Flotsam but Not Jetsam

Flotsam, But Not Jetsam

Notes to readers:

All sexually active characters in this story are age 18 or older at story start.

Black

and

White

used in descriptions of characters are capitalized and intended as respectful indications of their race (per the

Chicago Manual of Style

).

This story contains 10,000 words, 2 Chapters, 18 pages.

New Western Collegiate Dictionary:

Flotsam: Any part of a vessel or its cargo lost at sea and which remains afloat.

Jetsam: Any part of a vessel's cargo intentionally cast overboard (usually to lighten the ship in an emergency).

Salvage Law: Maritime law provision under which almost anyone may claim ownership of property salvaged from loss at sea.

***

The weather was

brisk

, I think is how they usually describe it down here along this river channel. It was windy enough to really put those sailboard sailors through their paces. Me? I've lost the desire for adventure that gets you cold, wet, and if you're unlucky, smacked on the head by floating driftwood, part of your own sailboard, or tangled in an abandoned fishing net.

In other words I sail a real boat, one with not only a bottom, but also two sides, a bow and a stern. Along with all these upgrades, I even have a motor—just in case the wind quits or something breaks—and floatation safety gear that's more than a wetsuit. My boat is a San Martine 21 sloop, it's trailerable, I race in regattas occasionally, and with it, I win a race now and then.

For an inexpensive vacation, I often took it camping, and that was my plan for this 3-day, July 4, holiday weekend from work. With my dingy in tow I headed out past the sand spit from where those more adventurous than me take to the water, many indicating a measure of disdain for a guy in their eyes too chicken to take a sailboard out windsurfing. But to each his own and what he makes of it. In a few hours they'd all be back in one of the beach-side pubs slathering down beer at a rate high enough to keep the local craft breweries working nights.

Me? I'd be down-channel at one of the islands, my boat anchored in a quiet cove I discovered my last long weekend, cooking the rock fish I'd caught an hour earlier, and enjoying my own beer before I cashed in for the night and hit the sack.

That was after I dodged the herd of sail-boarders who all seemed bent on ramming me—or at least slamming into my boat's sides after dousing me with spray as they wheeled into a too-close,

I'll show you what's cool

turn. I gave them benefit of the doubt, though. Maybe I'd inadvertently strayed into their sacred race course.

Just as the sun crawled behind the trees on the west side of my cove, I leaned back against the side of my cockpit, cracked another Bud, took a big swallow, and followed that with a sigh of relaxed appreciation for the world around me and all it had seen fit to let me earn. I don't pray or give thanks to the heavens; I just appreciate what I have vs. what little some folks choose to end up with.

Occasionally the current drifted something past my cove. Nothing to worry about, no stumps or anything big enough to injure my boat, nothing big enough to tangle in my anchor rode and set me adrift, nothing but a small change to the world around me.

Curious though, yes. What was that out there, not following the current as drifting things normally do? No, it was drifting slowly into my cove now. Damned! So much for my peace and quiet. Would it force me to get my comfortable self into my dingy, row out there, and tow whatever it was back out to the main flow so it went on down-channel with the current?

Hell!

I thought as it veered even more directly toward me. It was one of those damned sailboards, but with its mast crumpled and sticking up, holding the ripped sail partially above the deck perhaps a foot, but not able to keep the rest of that rag above water.

So on it came. No need to get the dingy and fetch it away. Just wait. Just wait. Just wait.

I clambered onto my cabin's deck and retrieved my gaff pole, just to be ready in event some part of this rubbish threatened to scratch my 21 or get tangled in my dingy's tie-up lines.

Its twisted mast rubbed against my starboard side, but the sharp edges stayed clear until it came abreast of my dingy, then hooked and tangled in a line trailing from the dingy. So into the dingy I clambered—minus my gaff pole this time.

As I struggled to untangle the sailboard from my dingy, I realized there was more to this mess than a wad of discarded fishing net, a twisted aluminum mast, a sail, and an over-pretentious hunk of styrofoam. To react the way it had, required weight. What?

I stripped the remains of the sail back to discover trapped under the sail and tangled in a mostly submerged pile of rotting gill-net, lay a body in a wetsuit. And although the suit may have helped by emphasizing her shape, she needed no help in that department. Was she dead? Drowned? Unconscious from hypothermia? With her face all but held underwater all this time?"

She coughed once, but it was weak. Better get her out of the water quick, I figured. Drag her up onto the 21's deck and find out just what I had cluttering up my evening's plans.

You ever try to drag an adult, near-lifeless body up the side of a boat, past the lifelines and stanchions, and into a cockpit? While you're in the bobbing, unstable dingy below? Doesn't work easily, I can tell you, even for a slim one like her. My eventual solution was to rig my main halyard to my boom's aft end, swing the boom over her, climb into the dingy, lash her to the boom's end, clear her of all the sailboard and net's rubbish, then winch her aboard. Must have been a hundred and thirty pounds; I certainly was glad I'd replaced my main halyard last spring. A frayed line might have dropped her and put her right though the bottom of my dingy.

So there she was, Miss Sailboard. Now, what to do with her? Was she dead? Really, I certainly didn't relish the thought of six hours of motoring in the now dark without radar, taking her to Mason River, the closest town with communication to the outside world and better medical talent than mine. Then spend all night trying to explain why I, being White, had a dead or nearly dead Black woman in my boat.

No,

I told myself,

be the hero of your own life first, Sandy-Me-Boy. Then be hers, too—if she's still alive.

All women I'd ever had much to do with always undressed themselves—mostly. So Miss Sailboard presented me a new challenge. Did I have her permission to remove her wetsuit? Aw, what the hell, just do it. She can sue me later, besides, didn't we now have a Good Samaritan Law in this state? Did it apply only to automobile accidents? What about boats? Apply to very shapely young bodies that come floating by, unconscious, on bashed up and broken sailboards?

By the time I'd answered all these questions, I had her out of it—but she

was still out of it.

Reality was, I cut her out of her suit. Easier that way if you have good scissors. I carried her into my cabin—which if you've seen my boat, you understand why it was more a case of wrestling her down the hatch and companionway, through the

Luxurious Main Salon

—a term which must have been conceived by the boat-builder's advertising department—through the

spacious

Head & Hanging Closet Space

, and into the forward V-berth. As much as anything, I folded her mostly naked body into the berth, rolled her around until she was inside my spare sleeping bag, and zipped her in. I figured she'd warm herself up if she was alive. If not, then all was too late anyway. Besides, the only other heat source on my boat was me, and I wasn't ready to raise that question quite yet.

Now, if you've ever shopped for a small boat like mine, you quickly realize that a boat claimed to sleep five like mine barely sleeps two almost-full-size adults along with, if they're very small, two midgets. With Miss Sailboard taking up my V-berth that accounted for my boat's two full size humans capacity, I was doomed to the floor in the

Luxurious Main Salon

.

It wasn't a comfortable night, but I'm one of those guys who will miss WWIII if it happens after I fall asleep. Next morning I paid for it, though. I nearly had to re-rig my gin pole to lift my stiff carcass from the cabin.

Once up and beginning to loosen-up, I figured time had arrived to see if I had a woman or a corpse on my boat. As I'd left her last night, the only part of her exposed was her forehead. Now I touched it, and although it didn't frostbite my hand, it was close.

I shook her. She groaned. Good sign.

"I guess you're alive." For that I got another moan. "Can you get up?"

Another moan came from the same general area.

"Come on. Up." I unzipped the top few inches of the sleeping bag and spread it so I could see her face. God, she looked like a zombie, more blue-grey than Negro black.

"Please?" she whispered. "I'm so cold." With that she shivered hard enough to shake my entire boat.

"Well, you're alive, or at least I think you are."

"Where am I?"

"On my sailboat. Nubbins Cove. Along the same channel where you were sail-boarding."

"What's your name?"

"James Peterson officially, Sandy to my friends."

She smiled slightly, but it was the weakest smile I'd ever seen.

"Who are you?"

"Mahalia. Mahalia ... Madison," she said in a croak that turned into a wracking cough.

I nodded, not one bit surprised a girl as Black as she, might be first-named after the great gospel singer.

"I don't drink coffee, but I could heat up some water if you'd drink that. Maybe warm you up some inside. Or how about hot chocolate?"

"Yes, chocolate, please ... Sandy ... if it's okay I call you that."

"I prefer Sandy. What you go by for short?"

"May. But you can call me whatever you want."

"Okay, then, May it is. Now you snuggle back in there and I'll warm you up some chocolate." I didn't figure she needed food, just heat added to her system in concentrated form.

"Thanks, Honey."

Honey? Now where had that come from?

***

I kept May wrapped in my sleeping bag all the while I made quick breakfast for me, and hot chocolate after hot chocolate after hot chocolate for her: Direct calories and calories for energy to replace those she likely expended working her way toward shore before she floated into my cove.

Once I got my boat into the main channel, my cell phone found a signal and allowed me making a call. Then the frenzy began. Who was I? Where was I? Why had I kidnaped Mahalia? What was I driving? How old was I? Had I ever been under psychiatrist's care? Was I doing this for terrorist purposes? Was this a hate crime? Had I ever done something like this before?

The questions seemed more concerned with sensationalizing the event than getting May back to civilization alive, well, and safe. I figured if I just pulled in Mason River's city dock, they'd have me in irons before they did much of anything for May, and I was having none of that!

"This is Arnie Smith," I said. "I'm in a white Ford Focus heading south. I'll see you in Jackson Junction in about two hours. I always wanted a Black girl, and now I have one, and yes, in case you dumb bastards really care, she's fine." With that I folded my phone and stuck it back in my pocket. The dumb asses!

My plan formed quickly, it had to; I had only an hour to plan and re-plan my arrival at Mason River—the opposite direction from Jackson Junction—and have my answers ready. I hoped in that time I'd have May thawed and ready to survive being

rescued

by a bureaucracy, and after that, survive the stupidity of the press.

Just pull into the dock like any other pleasure boat, I figured, tie up, go ashore and quickly find a pay-phone somewhere close by where I moored. Request an ambulance

for an injured woman

, get her hauled to the closest hospital, and go with her and see she was properly cared for. Why should it be so hard? So bureaucrats of all kinds can pass themselves off as the heroes of this little disaster? There were no heroes. Not me, not May, no one. It just was, May was safe—if quite cold yet—and it was over, except for settling her parents down—she must have parents, right?—and reassuring myself May wasn't likely to repeat this.

She had several bad bruises from her sailboard wreck and from me dragging her aboard so unceremoniously. I had several cuts and a minor gash or two from my rescue work, but overall, nothing serious for either of us except getting May thawed out.

I suppose, in this era of exaggerated focus on battered women, we looked like a battle-weary couple when we arrived at the hospital. Once the staff figured out who she was and called the authorities, you'd have thought I instigated her kidnaping and, while at it, caused the end of the world as we know it. I just sat there, acting dumb, like I too, suffered from hypothermia. Finally, once everyone had their shot at me, they left me alone. At least I felt sure I had done the best I could for May.

They impounded my boat along with my dingy, tore up the boat stem to stern, and once they found my truck and boat trailer parked in the lot up the hill from the dock, impounded that, too, and tore them up as well. Yes, great guys, bureaucrats. And I get all this for saving May's life? Oh, well. I guess being a hero doesn't come cheap.

***

As two months passed, things around my place settled down. I spent my first month's spare time putting my truck back together, the second fixing my boat. Insurance doesn't cover bureaucrat instigated vandalism, so I was stuck for that. But now the truck and boat were usable once again, and for a change, this evening I had time to watch a late season Major League Baseball game.

Beer in one hand, bowl of chips in the other, I settled back in my leather recliner and adjusted my thinking to enjoy the otherwise mundane entertainment of watching mediocre baseball played by men who get paid, whether they put forth real effort as required to play well—or not.

Just before the third out, bottom of the fourth, my doorbell rang. Now, there was a surprise! All my friends came to my backdoor, then knocked because it had no bell. I carefully set my second beer and the nearly empty chip bowl on the side table and pried myself out of my leather, Luck-y-Boy chair.

The shadow on my front door's glass looked big. But shadows can be deceiving. I unlocked the door and opened it. There stood a reason for the huge shadow.

"Yes?"

The big Black guy stepped to one side, and very good looking Black woman I guessed to be almost my mother's age stepped toward me. "Mr. Peterson?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Mahalia's mother." With that, she too, stepped aside, then said to the big man, "I'm sure this is the man. Will you please wait in the car while I get acquainted with him?" Then she turned back to me.

"May I come in, Sir?"

"Sure." I swung the door open and motioned accordingly, all the time wondering,

What the Hell?.

"Have a seat, Ma'm?" I found the TV's remote and killed the game. Not much to miss there, anyway.

"You're wondering what this is all about, right?"

I sure as hell was. Was this to be another interrogation session like the cops had given me at Mason River?

"I want you to understand how much I appreciate what you did for May—Mahalia. The doctors repeatedly marveled that she survived."

"Just did the best I could with what was available."

"Well, now we owe you."

I shook my head.

"As you probably know by now, for her—for us—money is not a problem, and you lost a lot to the officials tearing up your truck and boat trying to make this into a kidnaping. May and I both want to make that up to you. Will ten thousand cover the damage?"

I shook my head.

"More? Twenty thousand?"

"No, no. Far too much."

"Then you say how much."

"Nothing."

"Come on now, Mr. Peterson. I saw the pictures. Tell me what that damage cost you. At least let us repay that."

"Not much cost. Fixed it all myself."

I saw

What?

on her face. I waited a moment.

"But hey, then," I said. "Has May got a boyfriend who would care? Otherwise I would accept one heartfelt kiss from her. Full payment?"

"Really?"

I nodded. She settled back into the sofa, now, but obviously not accepting my request. Had I gotten out of line with this?

"Sandy?—is it okay for me to call you how May refers you?"

I nodded again. "Sure."

"You know who May is?"

"A nice looking Black girl I thawed out and delivered to the hospital so she didn't die of hypothermia?"

"Mahalia Quartermaine." The woman looked at me as if that should mean something to me.

I only shook my head. I guess I should have paid more attention to the celebrity rags at the grocery store check-out lines. I did remember during my grocery run a month or so back, seeing something about the kidnaping of a Black singing star splashed all over it, but like usual, my interest flew directly to something more interesting—like the rapidly escalating price of brown rice in Lapland.

"If we paid your way down, would you come to California and visit May? She'd like to meet you now that she's well enough to have a visitor."

"You got a weekend in mind?" Sure, I'd take a free trip to California. Few guys on my entry-level engineer's salary would turn one down.

"She'd like it to be a very long weekend, if you can." The way she said that sounded like three days was far shorter than her daughter had in mind.

"Can't get away longer than three. Used all my vacation for my

rescue May

trip to Mason River."

"Thanksgiving's a long way off, yet. Nothing else? No other way?"

"Sorry." What I was really sorry about was missing my chance for a kiss from May. Optimistic fantasy, right?

May's mother gave her head a quick shake. From there our conversation diverted to how May was feeling, how she got herself into the pickle I'd rescued her from, and generally what May was all about. I'd never before met a real music video star in the flesh, let alone dragged one into my boat, undressed her, and bundled the nearly naked result into my spare sleeping bag.

The evening closed with my impression maybe we'd arrange something for the Thanksgiving Holiday, but overall, I figured this goodwill visit was over and I was destined to become but a footnote to Mahalia Quartermaine's autobiography.

***

A month went by with nothing happening. I assumed my assumptions about my importance to Miss Quartermaine's biography had proven correct. But maybe Thanksgiving still held some promise?

I was reviewing this thought one Friday evening when my doorbell rang. The same Paul Bunyan Black guy stood there when I opened the door, but this time, the woman standing behind him was May. She quickly stepped to his side.

"Yes, that's him," she said as the big guy stepped back. "We'll be okay, Amed, if you wait in the car."

Then she turned to me. "This is Amed, my bodyguard."

I nodded to him. No sense ignoring him and giving him an impression I didn't want him to get. He nodded back; I thought that a good sign.

"Okay if I come in?" she said.

I nodded and pushed the door open.

We had barely entered my living room and closed the door when she took my hand and pulled me to her. The kiss that followed nearly crossed my eyes. When she pulled back, she smiled.

"I wanted to do that ever since I woke up in your sleeping bag that morning. Hope it's okay.

"It's okay." A kiss like that far exceeded

okay

.

"Oh, and this." She reached into her purse, took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me.