Chapter Nine

After Raven had told her story, getting her a new passport was the first order of business. Since she was a friend of a friend of Will’s and the daughter of a state senator, they made it a priority item. Cummings made a call to Sacramento, to Senator Cabral’s office, to confirm Raven’s identity. When he asked Raven for her full name, she said, “Ramona Maria Elvira Cabral.”

“Ramona?” I said.

“Just shut up!”

“Maria?”

“Ian!”

“Elvira?”

“Look, Raven is who I am. What my parent’s named me twenty years ago doesn’t matter. They didn’t know me then.”

Cummings talked a long time, occasionally asking questions of Raven and relaying her answers. Once he passed the phone to Raven so she could speak directly. After she passed it back, she said, “My father wasn’t in. Actually we were lucky to get anyone; it’s past midnight there. That was his secretary. She was under the impression that I was still in New York.”

“That means something,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about the attack. If your luggage had been left in your room, the cruise line would have suspected something. Did you drop your purse during the struggle?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Let’s assume you did. All Davis would have to do is take your key, clean up your room, and drop your purse and luggage overboard. Then there would be no way of knowing, or even suspecting, that you hadn’t just gone off somewhere on your own.”

Will nodded. “That makes sense.”

“It begins to look more and more like a deliberate act, planned out in advance.”

Cummings had cradled the phone. He said, “Intelligent improvisation would account for it just as well. We don’t really know much for certain.”

Raven’s eyes had grown fierce in memory of her attack. She wanted to know who would investigate.

“To be frank,” Cummings replied, “no one. The attack took place in international waters, aboard a ship of Norwegian registry. Bermudan authorities will be notified so they can watch for the pair in the future, and we will send a copy of the report to the New York police for the same reason, but you know the crime rate in New York. I doubt if the report will even be read by anyone but the clerk who files it. The only ones with the right and responsibility to follow up the incident are the Norwegians, and what could they do?”

Raven’s comment was not ladylike, but Cummings was too urbane to notice.

“Anyway, our next step is to walk down and get a photo for your new passport, and then you’ll have to excuse me while I notify the port authorities. They will want to know why your yacht is moored in France and you have not registered with them.”

“Mr. Cummings,” Raven said, “this is embarrassing to mention, but I’m flat broke. All my money is apparently on the bottom of the Atlantic, where I was supposed to be.”

“You can phone home at our expense, of course, but I had assumed that Mr. Gunn would be providing for your immediate needs.”

Will had been sitting quietly, as befits a very junior officer. Now he laughed and said, “Evan, some time I must explain Ian’s peculiar financial circumstances. Take my word for it, he is just about as broke as Raven.” more tomorrow

At the bottom of the harbor there is a traffic turnabout where cars enter the tunnel under the Vieux-port. We sat there for an two hours watching the boats come and go, and waiting for the consulate to open. We didn’t talk much. Afterward we walked up the hill to 12 Blvd. P. Peytral. 

The consulate was set back from a small, pleasant, cobblestoned, tree shaded square. There was a stone and metal fence where a friendly French guard went through the contents of our pockets and held my jackknife for ransom while we were inside. It wouldn’t be so easy today, but in 1989, Osama bin Laden was just a young man no one had heard of.

We descended into a small garden, and then through into a foyer where a second guard sat like a bank teller behind a thick glass panel. He asked our business and I explained that Raven was an American citizen who had lost her passport. He made a brief phone call, released an electronic lock, and told us to go on into the waiting room. 

“Who is working on lost passports today?” I asked.

“Mr. Cummings. Why? Do you know him?” Behind the polite reply there was suspicion. The cold war was still a reality. I could not see his hands, but I would have bet that they had moved closer to a panic button.

“No, but Will Hayden is a close friend of mine. I’m Ian Gunn.”

The man relaxed. He said, “Mr. Hayden has been expecting you for two weeks. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

The waiting room was utilitarian, with straight backed leather chairs, framed prints from the USIA, and not much else.  Raven sat down uneasily and said, “I hate this. This dress makes me look like a refugee.”

“You are. But you look fine.”

“Hah! To you. You’re hooked.”

Cummings came in and shook hands with us both. He was a small, gray man with a twisted lip. It looked like a cancer removal scar. Probably he had smoked a pipe all his life; probably, he didn’t any more. He gestured us ahead of him down the hall toward a small office. 

Before we got there, Will came around a corner with a grin six feet wide and grabbed me. We pounded each other’s backs for a minute; then he held me at arm’s length. I don’t normally like being handled, but Will is my closest friend. Perhaps my only real friend, in a world full of friendly acquaintances.

Will appeared not to have noticed Raven, but I knew him better than that. I also knew Raven would be looking at him, and at the contrast between the two of us. We were both just at six feet. Will was fashionably thin in a tailored suit; he looked like a model. I weigh one-ninety in baggy jeans and a khaki shirt, with hands like a carpenter.

Will looked like he belonged at an embassy ball; I looked like I belonged on the deck of a sailboat.

The contrast was largely illusion; we were better matched than we appeared. We had both graduated San Francisco State with honors, and our MA theses in Political Science had been posted within a month of each other. We had both applied to the State Department; we had both passed the exams. And we had built Wahini together.

However, there was no denying that Will was better looking. In fact, he was better looking than just about anybody. It was an old joke between us that I kept him around just to keep the girls off my back.

He turned to Raven and said, aside to me, “You were going to introduce me, weren’t you?”

“I shouldn’t. Raven, Will Hayden. Will, Raven Cabral. She came over on the Wahini with me.”

He took her hand and said, “You trusted yourself in Ian’s hands?” His voice held an irresistible mixture of warmth and taunting. Raven smiled until her eyes glowed.

“The lady is with me, Will.”

I said it very quietly, and Will raised an eyebrow. I seldom resent his successes, and he knows it. He said, “Of course,” and turned off his charm like a faucet. He remained friendly and solicitous, but all invitation was gone out of his face and voice. If I knew how he did that, I would open a school to teach the technique and get rich. more tomorrow

By four, Raven was asleep. I wanted to be away from the Wahini before the port authorities arrived, so I set the alarm for two hours sleep. When it went off, I would have thrown it overboard if I had had the strength.

We rag-bathed by lamplight, lavish with soap and water for the first time now that we were in port. Quarters were cramped, so I helped her and she helped me. Somehow, that made the process take longer.

By the time we reached the street, the fish market had been underway for an hour. The sounds and smells were comfortingly foreign. Notre-Dame de la Garde was lovely in the early morning sunshine as it looked down on Marseille. 

The embassy wouldn’t be open until later in the morning, so we took our time. Raven was lovely in her shore going clothes, but it was a testimony to her, not to them. She was a fair seamstress, and I had sewn up the Wahini’s sails. Between us we had managed to turn a spare piece of terylene sail cloth into a simple shift. It was a little crude to look at, but I could guarantee it wouldn’t blow out in a fifty knot wind. I bought her a pair of sandals at a street stall to complete her outfit. On the Wahini, she had gone barefooted.

Raven was preoccupied. She walked at my side, holding closer to me than was her habit, and smiled. But she should have been electrically alive. How many people get pulled out of the ocean and whisked off to Europe on a private yacht? By someone who becomes an enthusiastic lover? I may not be a fairy tale prince, but I am not Beauty’s beast either. So we sat on a bollard overlooking the fish market and I asked her what was wrong.

“How is it since you rescued me, Ian?”

“Fifty-two days.” I had all the facts ready so I could tell my story with accuracy at the embassy. “I picked you up on April thirteenth. My lucky day.”

“Not so lucky for me.”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“I suppose.”

“You could be dead. Instead of walking around Europe with me, enjoying the sunshine and the smell of fish.”

She patted my leg and smiled, but the smile went away quickly. She said, “I was supposed to catch a plane back to San Francisco the night my ship got to New York. Someone was supposed to pick me up at the airport early that Tuesday morning.”

“And you weren’t there. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’ve been speculating about what happened then. Daddy would notify the airline and they would check to see if I ever got a boarding pass. Then he might check on later flights. If I didn’t come back within twenty-four hours, he would probably call the cruise line.”

“And they would say you never got off the ship.”

“No, Ian. That’s what is bothering me. When we got off in Bermuda, the Bermudan customs people checked our passports, but the cruise line people didn’t make a head count. If they did the same thing in New York on the way back, they would have no way of knowing that I never left the ship.”

“Leaving your disappearance a complete mystery. Maybe Davis and his sidekick had that in mind?”

“Maybe. That isn’t what I was thinking of, either. If I never got home, Father would not think I had drowned in mid-ocean. He would think I had turned left at the terminal with some guy I had just met and gone off to raise hell without telling him.”

I didn’t like thinking of myself as one of a cast of thousands, but she looked so glum that I said, “If that is true, then he has just been spared unnecessary grief.”

She nodded. “True. And I’m happy for him, but I’m not feeling too good about myself.”

It must have been contagious. Suddenly, neither was I.

*****

As I have said elsewhere, this set of events couldn’t happen today, because of ubiquitous, instant, worldwide communication.

Evening was approaching and the city lights had begun to come on. After sixty-eight days at sea, it looked good. It looked like food, showers, a bed that did not heave all night long, and other people’s voices. Our bowsprit was pointed straight toward the seaside Promenade de la Corniche where people were driving home from work, or out for a night’s entertainment. The houses of the city rose up in tiers on the highlands beyond.

A ninety degree turn to port put the promenade on our right hand and took us under the battlements of Tour Saint-Nicolas, past the breakwater and the entrance to la Grande Joliette, the new ship harbor. The stalk-legged silhouettes of unloading cranes were black against the sunset as we passed, turning sharply to starboard this time and passed beneath Tour Saint-Jean down the narrow entry into the Vieux-Port.

Marseille’s old harbor is famous throughout Europe, even though it is now mostly used by pleasure boats and fishermen. It is a half mile long rectangle of water thrusting itself right into the center of Marseille, and packed with boats of every description. Encircled by broad avenues which are backed by shops and restaurants, it is the heart of the city. As we looked for an empty berth, the cathedral of Notre-Dame de la Garde was etched black against the fading sky high above us.

We tied up next to a rugged but colorful fishing boat. One of the fishermen helped up put out our lines, gesturing and giving orders in flowing French. When I answered him out of my hundred word French vocabulary, his gestures simply became more animated. Between us we managed to get the Wahini secured.

He pointed to the Q flag flying and said something I didn’t understand. After several tries, he simply repeated, “Demain.  Demain!” and I got the picture that tomorrow would be soon enough to contact the port authorities. I hauled the flag down.

The other fishermen were lining the rail now. One of them gestured toward our stern and our helper trotted back to see the Wahini’s name and home port. He came back looking impressed and asked, “L’Amerique du Nord?  Le Etats-Unis?” I nodded. Then he asked if we had just made the Atlantic crossing. At least, I think that is what he said. I nodded again.

That made us instant friends, or at least minor celebrities. The other fishermen came down to join us and carried us away across the broad Quai du Port to a night on the town.

I never did decide if they were really impressed with our crossing, or just looking for an excuse to celebrate. Or maybe they were just impressed with Raven and looking for an excuse to spend an evening with her. She was in her element. Within minutes she had discovered that one of the fishermen spoke a rough sort of Spanish and the two of them became our translators. We were paraded from restaurant to bistro and presented to every waiter, shop keeper, and passer-by in Marseille. We ate bouillabaisse, which I was told a dozen times that night was invented in Marseille, and other things I could neither identify nor remember. I could not refuse the wine, and by two hours into our night my memory was getting hazy.

It was close to two AM when we got back to the Wahini. After our guides had gone to bed, Raven and I sat on deck looking up at the lights of the houses on the surrounding hills. My head felt like a half-full gallon pail. Raven was enjoying my discomfort. “For a person who doesn’t drink,” she said, “you certainly tied one on.”

I was too far gone to try to be clever. I just said, “That’s why I don’t drink.”

“You seemed to enjoy it.”

“Too much!”

She smiled sweetly, like a tigress surveying her prey. “I seem to remember some other things you used to enjoy. Do you feel up to them?”

I looked into her predatory eyes and said, “Would it matter?”

“No.”

“Then let the games begin.”

As it happened, I was up to them. Within seconds she had my full attention. The rest of the night was not hazy at all. more tomorrow

Chapter Eight

Fifty-seven days out of Jamaica – forty-two days after I picked up Raven – we caught sight of the Rock. Gibraltar was originally called jebel al Tarik, Tarik’s Mountain, after the Moorish general who led his mixed Arab and Berber forces north across the Strait in 711 AD on their way to conquer Spain. Raven explained this to me; while studying her Hispanic heritage, she had become something of an expert on Spanish history.

The Nile, the Danube, the Rhone and thousands of lesser streams feed the Mediterranean, yet it is never filled. Surrounded by the land masses of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and sheltered from the cold currents of the North Atlantic, the warm basin of the Mediterranean becomes a great still, sending billions of tons of water into the air every day. So much so that a current of cold salty water from the Atlantic flows into the Mediterranean through the Straits of Gibraltar.

For us, the current wasn’t enough. We first gained, then lost, sight of Gibraltar. The levante was blowing in our faces and the current could not overcome it. For two days we tacked around outside the Strait until the wind shifted far enough to the north to give us a slant we could use. We crossed into the Mediterranean on the twenty-seventh of May.

#          #          #

Since our first night of passion, everything had changed between us. Raven had become easy in my presence. On days when the sun was warm, we rarely bothered with clothing. We turned brown. We made love when the mood took us, mostly on deck in the sunshine. We discovered that the cabin house was just the right height for certain interesting games.

It was an extended honeymoon for two strangers. I grew to know her body in every way, and her mind in some ways, but her soul remained beyond my grasp. I could see hints of it in her smiles and in her sudden brief angers, but she kept the innermost parts of her self barricaded behind her smooth manner, her sunny smile, and her supple body.

#          #          #

My original plan had included stops in the Azores, Lisbon, Gibraltar, Cartagena, and Barcelona before delivering Wahini to Will in Marseilles. After Raven came aboard so abruptly, all that had to change. There was nothing in my ship’s papers to account for her presence and she had no passport. I was, in essence, smuggling her in. Wherever I first landed, I would have to explain her presence to the port authorities. I wanted the backing of a friendly consulate when I tried to convince some foreign government that she had “fallen” off a cruise ship and I had picked her up. We were certainly not going to complicate our lives by saying that she was thrown off her ship.

It seemed a good idea to sail directly to Marseille, but the wind was not cooperative. The levante continued to blow in our faces. We could make a close reach most of the time, but Wahini didn’t like that point of sailing in her boomless condition. Our progress was slow.

Eleven days after Gibraltar, we passed the Chateau de If on its island outside Marseille harbor. Alexandre Dumas had placed both The Count of Monte Christo and The Man in the Iron Mask in that prison. It looked the part. The entrance to Marseille was difficult, so we brailed up the wounded sail and went in under power. more tomorrow

“I don’t know what I would do, but I would not rape you. And I would not beg. Not ever!”

I released her throat, shaken by the anger I had felt. I don’t like to be out of control, and my show of force had nearly become real. I caught her arms and jerked her upright. I shifted my weight and, without rising, lifted her out at arm’s length and slammed her onto the other transom. Her eyes grew wide. I don’t look like I could do that.

“Raven, you had better get your story straight. You are sending too many messages, and none of them track. And don’t try to jerk me around. It won’t work.”

Her brows were drawn together. She looked angry, but I was learning that nothing is ever that simple with Raven. She met my gaze. Her face was flushed and her lip trembled. Her voice was flat and challenging as she said, “What kind of message am I sending now?”

I said the first thing that came into my mind. I said, “Lost and lonely.”

Raven choked. Tears welled in her eyes and traced the lines of her face. I had hit a little too close to home. I had reached past her defenses to the core of her anger and confusion. She bit her lip and controlled her voice. She could not control her tears. She pounded her knees with her fists, and muttered, “Bitch, bitch, bitch!” over and over.

Finally she stood up. We were close together in the confines of the Wahini’s cabin. Her waist was at the level of my face. She began to unbutton Will’s shirt. There was no showiness and no hesitation, just a simple twist of the fingers, one button after the other, until it fell open and she shrugged it off.

She was not wearing the string bikini, and she was magnificent.

Will’s jeans were bunched in folds around her waist and cinched in by his belt. She unbuckled it and the jeans slumped down until they caught on the flare of her hips. She reached forward and braced her hands on my shoulders. She was trembling and her voice was husky as she asked, “Is this message clear enough?”

I reached up to the silky skin under her arms and brought my rough hands down her sides. Like sandpaper on velvet. I could feel her take a deeper breath. I brought my hands past the narrowness of her waist and around the swelling of her hips, pushing the jeans ahead until they rounded the curve of her flank and fell away.

Magnificent!

She slipped her hands down the back of my collar as I leaned forward. Still gripping her hips in my hands, I kissed her gently, first just beneath the navel, then downward. I could hear hear moan above me. A long, long time down there, as she shivered to the touch of my tongue, then upward to take her breasts in my mouth while she fumbled with my clothing and took me in her small, strong hands. Then she was sprawled on her back across the transom, and I was plunging deep in, and for a while there was no doubt of what either of us wanted. more tomorrow

“You never made a pass at me.”

“You were scared to death.”

“At first, I was. I didn’t stay scared.”

“Raven, you were sending out “Back off!” signals every waking minute. What did you expect me to do? Paw you like a drunk in a bar? You were trapped. We both knew that if I were a different kind of man, you would be in real trouble. I had to keep my distance to let you feel safe.”

She was silent and thoughtful. The pressure was building inside me. And inside her. I could feel it in her shoulders where she leaned slightly against me.

I took her mug and mine and set them aside. Then I put my arm around her and she slipped up against me without hesitation, leaning her face against my chest. There was a rich, clean smell about her.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Today. It was cruel.”

“I don’t know about cruel, but it was damned confusing.”

She reached over and took my hand in both of hers. “Ian,” she said, “sometimes I’m a real bitch. I was mad at you for not making a move on me. Dumb; really dumb. I knew why you hadn’t, but I was still hurt. It shook my confidence and it made me mad. I just wanted to show you what you were missing.”

“I had that much figured out,” I said. My throat felt like broken glass.

“I wanted you to make a pass so I could turn you down. I was that mad at you.”

“I had that part figured out, too. You wanted me on a leash. I don’t break to the leash worth a damn, Raven.” I heard my voice growing hard. “I give. I take what is offered. I share. But I don’t beg. Ever.”

She just shook her head. I could feel the motion against my chest. She asked, “Are you turned on now?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

She traced a line up my jeans from knee to crotch, stopping just short of the target. Her fingernail was like an electric probe. The air was getting thick; I couldn’t get enough of it.

She rolled around to lie on her back with her head in my lap, looking up at me. Her eyes were hollow and unreadable. She said, “What if I turned you off now? What would you do?”

I laid one hand on her breast – then slid it up to close around her throat. Her eyes went wide.

“What would I do? I don’t know. Maybe pick you up and drop you back in the ocean. Maybe I would jump in myself, too. Maybe I would just back off and not say one more word to you, or look at you, or admit you exist, until we reached Europe. I don’t know. Do you want to chance it?”

Now there was real fear in her eyes.

“I don’t know what I would do. But I can tell you exactly what I would not do. I would not rape you. And I would not beg. Not ever!” more tomorrow

She said, “Sit,” and I sat.

She poured wine. At least she did not have to use jelly jars; Will had insisted that we have wine glasses aboard. She ladled up the mole for both of us and recovered a plate of biscuits from where she had been keeping them warm near the stove. She sat down opposite me and in my mind the sound of denim on the transom cushions was like the swish of silk. She had that kind of presence.

After weeks of my own cooking, anything would have tasted good. But Raven’s mole would have tasted fine under any conditions. The biscuits were flaky and golden. I said, “Delicious,” and she said, “Thank you.” Other than that, there was little conversation for several minutes. After a day at the wheel, I ate more like a farmhand than the Count of Châteaubriand.

Our eyes met. She was wise and sad and merry all at once. I could not read her face, but I knew that I would be willing to study a long time to learn how to. I reached across the table and she took my hand. Just a brief grasp and release. A message of reconciliation.

She said, “You haven’t touched your wine.”

“I don’t drink.”

“But the wine . . .”

“Will’s. Not mine. If you look up forward among the crates and suitcases you will find two cases of wine and one of brandy. Will likes to travel prepared.”

“And you don’t drink. At all?”

“Only if I get trapped at a social function where refusing would be a problem. Otherwise, no.”

“You don’t mind . . .” She gestured toward her half empty glass.

“Of course not.” After a moment, I added, “My father was an alcoholic.”

“And that is why you hate it?”

“I don’t hate it. I love it. But I don’t want to end up where he is.”

“Oh.”

We ate in silence. Then I said, “I don’t tell everybody that.”

“No. I don’t suppose you would.”

“Thank you for the wonderful meal.”

“My pleasure, sir.” She managed to curtsey sitting down. Her smile was full of warmth and mischief.

She cleared the table. I released the catches and slipped it back under the transom cushion. She came back with two mugs of coffee and sat beside me.

“Ian,” she said, “you’re an odd one. I don’t quite know what to make of you.”

“I don’t mean to be mysterious.”

“When I was in the water . . .” She had a hard time saying that. The memory was still much with her. “When I was in the water, I managed to get out of my dress. When you found me I was naked, or so close that it doesn’t matter.”

The warmth of her sitting beside me, coupled with her words, were bringing my body alive in ways that would be painful if this conversation stopped short of climax. I said, “Yes.”

“You never made a pass at me.”

“You were unconscious.”

“Don’t joke. I mean later.”

“You were scared to death of me.”

“At first, I was. I didn’t stay scared.” more tomorrow

I hadn’t been fair and I hadn’t been entirely honest. As the hours passed and my anger cooled, I was able to admit that to myself. There was more to the story than I had said. I wanted her so badly that it made me weak in the knees. Her smile captivated me. I loved the sound of her voice, accent and all. Visions of the movements of her body were with me all the time and memories of how she had looked, naked and vulnerable when I first found her, tortured me. It was not schoolboy, romantic love and it was not just raw lust – but it was more lust than romance. I could not analyze and categorize my feelings, but they had me by the throat.

Maybe her “striptease” had really been a compliment, a way of saying that she felt safe with me. Or maybe she was just giving me a show for the fun of exhibiting her remarkable body.

Or maybe she had just wanted a sun tan.

Eventually, evening came. The winds were weak and fitful, but I followed my normal routine, furled the damaged mainsail, set full jib and mizzen and lashed the wheel. There was barely enough wind to keep steerageway and Wahini searched the horizon with her bowsprit as she wallowed from wave to wave. I went below.

When I pushed the hatch back, the smell of biscuits hit me in the face and my stomach did a happy handstand.

Traitor, don’t you know we’re mad at her?

Stomach replies, Eat first, fight later.

I slid the hatch closed, shutting out the night, the cold, and the darkness. Within the cabin, the oil lights cast their gentle golden glow against the varnished bulkheads. Wahini was a boat of the old style. She had no radar, no loran, and no electricity. But she had class.

I had built the cabin furnishings myself. I had put aside any clear planks that came through when we were finishing the hull and let them dry naturally in a shed near the building site. When it came time to do the interior, I spent three months crawling around inside Wahini with handsaw, jackplane and tape measure. It was like putting together a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

By the time I started the Wahini’s interior, the dream of sailing around the world had become almost an obsession. I was not just building a boat; I was building a home. Wahini’s interior was my masterpiece. I would never again have the time, the materials, the right project, and the sheer love that it takes to reach that level of excellence.

It had had everything. Except a beautiful woman.

Raven had put her hair up. I liked it long and flowing around her shoulders. Now I found that I also liked it up, revealing the slender column of her neck. With her warm coloring, heavy black hair, and slightly arched nose, she looked like a painting of Nefertiti. She was stirring something on the stove that didn’t smell like anything I had put aboard.

I gestured toward the stove and said, “May I?” 

“Sure.”

I took the spoon, stirred, looked, smelled, and tasted. My eyes recognized canned stew; I had packed six cases aboard. My nose and mouth said, “No way.” Raven had been into Will’s spices and had transformed it completely. I knew that she had turned it into a sort of mole, but that was as far as my culinary imagination could take me.

Raven had found the table top that was tucked under the cushions of one of the transoms and had deciphered the locking system that allowed it to hang from one of the lockers. It was set for two. She had found the drawer of emergency candles and had set one in an empty ketchup bottle. The cabin was rich varnished wood, the candle was ’60’s chic, the dishes were cheap plastic, and Raven wore a wardrobe by Salvation Army. Somehow, she made it work. more tomorrow

She was lying face downward on the deck, with her bra strap untied and loose beside her.

She heard my footsteps and I saw her body tense up. It irritated me. If she didn’t want a response from me, why didn’t she keep her clothes on? It wasn’t one of those cases where the patrons of a redneck bar decide a short skirt is a license for rape. We were co-prisoners on this boat, and she knew the response her near nakedness would bring.

I sat down on the deckhouse and said, “Hi.” The side of my foot brushed her calf. She jerked it aside. It was a clear message, but there was also something contrived about it. As if she had stripped down just to give me that message. I said something short and crude, and went back to the wheel.

Ten minutes later, she went below again. She had managed to get into Will’s shirt without standing up.

Ten minutes after that, she came up with a mug of coffee which she gave me like a peace offering. I took a sip. She made good coffee. Then I said, “What the hell was that all about?”

She shook her head. “I’m don’t know, myself.” And I don’t think she did know.

“Do you know anything about Buddhism?”

“Huh?”

“Buddhists set great store by unspoken communication. There is a story about a master and his young pupil. The pupil had just had some great insight and he couldn’t wait to tell his master about it. When he finished, the master just shook his head and said, ‘That is very true. But how sad to say so.'”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we had an unspoken agreement on how to act toward each other. I thought we were doing pretty well, too. Now we have to talk about it, and I find that unfortunate. It takes the naturalness out of our relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you? I don’t think so. It’s clear to me that you aren’t satisfied with the way things are going, but you aren’t ready for the natural next step. So, let me lay it out for you. You are a beautiful woman; very sexy; very desirable. I am young, healthy, and horny. Does any of this confuse you?”

“No.” There was anger in her eyes, but I didn’t care.

“If I haven’t crawled all over you, it is because you have been sending me signals to keep my distance. Right?”

She glared.

“Right?”

She nodded.

“So what was that striptease all about? Do you have a rape wish? Or are you trying to prove to yourself that any man who can control his impulses is some kind of a wimp? Are you showing me how long my leash is? Whatever your reasons, I don’t like it!”

The sun poured down like honey, and I felt about as romantic as a sack of garbage. Raven face was congested with anger. She didn’t say anything, but with her glare, she didn’t need to. Suddenly, I was just plain tired of her. I said, “Go below. Get out of my sight.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the voice of sweet reason,” I shouted. “Who do I sound like? I can’t leave the wheel, and if we look at each other one more minute we will be punching each other in the face. I can’t leave, so you have to. Just go!”

*****

I’m leaving in the bit about Buddhism, because I don’t plan to second guess myself here. However, in the likely event that Raven’s Run is published, I think I will drop it. It’s just too esoteric for the time and place it appears. more tomorrow