Lucky Strikes!

7/8/2001

“Shhhh,” said Grandfather.

“But, Grandfather, you said you would read me another story,” she said, almost in tears. It was hard to look into those hazel-colored eyes when water was beginning to form. A sniffle and a slight pout to her tiny lip was the deal clincher. Another story was on the way.

“Okay, Lindsay, but this is the last story for tonight.” He tried to say with some authority. But, Kim, his wife, was going to be upset; he’d been pushing himself all day long. He was tired, and he struggled to shake off his weariness for Lindsay's sake. “How’s this one, about the big bad wolf?” holding up a ragged, old book.

Lindsay looked at him with those eyes and said, “You know that I don’t like that one, Grandfather. Don’t you have any new stories for me?” He was now on the ropes. He’d read all of her favorite stories already.

Looking down on his granddaughter all tucked into her little Lindsay-bed, he wondered what he was going to do for the final go-to-bed story. When out of the blue, the idea of creating a story for her crept into his head. Now he must convince her that it was a good idea.

“Lindsay, we’ve read all of your favorite stories, and all we have left are the yucky stories that you don’t like. But I will tell a wonderful story about your grandmother and me. I know you will like this story because it is about a cute little mouse named Lucky.”

Lindsay looked at her grandfather with suspicious eyes. “That’s okay, Grandfather, but tomorrow we better get some new stories.” Grandfather almost burst out in laughter as the littlest boss spoke. ‘God, she was just like her grandmother.’

Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he gathered his resolve. He said, “Yes, we’ll get some new stories.” He fumbled for a beginning. “Once upon a time,” he started.

She looked at him quizzically, “ Why do they all start with once upon a time?”

At a loss for words, he nodded at her and then said, “Well, that’s a good question. I guess that storytellers never know how to start a good story.”

“Oh, are you a storyteller?”

“A poor one, honey,” was his only reply. He knew this was going to be a long night.

“Anyway, it was a long time ago when I was younger. Kim and I went on a long trip far away from Rhode Island.”

Before he could get another word out she questioned, “Who’s Kim?”

With a chuckle he said, “Well, Lindsay, you know who Kim is; she is your grandmother. Your grandmother and I owned a little house in the woods in Maine. Our house in Maine was about four hundred miles from Rhode Island, a long, long way away. Our little place was magical, nestled in the middle of the woods, with no neighbors, except for the birds and bunny rabbits. We had to drive down a long dirt road to get to our cabin. Many times, we would see rabbits, squirrels, deer, and even moose as we drove down this dirt road.”

She exclaimed, “A moose!”

“Yes, big moose!” He exclaimed. He lowered his voice to a whisper; he should be putting her to sleep, not getting her worked up with fantastical stories. Kim would be angry with him anyway. He needed to take better care of himself and she had assigned herself as his mother and nurse. “Yes, Lindsay, big moose. Some of these moose were seven feet tall and weighed thousands of pounds. They can be as big as a truck.”

Barely breathing, Lindsay whispered, “Grandfather, were you scared?” There was no greater pleasure in the world than watching a four-year-old engrossed. There was a simplistic beauty in her innocence and wonder. She would not sleep until this story was finished. He ran his tired fingers through his thinning hair. The thinning got worse with each treatment. He would be bald soon. He was scared now.

“No, your grandmother and I loved the animals in our woods. Many animals came to greet us every time we came to visit. Nearing house in the woods, our friends the bunny rabbits would come to visit. They loved your grandmother very much. She was always feeding them slices of bread. Did you know that bunnies loved bread?”

Her big eyes shined with amazement, as she shook her head with an overstated, No!

"Did the rabbits live in your house?” she asked.

“No, dear. They lived in their own little rabbit homes in the woods, but they did like to visit. On this special day, our two bunny friends, Peter and Paula, were there to greet us as we pulled up to our house. Peter’s long ears twitched as he listened to us unload our truck, and Paula’s nose wiggled in anticipation as she tried to smell if we had brought her any bread.

Our house was very small. From the outside, our house looked like a very small, gray barn with windows, sitting in the middle of the woods. Not far from our cabin was a river that provided soft music to put us to sleep at night. When we opened the door, we entered our shelter from the weather but there was not much more. We had no electricity and no water, but our house had all the comforts of home”

“Did you have a TV?” She asked.

“No. You need electricity for TV to work.” He replied.

“What did you do with no TV?” She asked, puzzled.

"Your grandmother and I spent a lot of time talking. We spent lots of time reading stories. And we played games. Ssshhh” he said, leaning closer to her, “and never play backgammon with your grandmother, because she cheats!” he winked bringing his right index finger to his mouth to signal their shared secret. She laughed while bringing both hands to her face. She was getting sleepier. Watching her, he longed to be young again.

“Our house did not have much. Inside there was a wood stove that burned wood to keep us warm, and a stove to cook our meals. We had a table to eat our meals at and an old battered couch.”

“Grandfather, where did you sleep?”

“We slept in a very special place; we slept in the roof. We climbed up a ladder into the roof. In the roof we had a small bedroom. This room was very tiny. I could not stand up without banging my head on the ceiling. There was a window in our bedroom and from this window we could hear the birds sing their morning songs and the gentle rush of the river flowing past us. As we slept, we were surrounded by the forest and all of its' creatures.”

“Where would I sleep, Grandfather?” She wondered aloud.

“We have a special Lindsay-bedroom right next to our, and from that window you could watch the bunny rabbits play. But, this trip was different; it was very special. After we unloaded the truck of all our clothes and our food, a curious movement caught my eye.”

“Was it a bunny? Grandfather, was it a bunny?” She squealed as she pulled her blanket to her lips.

“No, not a bunny, but something even more special!" He replied.

“It must be the mouse!” She said in her most adult voice she could muster.

“Not exactly, Lindsay. It was something even more precious. It was a baby mouse, maybe a couple of days old. It was lying right next to the front wheel of my truck. I missed running over the baby mouse by mere inches.”

“A baby mouse?” Lindsay shrieked with joy.

“This mouse was very tiny, maybe as big as my thumb!” he said showing his thumb to her. She reached out and touched her grandfather's thumb in awe. “This baby mouse was struggling to move from its side to its feet, but it did not have the strength. I watched the mouse for several minutes; it was so young that its eyes were not opened yet. I ran into the house to get your grandmother. When your grandmother took one look at the baby mouse, she fell in love and began to cry.”

“Why was grandmother crying?” She asked.

“She was afraid for the baby mouse because she knew that the mouse would die if left alone. But we were afraid to touch it, because some animals will not help their babies if people have touched them. So your grandmother and I decided to let the mouse stay outside for a while, to see if the baby’s mother would rescue it.”

“Did the mommy come?” She asked almost in tears.

“Your grandmother and I waited for many hours for the mother to show, but she never did. Every five minutes your grandmother would get up and stare out the window, waiting for the mother to rescue it. We waited and waited. The weather was getting bad; it got colder, and the wind was blowing hard. Every time the baby tried to get to its feet, along came the wind and knocked it to the ground. As the weather grew worse and the daylight started to fail, the mouse lay on a cold stone slowly dying.”

“No!” pleaded Lindsay.

“Finally, your grandmother threw on her coat and ran to the baby. She picked up the poor, smaller-than-a-thumb mouse; it struggled to find shelter in your her hands. In the center of her palms lay the little mouse, barely breathing and occasionally issuing a high-pitched squeak. Your grandmother looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, ‘We have to save Lucky’. She said, ‘He was lucky to be alive.’”

He thought back remembering how hard that year had been for Kim. She had spent the entire Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday season caring for her dying father. Every day began with new hope that he would survive but each night left her in tears. His death in January was her failure. She could not beat death. Lucky had become her second chance. She wanted to prove, once and for all, that her father's death was not her fault.

“We placed Lucky into a small plastic container with one of your grandmother’s socks for warmth and padding. We weren't prepared to care for a baby mouse. We got into the truck and drove to Farmington, the next big town. We needed supplies to save him. Farmington was less than hour from our camp. For the entire trip, your grandmother hovered over him with his eye still closed and she spoke soft, gentle words to him. We both knew that his time was running out.”

“Grandfather, Lucky didn’t die, did he? “ She cried. She was just like her Grandmother. How could he tell her that Lucky died and was buried behind the camp with pile of stones as his silent marker? Kim had failed to beat death; she failed to keep Lucky alive. He decided that he couldn’t tell her.

“No, little one, Lucky did not die” he reassured her. “ While your Grandmother spoke life into his weak body, she stroked his little head with her index finger. I returned for the store with some baby formula and an eyedropper, which we used to feed him. Without a mommy mouse to nurse him, we had to feed him from an eye dropper.”

“I remember when mommy had to nurse Samuel, and as he got bigger she gave him a baby’s bottle,” Lindsay said.

“That is right!” he said. “The eyedropper was like a baby’s bottle, but a lot smaller. Your grandmother held him in the palm of her left hand, while she used her right hand to feed him. On the drive, your grandmother attempted to feed him. It was hard to tell how much food he actually ate and how much was spilt on his face. But your grandmother would not give up; she was going to do everything in her power to keep him alive. With his eye still closed and his ears folded back to his head, he had become her little child. And she was going to save his life.”

“By the time we got home, your grandmother had fed Lucky enough food for him to sleep. He’d curled up into a tight little ball in grandmother’s hand. His cute little paws with their miniature fingernails were holding his slender tail, which was longer than his entire little body. We watched Lucky for hours marveling at his small features, his white nose, and white whiskers and looked for signs of life.”

"Then it was time to go to bed, because big people need their sleep, too,” he sighed “Your grandmother put Lucky into his plastic house." He could still remember the image of the lifeless mouse in Kim’s blue eyes. She was still battling for his life. She was not going down without a fight. That night she cried for Lucky and for her father.

He continued, “When the next day rose, your grandmother jumped out of bed and went to his container. She stood there waiting for his next breath, counting softly to herself: one one thousand, two one thousands, three one thousands. Finally, she saw the gentle motions of his chest as he took one breath after another. Your grandmother cried tears of joy, for she knew that he survived the hardest part.”

“Yay! Lucky lived!” exclaimed Lindsay.

“Sssshhh! We have to keep the noise down,” he said lowering his voice. "Grandmother is nice to little mouses but she is very mean to Grandfathers who keep little girls awake by telling them stories.”

“But, but, but what happened to Lucky?” she pleaded.

“He was touch and go for several days, but your grandmother nursed him back to perfect mouse health. She held him in one hand while he was on his back, and she held the eyedropper in the other hand. After a few moments, he would start nursing from the eyedropper. Both eyes still closed, he held on to the eyedropper for dear life with both tiny mouse paws. Once the nursing started, he would use both paws to force the milk from the eyedropper.

As Lucky grew stronger, he went with us everywhere. He would ride in the pocket of your Grandmother’s shirt. Every once in a while, he poked snow-white nose and white whiskers out of her pocket to smell the air around them. After a week, his eyes opened and looked at your Grandmother for the first time. His dark black pools for eyes looked deeply into your Grandmother’s soul. If your Grandmother did not love this furry creature before, she was in love with him now. Soon his ears stood from the top of his head, and twitched to every sound around him.”

Unfortunately, Lucky was not so lucky. He died on the fourth day. He did grow stronger with each passing day, but on the third night he became lethargic and would not eat. Kim saw the signs before I did. She once saw them in her dying father. She knew Lucky would not make it through the next day.

“You’re not telling that story again, are you Timothy?” Grandmother said in her most stern, motherly voice she could muster. “I thought you fell asleep while reading to Lindsay.”

"No, I am just finishing a story", he stammered.

“Grandmother, I want a mouse like Lucky!” Cried Lindsay. Leveling her stern gaze upon her granddaughter, she said, “Young lady, aren’t you supposed to be asleep by now?” Grandmother bit her lower lip as she held back the tears. “Now it is time for young girls and foolish old men to be in bed, sleeping.”

“But, Grandmother, what happened to Lucky?” Lindsay begged.

Looking at him, grandmother said, “Go ahead, finish your story, old man.” She leaned against the doorframe as she listened to him finish his yarn about Lucky. But he could tell that she was not listening to his words.

“You see, Lucky was a wild mouse, and he needed to be back in the wild. On the day we released him, your Grandmother was very sad. She knew that Lucky must be set free but she did not want to let go. As we placed him on the ground, he ran off a few feet from your Grandmother and smelled the air around. Tears streamed down your Grandmothers face. After a few minutes of crying and whispered goodbyes, your grandmother and I retired to our camp. Through the window, we watched him playing in the yard. Then he disappeared and we did not see him for the rest of our stay.”

“What happened to Lucky?” Lindsay inquired with child like innocence.

“Oh, get on with it, Timothy,” Grandmother said. “Your Grandfather has such a flair for the dramatic!”

He began to finish what he started, but it was not the flair for the dramatic that stopped him. It was hard to speak when his heart was in his throat. He knew that no matter how much Kim loved him, or how much she took care of him, or how many stories he told, he would die. The cancer was eating away at his insides. The doctors told him to expect no more than a year. He wanted to believe in Lucky but his luck was running out. He could, now and forever, change the mouse's luck. “As I said, we did not see Lucky again on that trip. But on our next trip to our camp he greeted us at the door, sitting on his hind legs playing with his long mouse-tail with his front paws, waiting for our arrival. Our mouse had grown up, but still he was not much bigger than my thumb. For the rest of the year, Lucky would stop and visit on our trips to our little house in the woods." Grandmother looked at him with those eyes that said thank you, you liar. We never made another trip back to Maine after Lucky died. We never spoke about it but we both knew it was more than a mouse that haunted her.

“Is that the end of the story, Grandfather?” Lindsay asked through a small yawn. She raised her arm and brought the back of her hand to her mouth as she closed her eyes, falling to sleep.

“For now, little one, for now.” Whispered Grandfather. He climbed from his chair and rose to meet his wife. As they embraced, tears streamed down her face, and she whispered, “Let’s go to Rangeley next weekend.” His gentle kiss on her cheek was his silent confirmation.

A Hike in the Woods

10/12/2001

Snap! Crunch! Oomph! God dammit! I heard as I lay close the earth. Hugging it like a newborn baby clings to its mother. I can’t breathe, the early morning frigid air will give me away. Stay low, stay quite, stay smart, and I will stay alive, I tell myself.

My ears strain to hear every twig that is broken and every leaf that is overturned. I listen for what seems to be an eternity – I hear only an eerie silence. The stillness of two unseen warriors waiting; echoes through the chambers of my mind. I know that one of us may not survive the day.

I’ve got to breathe. My lungs hunger for life as they burn to expel the used breath. Air escapes from my nostrils in moist tendrils of steam. On any other day this would be beautiful, but today it could be my death. These tendrils rise as large signs, saying, “Here he is!” As the mist of escaped air rises and begins to dissipate, I pray that I will see home tonight. Please don’t let him see it.

Wait! Was that him or an acorn falling for a tree? An acorn – I think. Is he still there? I detect a faint trace of his sweat-ridden body on the morning breeze. I look for his breath in the cool October morning air. He must have moved on. Rising slowly from my hidden shelter, I scan my surroundings. These woods, once a place of peace and tranquility, are a battlefield with two savages struggling for supremacy. If I can retrace my steps and make it over the ridge, I should elude my nemesis.

Crack-Boom! Echoes the rifle, as the bullet splinters the tree beside me. My heart skips a beat and then momentarily stops. With no weapons, I have no choice but to run, weaving through the densely populated forest. No trees offer protection. The feral beast is behind me, chasing me. Occasionally, he fires a shot. So far, I have been lucky.

Fear makes me run like the wind, I have outdistanced him for the moment. I must move on. Cresting the ridge, I see him on all fours like an animal. If I can make it down the hill and to the north, I should lose him. It is a high-stakes game between two skillful players. Crack-Boom! Repeats the rifle, reminding me that he is still there and still coming. Charging and stumbling down the knoll, I veer to the north. I need to make the dense patch of pines before he reaches the top of knoll. I must push on, heart racing and muscles aching.

Pouring myself through the pines trees, I have a moment to catch my breath. Why is this happening again? How did I get here? I must continue. My mind drifts back to when Ernie and I started our hike. Where was Ernie? What started as a hike from Eustis to Rangeley has turned into this fight for survival. Ernie and I had been on the southwest trail for twenty minutes when the shooting had started. The crack-boom of rifles cut through the morning air. At first we were frozen, the realization of fear penetrated our minds. As Ernie and I searched for the source of gunfire, as small yellow birch tree shattered in time with around shot from the rifle. Our natural instinct for flight was triggered and without logic or reason Ernie and I ran. Ernie immediately headed north on the southwest trail and began racing for home. I found shelter behind a fallen pine tree. I witnessed two of the three men pursuing Ernie and then decided to take my chances and head southwest. I could lose this assailant in the deep woods of Rangeley, if I could reach them. I found myself wondering if Ernie made it home. Hell, would I make it home?

As the noonday sun peaked, I need water. I can’t go on without water! Slightly changing directions, I head northeast. If memory serves me well, there should be a clearing on the other side of these pine trees. That opening will allow me to make Sandy River in good time. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! I count in my head, four shots far to the north. There was enough time! I can easily make Sandy River. I can use the river to hide my tracks and quench my thirst. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! …. BOOM! Eight shots. I hope that Ernie made it. Behind the up-ended roots of a pine tree, I search the woods for the savage that is chasing me. Where is he? Where the hell is he?

Urging my sweat drenched and tired body forward, I reach the clearing, coated with the fallen leaves of the white birch trees. These trees offer no defense. I lie motionless at the clearing’s edge, wondering if he can see me. I know he is out there, but where? Damn falling leaves! Casting a sound of muffled footsteps, the falling leaves create the illusion of being stalked through the woods. The coast appears clear. Surging forward at a dead run, hoping and praying that I make it. Three hundred yards left. Legs turning, heart pounding and lungs burning; another hundred yards to go. Fifty yards. Twenty-five yards. Fifty feet. I made it!

Turning to see my success, I freeze in terror. He is at the edge of the clearing, panting for breath. He raises his gun. We are looking eye to eye through the scope of his rifle. “Please don’t pull that trigger”, I want to cry. Slowly, I back away from him. I plummet down the hill towards the river. I am not going to shake him. He is crafty, he is ferocious, and he is still coming. If I can it make to sunset, I will be free. The darkness will protect me. The sun is falling and smiling at the wildness of these woods.

I reach Sandy River and plunge in without a thought to the icy temperature of the early fall waters. Up to my chest in water, I bend down to quench my thirst. How I long for home! The cold-water flows over my tongue, down my throat, and into my stomach, replenishing my empty determination. Using the river, I wade upstream, still heading northeast. The river hides the tracks that someone of my size would make. “Take that, you animal!” I think, while looking for a place to head back into the woods. Spying a large outcropping of rock, I race forward like a crazed lunatic. Nimbly, I climb out of the frosty waters, thanks to the stone staircase. As I enter the darkening woods, I hear a loud splash as my pursuer falls into the water of Sandy River. Growling and grunting like a wild bear in captivity, he continues after me. Holding his rifle above his head with both hands, he tries to move against the strong current of the river.

Time is running out, and the end is near. He makes slow progress through the dense, chest high fir trees, the savage’s gun accidentally fires, and I am off like a lightening bolt racing the earth. His growling fades as I put more distance between us. I have to make it home. It’s getting dark, and Ernie and I should have been home a few hours ago. The sun has almost finished its goodbyes to the day. I can almost taste freedom. This beast can’t follow me into these in woods under the shadow of the night.

I break free of the last stands of fir trees and enter a lightly wooded knoll. Once past this hill, there is a clearing where many people park their trucks when hiking these woods. At a frantic pace - I want to be out of these woods - I head for the crest. Darkness creeps around me like a hunter waiting for a clear shot. At the summit, I stop dead in my tracks. There is Ernie lying in the back of a dirty red truck. His large body fills the truck to its capacity. His once majestic head and antlers lie motionless on the tailgate of the truck. Eyes wide open and purple tongue protruding from his opened mouth. His dewlap lies soaking in his own blood. Two overweight hunters swigging Miller Lite take pictures of the dead moose and of each other. Basking in their glory, the third hunter finally joins his pack of wolves. Shouts of congratulations and celebration echo through the night woods as my hunter puts his gun next to the truck and open a can of beer. He tilts his head to the night sky as he drinks a gratuitous swallow.

My friend’s dead eyes stare at me, screaming at me to run! Ernie and I will never walk these woods again. We will never rut for females under there protective covers. I can’t run. I am frozen with loss. All I can do is lift my head to the rising moon and call out Ernie’s name. MMMMMOOOOOOoooooooHHHHHooooo!

Docked to Hunter’s Cove

10/10/2001


Neil walked through the parking lot, and he headed down the cement walkway that led to the dock at the end of the Marina. He had been coming here daily for almost twenty years. He came here each day waiting for his parent’s lobster boat to arrive with their daily catch. He would watch them work unloading their captured treasure. When he was older, he would help them when they returned from the sea with their holds full. He was enthralled with the marina but at the same time he feared the ocean. Neil still came to this dock even though his parents failed to return two years ago. No one knew exactly what happened but one day his parents just did not return. Neil waited until well after the sun went down. Staring out across the harbor, he searched and waited for his parents. The Coast Guard search missions began the next day but after weeks of searching, the Coast Guard pronounced that they were missing at sea. Every day he returned to these docks waiting and watching for their return but they never did. He built his life around this routine. He liked routine.

He was born in Hunter’s Cove during the year of Hurricane Jason, and he had lived there his whole life. He never once left the confines of this small, coastal town of Maine. During his birth, he was spewed forth into Hunter’s Cove like flotsam and jetsam that accumulates beneath the docks. The storm raged outside while his mother delivered him into the world in a small bedroom on Cottage Street. The stormy days of his life passed at Hunter’s Cove, as his family struggled to make ends meet. He was born here; he feared he would die here, but he was afraid to leave. Neil was tethered to Hunter’s Cove, just as his parents would strap down precious items during the frequent hurricanes and storms. Outside of Hunter’s Cove there would be no tether and no thin protection from the storm. After they had disappeared, the storm that surrounded him receded. He was in the eye of the storm now. Neil was in the exact center of his hurricane. Ever since his parents were lost, he waited; he waited for the eeriness of his life to be destroyed by the storm’s return.

While he waited, he loved Hunter’s Cove for its warmth and protection. It was a place that everyone loved. Each summer tourists from Boston trekked here like the migrating Canadian geese. They wanted to be here and when they left they wanted to remember Hunter’s Cove. They purchased their mementos, the artifacts of a never-aging town. And during the long New England winters they would see their Hunter Cove trinkets and remember; they would then plan their return. Most of all, he loved this marina with its docks jutting into the bay like a small child’s hand playing in the water. He understood why the people flocked here but its charm was lost long ago. After all these years, he was vacant here. He wandered aimlessly through the town ending at this marina for his daily exodus. He had forgotten how to experience. He lost his ability to notice the details. He went through the perfunctory motion. He was here every day, drawn by its siren call. He stumbled through the routine; he hated Hunter’s Cove.

Comfortable, secure, and safe, he sat at the end of the dock. His feet dangled into the rising water, and he thought of nothing. His head was filled with complete emptiness. When a thought dropped into his head, it fell like a stone plummeting into a deep well. He waited and waited for it to hit the water filled bottom. Absently reaching for his lunch bag, he removed the book he was reading and a sandwich. Automatically, he unwrapped the sandwich without a thought. He placed the plastic baggie underneath his book and returned to nothingness.

Soon, it would be high tide and fishing boats would return. He watched the lobster boats come and unload their daily catch. It reminded him of his parents and there was something cathartic about watching them work. He looked down at his half eaten sandwich as he wondered whose boat would be the first to arrive. Peeling a piece of crust from his sandwich, he threw it into the murky waters. A family of ducks sensed the vibration of the bread striking the water and maneuvered towards the discarded morsel. The smallest duck attacked the water logged crust. Neil continued feeding these ducks, just as he had been all summer, always the same way everyday. He came here to find the connection that eluded him. His umbilical cord had been severed with the loss of his parents, and now he was trapped within its harbors. He no longer belonged here but he could not escape. He was not like these ducks, which were at home beneath this pier.

A sailboat entered the cove and glided towards the dock. Fascinated, Neil watched. Not many boats –other than fishing and lobster boats- drifted in and out of the marina. Behind the wheel of the sailboat stood a man slightly older than Neil. His tan body reflected the waning light of the day. His sun bleached hair hung to his shoulders. The pilot’s strong hands gripped the steering wheel as he guided his vessel towards the dock. As the ship drew near, Neil was amazed at the symphony of muscles that worked in concert to command this boat towards him. His eyes locked on the approaching vessel, and Neil felt the vibration of confidence echoing from its captain. Each ripple of assurance resonated through him like a hammer on a drum, reminding him of what he was missing. His vacuous longing skipped across the water, as a stone propelled from a child’s hand.

As the ship slowed its approach, Neil noticed a woman. She was tall - much taller than Neil. He had seen women like this before, but never in person - he usually saw them in the pages of some catalog that were still sent to his mother. She jumped from those catalogs into his solitude. In her white Capri pants that exposed her tight, shapely calves and her pink camisole shirt, which clung to her hard body, she prepared the ropes that would connect their world to his. Neil wanted these people. He wanted to be them. He wanted to be anything.

As the captain steered the boat towards the dock, the young woman held the coiled rope in one hand while running the other hand through her long brown hair. Directed through some hidden command, Neil rose. With a friendly smile, she tossed him the ship’s line. Neil caught the cord in mid air, and he linked the travelers to his pier.
Neil had helped boats dock before, but none had captured him so completely. As he ensured that the boat bumpers were secure, he felt the storm returning. The calmness that the eye of the storm brought started to vanish. His perfect world, perfect routine was disrupted. He was tossed around in a sea of emotion. Fearing he was lost, he knew he would never be the same. He gazed at the molded and worn planks of his pier and bit his lower lip. He was embarrassed to look directly at this couple. He felt his incompleteness.

The captain and his mate began discussing their next destination. He overheard them discussing going to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, or maybe Boston. He wondered how far away those destinations were. Having never left Hunter’s Cove, he had no idea of distance. His world consisted of an eight-mile coastal town in Maine. He loved this place but what kept him here, day after day, year after year?

The captain and his beautiful first mate left the ship and stood next to him as he began gathering the remains of his lunch. Always the same lunch, a ham sandwich with French’s yellow mustard on both pieces of dark wheat bread. The ham folded in half and placed squarely between the two slices of bread. He always drank Coke to choke down the semi-chewed mouthful of lunch. Like a vicious circle, that he was terrified to break or not to break.

He bent down to retrieve the crinkled lunch bag, as the captain’s worldly eyes pierced him. The captain said, “Thanks, mate, good book!” Neil stared back blankly at him. “I remember reading that book when I was college”, he said to no one in particular. Neil looked down at his worn copy of “On the Road” and the shadow of the captain blackened out the cover photographs of places on the road. Neil remarked that he enjoyed the book as well. He stood on the dock with his lunch bag and watched the couple venture to shore. As they disappeared from his view, he turned his attention back to the sailboat. Strong and sleek, this vessel told many tales to the unsuspected listener. He was caught in the enchanter’s tale like a lobster in a fisherman’s trap – like him here in Hunter’s Cove.

He dropped the bag to the dock, spilling its half-eaten sandwich and empty can of Coke to the weathered boards. The wind gently blew the emptied lunch bag towards the shore. Neil slowly followed the bag leaving his book with its pages fluttering in the breeze at the end of the dock. Removing his olive green t-shirt and dropping it to the pier, he continued on. In the parking lot of the marina, he kicked off his worn boat shoes, and he walked barefoot towards West Shore Drive. Heading east he abandoned his faded blue jeans in the middle of the road. Clad only in his underwear, he walked with purpose to the edge of town. The sign for Addison loomed in front of him; he had never been this far before. Standing taller at the town line, he hesitated, but the enchanter’s song echoed in his head, calling to him. “Come to me,” she sang, begging him to take one more step. He took off his underwear and placed them on the adjacent sign - Welcome to Hunter’s Cove. Neil, naked and freed, continued east, never looking back and never to be seen again.