I arrived with naught but lies.

Anticipation gone, rambling visions vanished while I confronted someone else’s lost dream trapped in a floating hulk. I caught a hint of rot, sun-bleached mussels abandoned by the sea, baking on battered dock pilings. The ancient stain below a dumpster trapped light, still showing itself to be gooey and damp.

I felt a pungent flushing of embarrassment. I thought I had come east chasing my childhood. Wasn’t I going to sea just as my father did, as my grandfather did, and as my great grandfather did? Yet, I wasn’t stepping backwards in time; instead, I looked between dockside buildings at an anachronism.

The image of a ninety-foot sailing ship cradled next to a New England village was the same image they had seen: white lobster boats, dinghies, and mooring buoys. I breathed the same air they did. The odor of the place had not changed. I again breathed the air, scanning the barnacled granite riprap that fell away from the parking lot to the water’s edge below.

My heart wanted to believe I was home. But no one greeted me. No one hugged me. No one asked me about my three days in the car. No one probed gently about my husband. No one here remembered my mother, her sister, my father, or his father. I knew no one on this coast. Everyone I loved, I left behind.

I had not returned to the harbor and streams of my youth. Perhaps, I had confused my motives for coming here. At first, I admit, I came in pursuit of a lost youth. Standing there, I acknowledged a lost future.

I studied this schooner before me. Rust flowed down her bows like stains of old tears, undried, streaking down from her scuppers. My manifestations of hope collapsed, misshapen. They collided with the present.

This one hundred-year-old black schooner, dying quietly at anchorage, allowed me to savor the juxtaposition of reality and hope. Behind me, the village grew along the slope of a small hill. Defined by white church spires, stone piers, wooden docks, dinghies tied at the harbor’s edge, the village rested in time yet had grown over three centuries. Nothing looked out of place, not even the rusting Toyota truck with a worn wooden bed. There were satellite antennas on roofs and people repairing ancient wooden lobster pots by hand. This was a place where people still rowed to get to their fishing boats, tapped the barometer each morning and evening, yet printed weather charts from the Internet. They took and kept what they wanted from each of the centuries.

Someone stepped up from behind me. “Are you the new cook?”

“Yes.”

“She looks past her prime, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have bags?” I turned to address this gentle-spoken man.

“My grandfather owns the Black Swan,” he offered in explanation.

Neither of us moved. I returned my gaze to the harbor.

I saw movement on the deck; two men hammered the black metal. The sound was broken — not the sharp sound of a metal hammer on steel, but fuzzier and duller. They tapped and moved the hammer. Another puff of breeze carried a further reminder of all that surrounded me.

“How do I get out there?”

“You can get a hotel, you know.”

“I could.” I didn’t move. “I won’t.”

“Okay.” He echoed my resolve. “I’ll help with your bags. Is this your Volvo?”

It was clearly from away: it had Illinois plates, the paint was shiny and clean, and the back was filled with luggage. Furthermore, I had parked it poorly.

“Yes.”

He took the key that hung from my right hand to unlock the doors remotely. He returned the keys to the same hand. “At the risk of sounding foreboding, be careful out there. Be careful of that mate. I have never suffered a good thought about that man.” He tossed my two sea bags onto the asphalt — “My name is Tad,” — and closed the back of the car.

“Margaret.” We shook.

Using a cane, Tad carried my two large bags to a boarding ramp, and I still hadn’t moved my feet. I heard my own car horn toot twice. The men on the deck rose and saw me. They saw my bags. They saw Tad waving at them from my Volvo door.

A gray Avon inflatable motorboat wallowed its way toward us. It travelled the twenty yards across the harbor from the Black Swan’s mooring. Tad slipped away when the two crewmembers approached, and I could hear them bickering.

“I told you she was the cook. I saw her first,” the little one was saying to the taller one. “I saw her, and I knew that she was the cook. I told you that, remember.” He had to yell over the outboard engine. They hit the floating dock. The dock jerked below me, and the inflatable dented in with such a force, it became clear how under-inflated she was. There were beer cans and stale water in the bottom of this boat. I gave a quick thought to my sea bags and their contents before the little guy tossed them into this swill.

I moved.

I walked down the ramp and toward this little craft. “Hey, are you the new cook?” He looked toward the taller man when he spoke.

“I am. Margaret Noonan.” I offered my hand. Instead of accepting my hand, this kid elbowed his friend.

“Oh, hey, my name is David.” David came to shake my hand, but I had already given up. “This is Joe. Joe, this is Margaret, the cook.”

Joe mumbled something so softly I didn’t hear him.

“No, I’ll drive out,” Joe again mumbled. I leaned in and watched his lips.

“You always drive.” An argument started in front of me. I began to understand that there wasn’t room for all of us. Back and forth these two went, until David took my bags out of the boat and got in. Then he pulled me in.

With me in the front of the Avon, she rode a little flatter across the harbor between the docks and the Black Swan. They drove around the far side and then slammed into the hull just below a boarding ladder. Both boys stood to help me up. I reached for the ladder with a firm grip and climbed away from them. The boat got unstable because I lifted my weight. David and the other one, Joe, stumbled backwards when the bow lifted, following my foot.

David started up after me. I turned to him and asked, “What about my bags?” I expected them both to go ashore and get them.

“They’re fine. We’ll show you around first.”

A man met us at the side rail.

“Margaret, this is the mate. Sir, this is our new cook.” I offered my hand again.

“Well, I like my breakfast hot: two eggs over medium, two pieces of bacon, soft. Coffee is always black and hot. I’ve had to do without toast. No one has ever gotten that stove to do anything right.”

Now turning to David and Joe, he barked, “You two have stuff to do, don’t ya? Still got that list?” They both looked at his legs, “Well do ya? What are you looking at? Do you have the list?” The mate dropped his right hand behind his back, elbow out. Both men reacted.

Joe spoke. “Yes, sir. I have it.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Learn to speak up. You mumble and babble like an idiot. Like those retards the state locks away.” I saw the mate’s right arm tense. His left shoulder rolled forward. The intensity of his focus narrowed to Joe’s face. Joe didn’t raise his arms in defense. He didn’t flinch. He stood still, neither holding his ground nor running. Then his body relaxed slightly. He slumped instead of bracing for the blow I expected to see.

“Don’t just stand there. There’s only a couple of days to get this boat ready for sea, and you’re both standing there like puppies waiting for a beating you deserve.” The mate turned his back, walking aft.

I remained in place.

“Maggie.” The mate gave a half-turn toward me. “You comin’?”

We descended the companionway into the galley, and the mate pointed out my bunk and the key points of the galley: stove, icebox, freshwater taps, seawater tap with foot pump on the sole—the grand tour of my new universe.

“After you get settled in and your stuff stowed, I’ll show ya how to light that stove. It’s a bit tricky.”

I simply stared. The mate returned to the deck above.

This place was hell. The sole, or deck, was grimy. Dark, mildew- stained wood, food-encrusted dishes, and flatware littered every surface. A microwave sat on the counter with an extension cord heading toward the deck above, the nearest end wrapped in duct tape.

The odor mixed locker room, rot, soil, and every imaginable horrible smell.

I breathed slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The more I saw, the more I wanted to run from the stained cupboards, rust, and filth, and I mean filth in the way my grandmother used the term: foul, putrid matter.

If I checked into a hotel, I really wondered if I’d be back. If I checked into a hotel, would the crew find me weak? Would they think I had run?

I breathed cautiously through my nose. The bilge smell was now appearing, an ancient and familiar smell. The bilge is the space at the very bottom of the boat. It becomes a harbor to dropped items, spilled items, seawater, leaking oils, and leaking fuel and has an odor that is normally overwhelming. It tempered the horror.

I toted everything portable to the deck. Everything from mattresses to pots went into a pile. From this pile, I pulled every bit of fabric. David and Joe hung from a board on the side of the schooner, beating the steel with a small hammer. Anger echoed with each hit.

I tossed the refuse into the bottom of the Avon. Anything cloth, anything trash, anything that had no value got tossed into the Avon.

I stacked all the other stuff together. I filled pots with water and flatware. I opened the microwave and rolled it on its back, exposing its mouth and throat to the afternoon sky. I gutted the galley and made two piles. Keepers went on deck to soak. Everything else went into that Avon.

Without a word, I started this little boat and headed to the dock. I filled my car’s trunk with cushion covers, curtains from around my bunk, and dish towels. The rest went to the dumpster.

I placed my now-damp sea bags into the front seat of my car. They had remained on the dock all afternoon. Without explanation, I left. I left without another look and without a thought but disgust.

I returned the following day. The contents of the galley remained untouched during the night. The microwave was still gaping at the now-gray sky. Dew water pooled in the bottom.

I packed myself on board: four white five-gallon buckets, bottles of bleach, a case of sponges, a box of rags, a Costco-sized package of paper towels, metal wire brushes, bristle brushes, scrubbing pads of all sizes, and three boxes of three-mil trash bags.

The second day, I showed up with a high-gloss marine white paint, brushes, and blue gloves.

On the fourth day, I arrived with new cushions, mattresses, and freshly laundered everything. The crew had moved the Black Swan from her winter mooring to the dock.

I didn’t make a noise when I found my sponges used around the boat. I bought more.

When I found one of my buckets had been used for thick, black oil, I bought another.

On that fourth day, I realized my personal funds were feeding an insatiable need of others. Like a dog in her neighborhood, I used a big, thick Sharpie marker to stake my territory: GALLEY; DO NOT REMOVE FROM GALLEY; GALLEY.

When I found a greasy hand print in my sink, I sought the crew out. They were near the bows, chipping rust with hammers. They’d chip, then paint, covering rust with sloppy, heavy coats of black paint.

“Don’t touch my galley.” These were my first words to them in days.

I walked away. I had spoken in anger. I wouldn’t apologize.

On the fifth day, I brought my bags on board. Into clean drawers below my bunk, I stowed my clothing. Into the locker near the foot of my bunk, I hung my outside clothing: foul-weather gear, jackets, and heavy wool pants. I tucked a pair of sea boots away.

As I moved in, making further claims to my patch, regret started to creep into my heart. Wishing that I had been warmer and simply nicer to the crew, the words, “Don’t touch my galley,” replayed in my mind. A hazard of being alone in a small, confined world is that one’s own words and actions echo and intensify with reflection.

Throughout my adult life, I have had little isolation. Long days at work included people talking to me, calling me, and e-mailing me. Evenings at home with my husband, Paul, consisted of television, meals, chores, and books. Music filled any silence during my waking hours. A surprise of my time alone was that I could experience, think, and evaluate processes simultaneously. I could judge myself from afar. Full sentences could form to discuss my activities, sentences never spoken, only heard.

The mate came down the companionway without a word. He stepped into the head.

I stopped working while I listened to him first pee, then moan and poop. I heard the toilet paper roll holder squeak. I heard the toilet pump squirt, filling, then emptying the bowl with seawater. When the mate finished manually pumping the toilet, I heard the D.C.- powered freshwater pumps kick on while he washed his hands.

He stepped back into my galley with a grin. “Looks good, Maggie.” He gave a little step left and right, peeking around the area. “You ready for passengers tomorrow night?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t. I needed to buy food and think about cooking.

“Have you figured out that stove?”

No, I hadn’t. I offered another blank stare.

“You got the state rooms cleaned up?”

Of course I hadn’t. Didn’t know I had to and wasn’t about to admit that either. I flipped instantly from anger toward him to berating myself for allowing the mate to find any fault in my effort. How could I have known that the staterooms were for me to manage? Obviously, I’d have known by asking. I hadn’t said a kind word to a soul since my arrival.

After the day closed, hours after the crew had retired to a bar, I marched on deck. I kicked the microwave over to drain water that had gathered in its throat. I hauled it to the side rail for a later trip to the dumpster.

I reviewed the afternoon’s accomplishments: stateroom laundry dropped off, staterooms cleaned, menus planned. I thought about my clean galley. One more day to my maiden journey.

In cold water, I washed and brushed my teeth. I closed the curtain around my bunk for the first time. Then, with the small reading light on, I read the graffiti. It was carved into the wood and written on the wood that was the bottom of the empty bunk above me. The newer stuff, written in dark markers, was vile. The older material was fainter: dated and signed decades before.

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
As fickle as a woman to warm,
Yet rages as the devil’s own bed.
She angers me so. Tepid coffee in a storm,
Then baking loaf after loaf of golden bread.
Roar on you iron witch
Heat me when I am hot,
Leave me to freeze when I am cold.
Aging shore-side, gone and old,
I will smile once, cursing you, bitch.

That faculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape of his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no adventurer.

I closed my eyes, lifting an old prayer into my heart, words that carried my mother’s spirit into my mind. I held her hands. Her strength had failed with the years, although her voice commanded. Her turn of a phrase, her eyes, her hands remained as they were in my youth.

She understood work: intolerable, impossible work. She knew how to clean toilets and to cook. She understood the constraints the world placed on her. She didn’t seek the education I did. She didn’t have the opportunities. She warned me of the risks of working and living in the world of careers. She used a gentle tone and never discouraged my ambitions. She just tried to remind me of the risks I took.

“That’s my fear. You do so well where you are. People leave you alone and the politics aren’t too bad. If you move . . . ”

“Mom, I am pretty good at it all. In fact, I like it.”

“I know.”

There was always a but lingering at the end of that statement, as if others were more skilled, better prepared, better trained, or simply had the family history in corporate business to advance. Actually, I have never understood her reluctance. I always attributed it to her own weakness for allowing others to dominate her. She would allow herself to get discouraged from exploring the world around her. She lived much of her life as if there were boundaries. She allowed herself to be constrained by the thoughts and actions of others.

I met the captain the following morning. He introduced himself to the passengers and thereby introduced himself to me. A slender man, dark beard, dark, tightly curled hair he kept groomed, he spoke quietly.

His small eyes moved through us. We each tied on a life vest. We each learned where the flares were located, the radio was located, and the names of the crew. Looking at me, he introduced me. I gave a little bow to the four passengers. I had a life vest on, well tied and done up right. Upon sitting, I hoped that the passengers mistook my efforts with the orange Mae West as a demonstration. I gracefully removed my vest when the others did, then gathered theirs from outstretched hands.

“Margaret, do you have anything to add?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” I offered a quick, professional answer to his unanticipated question.

“We’ll get an early start tomorrow. There will be a hot breakfast in the galley at 7:30, and we’ll pull away from the dock at 8:30. The evening meal is for you to enjoy here in town. Thank you.” The captain walked away.

My first encounter with the captain came after six days and two nights on board. Never before had I seen him.

Storm Petrel Publications

Halifax, Vermont  |  San Francisco, California