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

Chapter Seven

I was awake to possibilities, alert to nuance, and randy as hell; but Raven didn’t send up any smoke signals. It might easily be twenty days before we saw land. If I put any heavy moves on her, and she turned me down, we would both be looking forward to two-thirds of an absolutely miserable month together. So I went about my other business.

The main boom was beyond repair. I spent a day trying to convert the gaff to a boom and make the mainsail over into a reduced leg-o-mutton. I could have done it, but only by ruining the mainsail, and the emergency didn’t seem that great. I finally I gave up and hoisted the main as a boomless gaff sail. On a broad reach the Wahini was almost as good as ever, but off the wind she sailed like a turtle.

After that, things fell into a routine. I had to steer all through the daylight hours since the Wahini would no longer keep course with the wheel lashed. At night I could make her hold her course under jib and mizzen, but a heavy boat like Wahini doesn’t make much distance that way in less than a gale.

From six in the morning until eight at night I was chained to the wheel. Raven spent a lot of her time below, and a lot of time during good days up front straddling the bowsprit and watching the bow wave. It was the best spot on the boat for private contemplation. I used to spend a lot of time up there myself, back when Wahini would steer herself. Raven had a lot on her mind. We talked about her attack a dozen times, but we never came to any conclusions. Too little data. Raven had other things to think about as well. I didn’t know what – then – but I respected her privacy.

A week after the storm I found two wet rubber bands hanging from the rigging. Actually, it was the gag bikini. I had forgotten all about it until she decided to wash and dry it. Near noon, she came up with a bowl of canned stew and took the bikini back down with her. Fifteen minutes later she came up again in Will’s shirt with her long, bare legs sticking out, went forward and dropped the shirt. She had the bikini on, and it wasn’t much. She lay down on the forward deck in the sun.

It was a beautiful cloudless day with little wind. Once she was flat on the deck, I could not see her. But I could imagine, and I did. I stood it for about five minutes. Then I said, “Boat, I’ve been your slave long enough. You’re on you own for a while.” And lashed the wheel.

String bikinis were odd things. As a fad, they didn’t last long, and for good reason. Pure nakedness is much kinder to the female figure. If a woman were less than perfect, a string bikini showed nothing but her faults. If she were perfect, however, you could ignore it and concentrate on what was revealed. 

Raven was in the latter category. She was lying face downward on the deck, with her bra strap untied and loose beside her. more tomorrow

Raven’s hair was free and streaming back and she seemed to be having the time of her life. I know I was.

I showed her how to steer and after a while I gave her the chance to practice. She attacked the task ferociously, and after half an hour she was beginning to develop a fine and delicate touch.

I tried to lead her into talking more about her family, but she avoided the subject. She did not seem secretive so much as she seemed uncomfortable, as if she didn’t want to think about them. Until I mentioned siblings. 

“Brothers, no; but I have a sister. Daddy’s favorite. The kind of girl who can do no wrong. Never gets in trouble. Never gets less than an A in school. Always the best at everything she does. She’s really great!”

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. I said, “Older or younger?”

“Younger. Eight years younger than me. She’s an ice skater. She’ll be in the Olympics someday, if she doesn’t break her leg or something.”

I smiled at the venom in Raven’s voice, and asked, “What’s her name?”

“Pilar. You know, after the Virgin Mary, the first pillar of the Church.”

I laughed and Raven looked daggers at me. I said, “Even her name is perfect.”

“Exactly!”

“I watch ice skating sometimes, but I have never heard of her.”

“Do you go to the meets or just watch on TV?”

“TV.”

“A big meet will have a bunch of skaters, but the networks only show four or five of them. They shoot a lot of footage, then after the meet is over they splice together what they need. When you see it on television, it looks as if they just happened to film the winners. If someone makes an unexpectedly good showing, they go back to stock footage from previous years so that it looks as if they knew all along that she was going to be a winner.”

“How long has Pilar been the family favorite?”

“Since forever!”

When I had first fished Raven out of the water, she had spoken standard English. Now that she was becoming relaxed with me, her schoolyard Chicano-English mannerisms were beginning to creep out. She asked, “How about you?”

“I have a sister, and an older brother that I thought was perfect. Donal, was his name; he was much older so we didn’t compete. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Why?”

“He left home when I was nine. Just disappeared. I never knew where he went or why. Maybe my parents did, but they never said. He used to fight with my dad all the time.”

“Boy, I can relate to that!”

*****

At least ten years before I wrote Raven’s Run, I wrote the first sixty or so pages of a novel called Eden Lake. The names were different, but the main character had a father who had run away to Canada after causing the drunk driving accident in which his wife was killed. The son in Eden Lake was saddled with raising his younger sister, an event that led to mutual alienation.

Ian is a different character, but I grafted the Eden Lake backstory onto him, complete with estranged sister, and added Donal. All this was to provide plots for future novels should Ian have become a series character. more tomorrow

I barely even knew her name, or maybe I didn’t know her name. Raven was too melodramatic to be real.

“Where do you live, Raven.”

“Our original home is near Santa Cruz, but I really grew up in Sacramento.”

“I know both places. I went to college at San Francisco State. I spent a month in Sacramento once as part of my classes.”

“In what?”

“Political science. My friend Will and I both plan to go into the foreign service.”

“The friend who is in France? The one who owns half of this boat?”

“Yes. He was just posted to the consulate in Marseille a couple of months ago. He had to leave the Wahini in Jamaica and fly to Washington for briefings, and then on to his job.”

The ship’s name seemed to amuse her. “And that is why you are sailing alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why the foreign service?”

“It seems exciting, and it provides a chance to travel. I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin and never got far from home except for an occasional canoe trip to Canada. Then, when I was in the Army, I spent three years in Germany, and another three months wandering around Europe after I got out. After that, I didn’t want to take a job that would keep me in one place.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “I was just the opposite. When I was little we moved from place to place so much that I would have given anything to settle down and never move again.”

“Because your father was in politics?”

She shook her head. “Before that. He worked for the FBI for ten years. They don’t have that many Chicano agents, so he was always in demand for field jobs.”

“Could that be why you were tossed off that ship? Revenge for something he did, or leverage against him for something he is doing now?”

“No, of course not. He has been out of the FBI for a long time.”

“You think.”

“What?”

“You think he has been out of things, but if he were mixed up with some clandestine operation, he certainly wouldn’t tell you. So you don’t really know.”

#          #          #

The afternoon was fading fast and I had repairs to do. I took another inspection tour of the ship and decided that I could set sail once I repaired the strained backstay. It took most of two hours, then I set the jib and mizzen and hauled in the sea anchor. The mainsail repairs would wait until tomorrow. The wind was still about force seven, and I thought it would be a while before I could set more canvas anyway.

Raven went below, and when she came up again she was wearing Will’s ski parka under his oilskins and looking as if someone had inflated her.

The wind was dying down more quickly than I had anticipated, but the waves were not and it took a quick hand at the wheel to pick our way among them. It was a roller coaster ride. Raven sat across from me with her legs enlaced with mine. Her hair was free and streaming back and she seemed to be having the time of her life. I know I was. more tomorrow