Leaving Suva in the Rain
Trace stumbled up the companionway and into the pilothouse. It was 4:25 AM, and he had just woken, and slipped into his clothes. He sat at the chart table and rubbed his sleepy eyes. His body begged for coffee. He saw a light coming from below by way of the companionway. “Good,” he mumbled, “Makani is up. Coffee soon.”
He flicked on the light above the chart desk and glared at the chart flat on the desk. His mind was empty of thoughts. He twisted on the knob to the radio. With eyes closed, he listened to the weather report. After a couple of minutes, he turned it off. “Rain,” he mumbled.”Would the crew rather hoist sails in the rain or have another hour and a half of sleep?”
Trace called Sage’s cabin.
“Hello,” Sage said sleepily.
“I want to be under full sail before the rains come,” Trace said.
“Me too,” Sage said. “I’ll get Dad up.”
“I’ll toss the lines,” Trace said. “Then I’ll start the engine and shove off. Get the bow and make sure nothing is in my way.”
“Aye, aye,” Sage said and hung up.
Trace left the pilothouse and lifted the lines from the pilings on shore. He returned to the pilothouse as Sage positioned himself on the pulpit.
As soon as he sat in the captain’s chair, he called Makani.
“Hello,” Makani said.
“Sage is on the bow, and Coyote will be getting up before long,” Trace said.
“Coffee ready,” Makani said.
“We’ll be pulling away in a couple of minutes,” Trace said and hung up.
Trace started the engine and let it idle for a minute before steering away from the pier.
Makani brought a coffee to the pilothouse. “Early start, Cap.”
“Yeah,” Trace said. “I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so as long last I was miserable, I thought I’d drag Sage along with me. And you, you’re up anyway.”
The Tramp Islander slowly moved through the rippled waters of the bay. After half an hour, Trace steered port and set a course toward Samoa. Sage hoisted the sails himself.
Makani brought another cup of coffee to the pilothouse and disappeared down the companionway. Sage walked into the pilothouse from the aft door.
Trace handed Sage the cup of coffee. “Compliments of Makani.”
“I’m so glad he came back,” Sage said.
The rain came. It rattled on the rooftop of the pilothouse in soft poetic waves. Trace relaxed in the captain’s chair. Sage sat on the bench, hoisting his feet off the floor.
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” Trace said.
“Remember that time you and I went camping in the mountains?” Sage said.
“The rain on the tent, right?” Trace said.
“Yeah,” Sage said.
“It seems like rain puts a man in the mood to talk and think,” Trace said.
“So what do we think about?” Sage asked if drifting into his own pleasant thoughts.
“Wherever the brain takes us,” Trace said.
“Right now it takes me back to that rainy night,” Sage said. “Do you remember what we talked about?”
“Yeah,” Trace said. “We talked about taking off for a while on motorcycles with nothing but the breeze in our face. Like that Bronson character on TV.”
“Reruns,” Sage said. “Came on at midnight.”
“Ya know,” Trace said, “I think we have it better than him.”
“I think so, too,” Sage said. “He had a different job every week.”
“And we’re out of the rain,” Trace said.
“How dangerous do you think things will get?” Sage asked.
“I’ve read a little bit about the island,” Trace said. “I’m not convinced they are all in on protecting the island from intruders. I think it’s meant to give their members a sense of security and a sense of fear. I read myself to sleep last night. After a couple of hours, I couldn’t sleep anymore.”
“What’s that Yachad guy’s real name?” Sage asked.
“Frank has a confidential file on the guy,” Trace said. “He’s no dummy. His name is Haywood Demeter. He’s a DD, Doctor of Divinity, and a doctorate in psychology. He’s so educated that he’s taken on a messiah complex. He thinks he’s about all.”
“Remember the guy who came out to speak to the ranchers?” Sage said. “He started using words like topology and geomorphic phenomena, and Dad said, ‘Why not just say hills, valleys, and flats. That way we know what you’re talking about.’ And he said, ‘I use the word to describe all the land,’”
Trace grinned. “And your dad says, ‘There, you said it, land. When you stick ‘ology’ on the end of anything, folks ‘round her start thinking you’re trying to pull something over on them.”
“And everyone applauded,” Sage said. “I remember dad went home that night so proud and intoxicated, I mean drunk, with the applause, he said he might become a politician.”
“I remember your dad talking to that guy afterward,” Trace said. “A lot of folks always thought your dad was rough and crude, but he took that guy aside and told him that topography sounds harsh and the lips and the tongue get all tangled. Use a word like, lay of the land. It takes a little more time, but it’s a sweet journey.”
“Dad wrote some good poetry,” Sage said. “Only a few know that. I memorized one of his poems for recitation in the sixth grade. I made up a name for the writer. It brought our teacher to tears.”
“I remember,” Trace said. “All of us were sniffing.”
“Quite a day,” Sage said. “I was proud of my dad, and he never knew it. And if he did, he’d deny he ever wrote that poem. That’s what I love about him—his nature is good.”
“Isn’t it wonderful what the rain can do?” Trace said.
They listened to the rain, waiting for the sun to rise.
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