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Authors: Alexis M. Smith
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There was a picture of Jacob Swenson on the foundation’s website, a polished and combed man in a tweed suit, younger than I had imagined, in stylish tortoiseshell glasses. He looked like the template for a male humanities professor. But as for personal information, I found little. Two articles in the Island Times mentioned him in relation to cultural events on Orwell. He had been on the town council for a time and was referred to as “the dapper councilman” and an “inveterate bachelor.” (Code for gay in the passive-aggressively discreet vernacular of small towns.)
When I tried to research Marrow Colony, I found only passing references on the blogs of Northwest environmentalists and Evergreen students. A few cruising guides mentioned that the Colony welcomed day visitors on their shores but discouraged campers. Their small harbor couldn’t accommodate anchorage for many boats. Their lavender goat cheese was a favorite at the Orwell farmers’ market.
I called the number for the Colony that Katie had written at the bottom of her letter and was sent directly to voicemail. The soft voice of a young woman with a Canadian accent told me that Marrow Colony messages were checked once a day, but that calls might not be returned immediately, due to the intermittent reception.
“This message is for Kathryn Paley,” I said. “Please tell her Lucie Bowen is on Orwell, and that I’m coming to see her as soon as I can find a boat.”
That evening I packed my backpack and an overnight bag with clothing for three days. I found after some inquiries in town that Joshua Coombs, an old captain from my dad’s days of working at the refinery, still ferried people to Marrow. I called his number and spoke to his wife, who told me the boat was already going to Marrow in the morning and I needed to be at the marina at 6:30 a.m.
I didn’t hear back from Katie. I barely slept all night, knowing I had to be up early, thinking about seeing her again, half worried that she wouldn’t be there, for some reason, that she had left in the time between her letter to me and my arrival.
Joshua Coombs squinted at me as I handed him my bags. It was just getting light.
“What’d you say your name was?” he asked.
“Bowen,” I said. I knew this was the name that interested him. “Lucie,” I added.
He stowed my bags but said nothing.
I looked up at the tops of the trees on the shore. Just standing on the dock made me queasy. I had forgotten about seasickness. Smaller boats had always set me off, my internal ballast shifting with the waves. I had thrown up on every boat my parents ever took me on as a kid. It was a family joke to hand me a sick bag with my life jacket and see how long I lasted before my breakfast came back up.
I had been so absorbed in my thoughts about seeing Katie again, I hadn’t thought about taking a pill for the boat. Katie’s visits to see me in Seattle during summer vacation had always brought on anxiety—an acid ache in my guts—my mind and body absorbed in the anticipation: What would she look like? How would she have changed? Would I still feel the same about her? It was the same every time; I was never sure if I wanted that heart-punched love to have vanished, or if I could stand to carry it around for another year. Every time I saw her again after some time, it was the same, though: she lit me up inside. It was a feeling I wouldn’t know again until I met Matt, though that fire had burned out within two years. What could ten years have done to my feelings for Katie?
Coombs gave me a hand, and I stepped up into the boat, a twin-hull catamaran, smaller than the older monohull he had captained to ferry the ArPac workers but decent: big enough for eight to ten, with a galley, some bunks, and a head below decks. I wondered whether the seasickness would still be a problem—casting my mind back over the years, looking for times when I had been on anything smaller than a commuter ferry since I was
When I tried to research Marrow Colony, I found only passing references on the blogs of Northwest environmentalists and Evergreen students. A few cruising guides mentioned that the Colony welcomed day visitors on their shores but discouraged campers. Their small harbor couldn’t accommodate anchorage for many boats. Their lavender goat cheese was a favorite at the Orwell farmers’ market.
I called the number for the Colony that Katie had written at the bottom of her letter and was sent directly to voicemail. The soft voice of a young woman with a Canadian accent told me that Marrow Colony messages were checked once a day, but that calls might not be returned immediately, due to the intermittent reception.
“This message is for Kathryn Paley,” I said. “Please tell her Lucie Bowen is on Orwell, and that I’m coming to see her as soon as I can find a boat.”
That evening I packed my backpack and an overnight bag with clothing for three days. I found after some inquiries in town that Joshua Coombs, an old captain from my dad’s days of working at the refinery, still ferried people to Marrow. I called his number and spoke to his wife, who told me the boat was already going to Marrow in the morning and I needed to be at the marina at 6:30 a.m.
I didn’t hear back from Katie. I barely slept all night, knowing I had to be up early, thinking about seeing her again, half worried that she wouldn’t be there, for some reason, that she had left in the time between her letter to me and my arrival.
Joshua Coombs squinted at me as I handed him my bags. It was just getting light.
“What’d you say your name was?” he asked.
“Bowen,” I said. I knew this was the name that interested him. “Lucie,” I added.
He stowed my bags but said nothing.
I looked up at the tops of the trees on the shore. Just standing on the dock made me queasy. I had forgotten about seasickness. Smaller boats had always set me off, my internal ballast shifting with the waves. I had thrown up on every boat my parents ever took me on as a kid. It was a family joke to hand me a sick bag with my life jacket and see how long I lasted before my breakfast came back up.
I had been so absorbed in my thoughts about seeing Katie again, I hadn’t thought about taking a pill for the boat. Katie’s visits to see me in Seattle during summer vacation had always brought on anxiety—an acid ache in my guts—my mind and body absorbed in the anticipation: What would she look like? How would she have changed? Would I still feel the same about her? It was the same every time; I was never sure if I wanted that heart-punched love to have vanished, or if I could stand to carry it around for another year. Every time I saw her again after some time, it was the same, though: she lit me up inside. It was a feeling I wouldn’t know again until I met Matt, though that fire had burned out within two years. What could ten years have done to my feelings for Katie?
Coombs gave me a hand, and I stepped up into the boat, a twin-hull catamaran, smaller than the older monohull he had captained to ferry the ArPac workers but decent: big enough for eight to ten, with a galley, some bunks, and a head below decks. I wondered whether the seasickness would still be a problem—casting my mind back over the years, looking for times when I had been on anything smaller than a commuter ferry since I was
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