-Terese

Point B always surprises me. It sneaks up. I’m all in my rhythm of driving or staring at the paper chart, trying to make sense of all the lines and numbers and Jon says, “We’re almost there.”  And I look at the chart again and I look at my watch and somehow a whole eight hours have passed, and we are indeed now searching for a specific dot on the map that the kind dockmaster had, after three repetitions over the phone, finally conveyed into my Yankee brain, would be Eleanor’s resting spot for the night. 

“You wouh puup right t the guyass douk.”

“I’m sorry…?”

“Just spin’ bow t sou then we kin guyasserup.”

I’m trying to interpret.  I look at Jon. 

“Ma’am.” Speaking very slowly now because he knows I don’t understand but he can’t figure out if it’s because I am a northerner or if it’s because I am a woman.

“Jess pool.the. boat. right. up. to. the. guyass dock.”

“Will do!”

I turn to Jon, victorious.

“They’re putting us at the gas dock.”

Jon gauges the wind and the current and slides Eleanor perfectly into place at the Wrightsville, North Carolina Dockside Marina and restaurant. We’ve made such good time that there’s plenty left over for a scrub. Not me, Eleanor. She’d not had a bath all winter. 

I filled a bucket with soap and water, found a brush and went to town. It was somehow cathartic, symbolic of shaking off winter, stripping a layer so she could more deeply absorb the sun. I refused offers of help from both Michelle and Jon, happily sliding the suds around Eleanor’s decks, gently dabbing at my precious coats of varnish and coaxing the latest layer of salt back into the sea. We were united again: my elbow grease and her easy sway, both of us brightening at the thought of another summer of scraping, shellacking, chasing sail races and cocktails, her, holding happy guests from bow to stern, me, slinging drinks and snacks. It was good to be headed north.