.
