clink root beers.
I stare down at the thick glass lip as I finger the striped bendy straw (also a favorite). I can see the sunset colors in the glass—pink, orange, yellow—and for a moment, I feel fizzy and content, with nothing else on my mind.
I take a long sip and look over at my parents. They’re lifting mugs of foamy beer in a toast while they smile at James’s dad. Maybe this’ll be a good night.
At dinner, Bill tells stories about his at-sea adventures, and he and Dad laugh loudly together as they try to outdo each other with nautical talk. I mostly have no idea what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter, because their energy is contagious. Mom intervenes to correct Dad on details sometimes, but Bill just tells her that he would never want the truth to get in the way of a good boating story.
That makes Olive giggle.
The inside of the Townsends’ boat is warm and cozy—all dark wood with lots of brass accents. I notice a red net hanging from the galley ceiling that’s full of bananas—James wasn’t kidding. None of them are browning, though. They must be today’s supply. And I don’t smell a hint of old-banana in here, which is incredible if you think about it.
There’s a shelf full of navigation books above the portholes, and next to the ladder stairs up to the cockpit, I see a family portrait like the ones you get taken in a department-store photo studio. There are definitely three people in it, and the kid in the picture, who looks about five or six, has flaming red hair. I can’t make out much more from my seat on the other side of the cabin, but I resolve to get a closer peek at it later.
I have another root beer when James offers, and I practically inhale the spaghetti marinara that Bill made. Olive does too. I think we’re a little tired of Mom’s canned wonder-meals, and the marinara is totally delicious—thick and oniony. I can see crushed tomato bits in the sink, so I know Bill from-scratched the sauce.
“I made the garlic bread!” says James when Bill gets compliments from all of us on the meal.
“You buttered the garlic bread,” says his dad, knocking his elbow with affection.
The two of them are so at ease together, such a team. I look over at Olive watching them, and I know she’s still wondering about James’s mom, just like I am.
I have to pee, but I hate using other people’s heads. You can hear the pee hitting the sides of the toilet—always—and half the time the flusher is too weak and toilet paper bubbles back up. Don’t even get me started on the issues of having to go number two. So I hold it.
When James collects the dishes at the end of the meal, there’s not a single noodle left on my plate.
“I had no idea I was so hungry,” I say. “I’m stuffed!”
James laughs. “Don’t worry. We can stretch out and do a dock walk while Dad keeps your parents captive here with more authentic tales from the sea.”
“Hey,” says Bill, “the Williamses are holding their own in the sailing stories department.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time my father took us up to the Cape and we ran into some Kennedy cousins in a rowboat?” asks Mom.
I can feel Olive roll her eyes. This one we’ve heard over a hundred times.
“Is that our exit cue?” asks James.
“Yes!” huffs Olive.
The three of us finish clearing the table. Bill doesn’t get up, and I wonder if James does this every night, if one of his jobs as first mate is to clean. I’m guessing yes. I’ll have to mention that to Olive.
“Going for a walk,” says James as we head above deck. He grabs a tote bag from the cockpit and slings it over his arm.
Bill nods and my parents don’t even look our way—they’re caught up in the stories of the night.
Outside it’s dark and the air is mercifully cooler than earlier in the day—it feels like it’s in the low seventies. We gently step off the boat and start to walk down the dock.
“Man, my dad can just talk and talk,” says
I stare down at the thick glass lip as I finger the striped bendy straw (also a favorite). I can see the sunset colors in the glass—pink, orange, yellow—and for a moment, I feel fizzy and content, with nothing else on my mind.
I take a long sip and look over at my parents. They’re lifting mugs of foamy beer in a toast while they smile at James’s dad. Maybe this’ll be a good night.
At dinner, Bill tells stories about his at-sea adventures, and he and Dad laugh loudly together as they try to outdo each other with nautical talk. I mostly have no idea what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter, because their energy is contagious. Mom intervenes to correct Dad on details sometimes, but Bill just tells her that he would never want the truth to get in the way of a good boating story.
That makes Olive giggle.
The inside of the Townsends’ boat is warm and cozy—all dark wood with lots of brass accents. I notice a red net hanging from the galley ceiling that’s full of bananas—James wasn’t kidding. None of them are browning, though. They must be today’s supply. And I don’t smell a hint of old-banana in here, which is incredible if you think about it.
There’s a shelf full of navigation books above the portholes, and next to the ladder stairs up to the cockpit, I see a family portrait like the ones you get taken in a department-store photo studio. There are definitely three people in it, and the kid in the picture, who looks about five or six, has flaming red hair. I can’t make out much more from my seat on the other side of the cabin, but I resolve to get a closer peek at it later.
I have another root beer when James offers, and I practically inhale the spaghetti marinara that Bill made. Olive does too. I think we’re a little tired of Mom’s canned wonder-meals, and the marinara is totally delicious—thick and oniony. I can see crushed tomato bits in the sink, so I know Bill from-scratched the sauce.
“I made the garlic bread!” says James when Bill gets compliments from all of us on the meal.
“You buttered the garlic bread,” says his dad, knocking his elbow with affection.
The two of them are so at ease together, such a team. I look over at Olive watching them, and I know she’s still wondering about James’s mom, just like I am.
I have to pee, but I hate using other people’s heads. You can hear the pee hitting the sides of the toilet—always—and half the time the flusher is too weak and toilet paper bubbles back up. Don’t even get me started on the issues of having to go number two. So I hold it.
When James collects the dishes at the end of the meal, there’s not a single noodle left on my plate.
“I had no idea I was so hungry,” I say. “I’m stuffed!”
James laughs. “Don’t worry. We can stretch out and do a dock walk while Dad keeps your parents captive here with more authentic tales from the sea.”
“Hey,” says Bill, “the Williamses are holding their own in the sailing stories department.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time my father took us up to the Cape and we ran into some Kennedy cousins in a rowboat?” asks Mom.
I can feel Olive roll her eyes. This one we’ve heard over a hundred times.
“Is that our exit cue?” asks James.
“Yes!” huffs Olive.
The three of us finish clearing the table. Bill doesn’t get up, and I wonder if James does this every night, if one of his jobs as first mate is to clean. I’m guessing yes. I’ll have to mention that to Olive.
“Going for a walk,” says James as we head above deck. He grabs a tote bag from the cockpit and slings it over his arm.
Bill nods and my parents don’t even look our way—they’re caught up in the stories of the night.
Outside it’s dark and the air is mercifully cooler than earlier in the day—it feels like it’s in the low seventies. We gently step off the boat and start to walk down the dock.
“Man, my dad can just talk and talk,” says
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