THE LOBSTER BOAT

 

 

I sit on the teak deck and look out over the bay. Starlight twinkles on the water. I am balancing my laptop on my lap. The light from the screen throws my shadow up onto the house behind me. I'm watching the bay, looking out to where I know the lobster boat is moored. I can't really see it, but I can feel it. It's a tingle that starts in my belly, runs out my toes, and makes me giggle. Several times I've looked down and read the Wikipedia entry, but my gaze always drifts back to the water. The little boats bob gently as the tide starts to turn. Soon. It will be time soon.

 

I guess, if I had to start somewhere, it would be in the supermarket. As I loaded the week's shopping into the trolley, I picked up  the Free Advertiser and tossed it on top of the fruit. The fruit always goes last at the checkout. I like to segregate my shopping as it goes through the scanner. It's a harmless pleasure. Anything big – big bottles, big cereal packets – goes first. Then come the cans and the clunky, heavy stuff. They go into boxes. All the bathroom stuff goes through together, and into its own bag so that it can remain hygienically segregated from perishables all the way to the bathroom. Meat also stays together, from trolley to freezer. Fruit and vegetables are last. The Advertiser goes on the top. I love the way its yellow pages and bright red exclamation marks stick out and wave in the breeze like a lifeguard's flag on a crowded beach. I always get a thrill when I pick one up. I don't know why. I have never actually bought anything advertised in The Advertiser. The promise of a bargain is a thrill rarely equalled in my life. I read every entry except the auto section. I guess that's because my husband always buys the cars. Cars and power tools are his domain. I am not to be trusted with such important things. I never really cared. I was never mechanically minded before the lobster boat.

 

I spread out The Advertiser on the kitchen table. It caught my eye almost immediately: For Sale: Lobster Boat. Perfect condition. €4,000.

"What would you think if I bought a lobster boat?" I said to no one in particular. I often just talk out loud. It makes it easier for everyone to choose whether to ignore me or have a conversation. This caught their attention. Then again, the telly was off.

"A lobster boat!"

"Could we go on it?”

"What's a lobster boat?"

The front door opened and the children ran to greet their father.

"Mom's going to buy a lobster boat!" they chorused. He stood at the kitchen table going through the post, tossing one envelope after another to one side to be dealt with later. He didn’t look up, preferring instead to direct his comments to a particularly intriguing return address.

"What would you want with a lobster boat?" he asked.

I felt a faint ripple at the base of my neck. A tiny ripple of disgust. The phone rang and cut off any talk of boats. I never mentioned the lobster boat again, but I thought about it all the time.

"What would you think if I bought a lobster boat?" I asked myself, over and over again.

"What would you want with a lobster boat?" my husband’s voice answered. I had no idea what a lobster boat was. I just knew I wanted one.

 

School ended, the sun came out, and I took all the summer clothes out of the trunk I’d stored them in last October. I'd put on weight. The summer dress I'd bought two years ago stretched across my breasts, the little buttons straining to enclose the extra flesh. I put it aside and distributed piles of shorts and t-shirts to the children's rooms. The day was too fine to waste in the supermarket, so I decided to shop in the little stores in town. I could always do a big shop when it was raining. The greengrocer also carries the Free Advertiser. I could barely wait to get back to the privacy of my car to have a look. This time there was an address. It was on the pier, less than a mile away.

 

I drove very slowly but I could hardly have missed it. FOR SALE said the hand-painted sign. It was perfect. It was blue with a polished wood trim. It looked like a little toy boat left behind by some gargantuan toddler. I wanted to run up and rip the sign off before anyone else saw it.

 

I pushed the boat to the back of my mind. I read a magazine and took up their suggestion to “Get In Step With The Season!” I took the kids and their friends to the beach. I made healthy summer meals. I sat on the new teak deck overlooking the bay and watched the sunset with barely a twinge of longing.

I started having dreams. I could not remember them but they were so real and sensual that I would wake up sated and content, stretching languorously as if I had just rolled off a lover. And as I stretched I was always surprised to find that I had toes.

 

I'd taken to driving past the lobster boat whenever I had the chance. I'd slow down and crawl by. Sometimes, I'd stop without turning off the engine and think about how pretty lace curtains would look in the windows of the little cabin. It was a beautiful day. The pier was crowded with people who looked busy. No one looked up as I got out of the car.

His shoulder was sunburned and speckled with freckles. It moved up and down in a rhythmic motion. A mop of black hair bobbed above the wooden trim of the boat. A muscled arm rose yielding a large hammer: Clang. Clang, Clang. My heart skipped to the beat. Sh-Boom, Sh-Boom. Clang. Clang, Clang. He turned his back to me and stretched.

I could have easily left without him seeing me. I could have just gone back to the car. I watched him as he stretched instead. Sleek. He was sleek. I found myself caught by the beaded patterns of sweat just under his shoulder blade. The sharp sun blurred my vision, turning the drops of sweat into a supple, rippling coat which ran over the smooth muscles of his back. I rubbed my eyes. He turned and smiled. His wet, black hair was slicked back like a velvet skullcap, his mouth framed by a close black beard.

I pointed to the boat. "Is it still for sale?"

He nodded, smiling. Then he leaned out and offered his hand. If I hadn't taken his hand I would still be sleeping next to my snoring husband. I would still be pulling into the supermarket car park, mentally running through inventories in my head: out of milk, need conditioner, toothpaste low, better stock up on bananas for lunch. I would still be balling pairs of socks, my hands mechanically pairing like with like, while my thoughts surfed distractedly on the waves of my unconscious mind.

 

I took his hand. Felt the grip. The shudder of recognition. I bought the lobster boat and then I went on my way home. I didn't tell anybody. It had nothing to do with them. I kept going through the motions. Make breakfast. Go shopping. Chat with a neighbour. Sort the washing. Cook the dinner. Clean the floor. Whatever.

No one noticed that I was different, but I was. I heard gulls squawk and surf splash constantly, drowning out the ordinary business of my day. I felt waves sweep under me and lift me up, so I could catch a glimpse of the horizon as I chatted with Mrs O'Brien at the checkout. I tasted salt on my lips as I commented on the weather. And I remembered my dreams. I remembered that I'd always had them. Dreams of surf and splash and sea. Great tail fins rising out of the deep blue and slapping down in a spume of white foam. I don't know how long it lasted, this going through the motions. I'm sorry; it's all kind of sketchy after I bought the lobster boat. I remember things in snatches and even these are becoming jumbled, fading.

 

I learnt about engines and thick black oil, and the tang of turpentine on my tongue. I sanded and stripped and hauled and wrenched. He didn't say much. In fact, I don't remember him ever speaking at all. The lobster boat spoke reams. When we dragged it up onto the dry dock, the little barnacles hanging on the hull whispered and hissed and sizzled – music to my longing. The anchor told of dark depths and undulating duvets of squid, their fins like whirring neon lights in the blackness of the sea bottom.

 

I hungered for fish. I bought mackerel and salmon, pollock and whiting, cod and herring. I bought them in the supermarket, then in the fishmongers, at the open market, and finally on the pier as the boats came in. Fresh. It has to be fresh. I searched through the grimy styrofoam boxes for fresher still, only really satisfied when the fish were still flopping around. The sight of those shiny scales, frightened, glassy eyes, and slapping tails, made my mouth water.

"Not fish again!" my children cried as I dropped another slimy plastic bag on the kitchen table.

"You have been cooking a lot of fish lately," said my husband addressing the piece of mackerel at the end of his fork. "Did you pick up my suit from the

cleaners?"

"Fish is good for you," I answered, and turned to the sink so that they couldn't see me run my tongue over my sharp little teeth.

 

Today the lobster boat was finally ready. I walked up the pier, each step bringing me closer to my fate. It was shining and bright, like an eager child washed and dressed in their Sunday best, straining to get to the party. He was sitting, his legs dangling off the pier. He had a small pot of paint. There was some writing on the bow.

"Sulkey," I read. I liked the way it tripped on the tongue. “What's a sulkey?"

He just smiled, pleased with his work.

 

I could hardly wait to look it up. I hurried through dinner, baths and bedtime as the surf pounded in my temples. I waited for them all to be asleep. I wanted to be alone in front of the sea before I looked it up:

"Female sulkeys can leave their seal fur on the strand and take on the form of a woman. If a human finds the pelt, the sulkey will become his mate. She will be a good if somewhat melancholy wife, but if she ever finds her pelt she will be driven to return to the sea leaving her human family behind. The male is vengeful. He causes storms at sea and makes boats sink to avenge the massacres of sea life by humans."

* *

 

 

“If somewhat melancholy," I whisper as I shut down the laptop. Then I laugh quietly to myself. A hollow, empty little laugh. I stand up and look out to sea. A longing stirs deep in my belly. The night is still ink-black, but I can sense a faint glow to the east. I have to hurry. My nose twitches with the soft southern taste in the breeze. I walk quickly, then, kicking off my shoes I start to run. Down the drive. Past the car. Out the gate. My legs feel heavy and cumbersome. My feet are clumsy. My hands carry the furry bundle. They make no sense with their long skinny fingers. It's painful to run, so I run faster. Down to the pier. Down to the boat. Down to the water.

 

He is waiting for me. He has the engine running. I slip the rope, and climb into the lobster boat. We stand side by side in the little cabin as he navigates the narrow channel leading to the open sea. As he nuzzles my neck, the faint line on the horizon grows to a luminous red wedge bathing everything in pink glow. His beard is soft.

 

He cuts the engine once we are far out enough. I drop the anchor, thrilling as the rough rope runs through my hands, down into the deep. I watch him preen as I undo the buttons on my dress and let it fall. He holds out the pelt. It was stashed in a box under the stairs. I could have found it anytime but, then again, I didn't know that I was looking for it. The fur wraps around my body. It grows warm socks and mittens, softly embracing my limbs.

Splash!

His head pops out sleek and black. He floats on his back and then gives a little wave before diving in, his tail flicking drops of water. I turn and look back at the bay one last time. I can just make out the tiny lights along the row of houses. The big one on the end has a very nice wooden deck. It reminds me of something. Maybe I've seen it somewhere before. Then slipping into the water, I turn and follow him out to sea.