Lily and the Octopus(49)
Almost.
Neither Lily nor I can sit idly by hoping he doesn’t return, perhaps this time with reinforcements. There’s only one option that lies ahead for us. I place one hand on Lily’s chest and, startled, she jerks awake. “Shhhhh. Shhhhh. Shhhhh,” I say.
She looks up at me and yawns, her jaw squeaking like a hinge and her legs stretching horizontally for ground that isn’t there. It takes her a moment to notice the stack of weathered oilcloth duffel bags creating a mountainous sculpture in the corner. With the octopus gone, she can once again see.
“What in the world?” Lily asks. I remember again her climbing into my suitcase as a puppy when I would haul it out of the closet to pack for a trip. A pile of bags such as this one must be confusing. Which one should she jump into?
“Those are our supplies.”
“Those are our supplies for what?” She slowly sits upright on the mattress and shakes the sleep out of her head, ears flapping madly like wings.
“For our adventure.” I scratch her on top of her head where the octopus used to sit. My touch is gentle, in case it’s sore. It’s good to feel her soft fur there again. “Remember? I told you. We’re going on an awfully big adventure.”
Lily turns and licks herself in an awkward place before asking, “Yes, but an awfully big adventure where?”
I look her square in the eyes. I want to protect her, at the very least not to startle her. But there’s no benefit in soft-pedaling if she is to be my cocaptain on this voyage. “We’re going on an octopus hunt.”
It’s still dark when Lily drags the last duffel bag down the few steps from the house to the curb with her teeth. I load them carefully into the car. Inside are clothes for me, to protect against the elements (including a cabled sweater I wear during Christmases back east because it makes me look like a fisherman); blankets for Lily, as well as a lifejacket, like Weezie’s, sized just for her; canned goods and kibble; rawhide chews; a few books on sailing and the sea including works by Hemingway, Melville, and several by Patrick O’Brian; fishing nets and a harpoon; a compass; jugs of drinking water; matches; a deck of cards; Lily’s red ball; three bottles of Glenlivet, aged eighteen years; and a harmonica—which I don’t know how to play. The car full, we say goodbye to the house. It’s hard; I didn’t really think about this part in formulating my plan. Neither of us can say with certainty when (or if ) we’ll see our home again.
We drive the thirty or so miles to Long Beach. Despite the early hour the route is surprisingly populated with cars, but not enough to cause a delay. The drive is mostly silent, except for quiet wet sounds as Lily continues to lick herself. I wonder if in the course of this whole ordeal I’ve forgotten to give her her flea medicine. Nothing I can do about it now. On the plus side, there probably aren’t many fleas at sea. The sun is just cracking the skyline when we reach the marina and I pull into the only available spot and stop the car. It sits underneath a sign that says No Overnight Parking and I can only imagine the stack of tickets that will greet us if we ever return.
Through some tough negotiating via telephone over the past two days, I’ve secured us the use of a trawler named Fishful Thinking. She presents herself at the end of the docks just as the morning fog is lifting, and I get my first real glimpse of her. The boat is not fancy and needs a fresh coat of paint, but she’s sturdy, romantic even in her slight weariness, and she has logged time at sea. Fishful Thinking has a forward deckhouse, two masts—main and secondary—an aft working deck, and outriggers on either side that extend beyond the gunwales. Our lease is open-ended.
“Are you Ted?” The man who owns her is salty and gray; he wears a sweater like the one I’ve packed, but his is full of holes. Instead of a pipe, he smokes (or vapes, I guess) an e-cigarette, which surprises me, and I find the whole thing distasteful and inauthentic. I don’t know why his poor lung health would be essential for a successful launch, but somehow in my head it is.
“I am. And this is she?” I ask, tapping my hand on the roof of the deckhouse.
“This be her.” He helps me load our supplies belowdecks as Lily mostly sits back on the wharf and watches. She shifts her feet when the dock rocks underfoot as we carry the heavy bags. I let her sit and enjoy a quiet moment getting used to her surroundings. She will need to gain four sea legs, while I will only need two.
“Sure aren’t packing light,” the man says, his voice full of gravel and booze.
“No, sir. We aim to be prepared.”
“What are you preparing for?”
I think about this. I’ve never been on an octopus hunt before, and since it’s impossible to foresee all the potential dangers ahead, I choose my reply carefully. “For anything.”
“There’s only one of you, and the little one can’t require much.” He nods at Lily.
“We may be gone some time.” The truth.
“Where you headed? Can I get that much out of you?”
I throw down a heavy duffel and it kicks up dust and we both cough. The man inhales deeply on his cigarette and his vapor cloud mixes with the dust before the air settles and I answer, “Out where the octopuses live.”
The man looks startled and nearly drops the bag he’s carrying, but he catches it at the last second and sets it down. I can hear the clink of glass bottles; it must be the bag with the scotch. His face takes on an apprehensive expression and he stands and twists, cracking the bones in his spine, his old sweater hanging loose and tattered off his frame. “The waters neither close to the bottom, nor near to the top, nor within reach of any shore.”