The Starboard Sea: A Novel (31 page)

I began to think of Tazewell, Kriffo, Stuyvie, and Race as “the Company.” The new company I was keeping. When Chester returned in mid-February, he was annoyed to find me having dinner with Kriffo and Tazewell. I tried to play it off, but Chester was obviously hurt. That night he came into my room and asked for his book back. I had yet to locate it. Told him that I wasn’t finished reading it yet. Chester showed me his latest scar, a smile that curved down his biceps and around his elbow. “Sixty-five staples. Nine inches long.” The rough skin similar to the scar on his jaw.

“Impressive,” I said. “Matches your other scar.”

Chester clutched his chin in his hand. He took a deep breath. “Funny thing too,” he said. “Same guy gave me both.”
During Chester’s junior year, Kriffo and Taze took up smoking cigars. “They didn’t want to smoke in their rooms, so they turned mine into their own personal humidor. Back then, I had the only single, the best room in the dorm.” Chester would stay in the library all night and return to find his place trashed, Kriffo and Taze sitting in their boxers puffing away on Montecristos. Even then, Chester didn’t respond. Then one night, they just went after Chester. “They told me I didn’t deserve such a nice room. Kriffo insisted I only got it because I was black.” Chester let out a small laugh. “I let them know that they got lots of stuff, special stuff, every day just because they were white. Thought I was making a good point, but Tazewell held me down while Kriffo pushed the charcoal end of the cigar against my chin. Told me they wanted to brand me. That I was their cattle.” Chester exhaled and asked me if I still had any whiskey.
I went over to my dresser and lifted up my dopp kit. Underneath, I saw a red cover and the words “Advance Copy.” I’d found the missing book. There were two more bottles of Jim Beam and I gave one to Chester.
“I never told anyone how I got this scar,” he said. “Not even my mom, and I tell her everything.” Chester opened the bottle and took a small sip.
“I want to fix this,” I said. “Make it right.” I explained that I’d been courting the Company. “Do you remember Aidan?”
Chester offered me the bottle. “Sometimes I think I’m the only one who does,” he said. “It’s like somebody died and this place barely blinked.”
The whiskey reminded me of the storm, of our first bonding session. I suddenly realized that while Aidan was at Race’s, I was in the shower beating off. While Aidan was trapped on the beach, I was playing football. Though I’d mentioned our friendship, I’d never told Chester just how close Aidan and I had been. “I don’t believe she killed herself.” I made my suspicions clear to Chester. “At the very least those guys are hiding something.”
Cal’s mother had given me the order to get back on the water, to return to sailing as way of returning to Cal. Ginger had given me a very different idea regarding Aidan, the idea of becoming close to Race. “Make him your friend,” she’d said, “and he’ll tell you his secrets.”
“I get it,” Chester said. “It’s like a bait and switch. But I’m sorry, I just don’t think those guys will come clean. All they’ll do is lie to you.”

The entire sailing team stayed on campus during spring Break, training, running drill after drill. Practicing boat control, trapeze techniques. For the past three years, the Baker Trophy had eluded Race, and he was confident that the two of us together could bring the award to Bellingham. Race and I shared the important love of a sport, and the more we won together, the more Race would want to seal that bond.

Nadia was upset that we wouldn’t be spending Spring Break together. She’d invited me to Atlanta. Her family had a house on Sea Island. “It’s totally exclusive,” she said. “There’s a guard and gatehouse. You can’t even drive on to the island unless you live there or are somebody’s guest.”

Gates and private islands didn’t impress me. I’d seen more than my fair share. It made me sad to hear Nadia smooth out her accent, dull her voice. Back in Atlanta she’d grown up believing that being sophisticated meant attending prep school in New England. What she wanted more than anything were postcards, snapshots of herself windsurfing, playing lacrosse, sneaking out to hotel parties in Boston. She was desperate to visit me in the city. “I’m the only freshman who’s dating a senior,” she confided. Our relationship hadn’t progressed much beyond the kissing stage. I was afraid of touching her, harming her. She’d begun to ask me about Aidan, had developed a fascination with her and seemed to believe that we’d had some sort of tragic love affair. That Aidan had been heartsick and killed herself over me. Nadia was a sweet girl and it would have been unfair of me to compare her to Aidan. I’d managed to convince Nadia not to wear too much makeup, to keep her hair short, to play the piano with me. To be grateful for my attention. So far things had worked out between us, though I was beginning to sense that Nadia wanted more. Spring Break. One morning the campus was teeming with students and the next morning it was as silent as an empty soundstage. It was strange to be at school when nearly everyone else was on vacation. Coach Tripp and I were the only two left in Whitehall. The dorm was always alive with music, animated with the sporty motions of young hyperactive males. It was nice to take refuge in the quiet hallways. No small talk, no bullshit. Coach Tripp continued to teach me about celestial navigation.

With the campus empty, there was nothing keeping me from seeing its beauty. I’d gotten so used to being at Bellingham that I’d stopped appreciating the ocean, the bracing smell of salt air. Waking up at five a.m. to train with the sailing team, I welcomed the morning into my lungs as if for the first time. I could feel the brackishness surge all the way down my throat and into my stomach. “Let’s do this,” I thought. “Get back out on the water.”

I’d never sailed with a skipper as meticulous as Race. He had long thin fingers that moved with speed and accuracy as he checked our gear, making certain that everything was literally shipshape. “All-a-Taut-O,” he’d call out when our boat was rigged. In turn, Race was impressed by my speed at tying knots, my understanding of when to use a par ticu lar hitch.

Race’s mother had donated new training dinghies, 470s, the same type of dinghy Race would compete on if he made it to the Olympics. Speed machines, we called them. Elegant but demanding boats, quick to plane and charge through the water. I was happy to play crew, to harness myself into the trapeze and balance precariously on the gunwale, leaning back so far off the boat and so close to the water that it seemed as though I was literally pulling the dinghy through the waves. My power and gravity keeping us on a straight course. It was a breathless, exhilarating feeling to rediscover. Often, I felt compelled to close my eyes, surrendering to the excitement. I could die happy knowing that this was the last feeling I would enjoy. Then Race would call, “Ready about,” and I would restore my concentration, focus on our teamwork.

Cal and I had always switched off, sharing the roles of skipper and crew. Believing that both were equal, neither subordinate, and that we should be equally great at both. Race was different. He needed to be in charge. I could hear it in the fierce tone he used to call out orders and see it in the way he threw his weight when we swung over to windward to steady our boat.

Race, like a lot of sailors, had his superstitions. He preferred wearing a wet suit instead of a dry suit, and though he could have afforded the best high-tech gear, he kept his lucky wet suit patched together with squares of duct tape. Before every regatta he listened to the same CD—a collection of Van Halen hits—and ate the same lunch—a roast beef sandwich made by his mother. Before a particularly challenging meet at St. George’s in Newport, I’d watch Race check and recheck our lines compulsively. He hummed “Panama” and retaped each piece of duct tape, piling on four different layers. His mother had mistakenly packed a ham and cheese, and right before we were due out on the water, Race insisted that Coach Tripp drive him into town to a sandwich shop. “I’ve got a ritual going,” he said. “I need to honor it.”

I had my own superstitions. While Race wore thin leather gloves, I preferred to work the ropes with my bare hands. When I sailed, I needed to feel the ropes tight against my skin. I paid for this with blood blisters, wet, wrinkled fingers and palms. During the entire sailing season, my hands never dried. They stayed rubbery, saturated. No matter how much I warmed them, I couldn’t get the salt water out of my skin, not without pulling off layers of wet calluses. I was convinced that my reaction time was faster, my raw peeling hands giving me a competitive edge. I used my blistered hands as an excuse not to touch Nadia.

Toward the end of spring training, Coach Tripp invited Race and me over to his apartment for pizza and a final strategy session. The most important thing for a skipper and crew was communication. Coach Tripp insisted that Race and I go for morning and afternoon runs together. He wanted us to keep each other company at mealtime and bond by watching Monty Python films. “Dinsdale,” Race and I would call out to each other whenever our paths crossed on campus. Coach Tripp wanted us to be the Piranha Brothers. “It’s a kind of courtship,” Coach Tripp said, and when Race and I both scoffed at the idea of courtship, Coach explained that we needed to trust each other but we also needed to like each other. “Develop a sense of humor together. Have your own private jokes and soon you’ll anticipate each other’s every move. Finish each other’s sentences.”

After dinner, I invited Race to hang out in my room. I didn’t see him around the dorm much. Like most day students, he had a complex about not really being part of the school. “Nice single,” he told me. “I should invite you over to my house.”

“Yeah. I guess I missed my chance to see it last fall.”

Race picked up
The Motion of Light in Water
. I’d been reading it over break. Based on the title, I’d assumed the book was about sailing, but it turned out to be a memoir. The author, Chip Delany, was a science fiction writer and the book was his story of growing up in Harlem and being part of the ’60s scene in Greenwich Village. Delany had met everyone from Bob Dylan to Albert Einstein, and he’d also managed to have a lot of sex. Revolutionary sex with woman and men. Delany was gay, but he’d married a woman and had a child. The book wasn’t at all what I’d expected and I wasn’t sure what to say about it to Chester. Race asked me about the book and I told him that Chester had lent it to me.

“I’m impressed he came back to school,” Race said. “That guy’s got heart.”
I nodded. “He’s had a tough time here.”
“You’ve got to admire a kid who just keeps his head down and takes his licks.”
I doubted that taking his licks was something Chester wanted to be known or admired for.
I said, “Chester’s stronger than all of us combined.”
Race looked at me and nodded. “Maybe. I heard Kriffo tried to turn him into a human ashtray. Pretty shitty thing to do.”
Race picked up the copy of
Sailing Alone Around the World
that Aidan had stolen for me and began to flip through the pages. “Can I borrow this?” he asked.
I didn’t want to give it to him. My heart literally hurt at the thought of it. The book wasn’t even mine to lend. By all accounts I should have returned it to the library, but Aidan had given it to me. “You’ve never read it?” I asked.
Race explained that he’d always meant to and that his father had named one of their sloops
Spray,
after Slocum’s own boat. Race picked up the book and said, “I think I could do it. Sail around the world by myself. Think I’d actually enjoy it.”
I told Race that he could borrow the book. “Just remember to give it back sometime, okay?” I knew I’d never see it again. But this was exactly the kind of bonding Coach Tripp had in mind. I needed to play along. Even if it meant losing a little more of Aidan.
“How tall are you?” Race asked.
We stood back to back in front of my mirror and were both surprised to discover that we were almost exactly the same height. From the first time we’d met I’d always thought of Race as being taller than me, believed we were incompatible as sailing partners because of this, but the truth was I walked around in a perpetual slouch. Our arms were the same length. I studied Race’s reflection. He wasn’t a badlooking guy. He had clear skin and a muscular build, but he had the pinched face of someone who’d spent his entire childhood throwing tantrums in public places. I hadn’t seen him with any girls. Hadn’t heard him linked to anyone, not even Brizzey. Maybe he was too focused on sailing, or maybe he had an off-campus girlfriend. Race sat down at my desk and I leaned against the windowsill.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Not while I’m training or competing. I don’t want to deal with some girl whining at me about how I’m not spending enough time with her.”
“You could date someone on the team.” There were two girls on the team, Greta and Emmy, both sophomores, competent sailors who just needed more experience.
Race ignored me. “I should confess,” said Race, “that I had a little thing with that girlfriend of yours.”
“Nadia? Brizzey?”
“No, the other one. The crazy one.” Race leaned back in my chair.
I focused on the raised chair legs and imagined knocking him over.
“What did we call her?” he scratched his chin. “Hester. That’s right. Hester would show up at all my parties. Mostly just looking for drugs, but we hooked up. Said she liked me because I’m a redhead.” Race smiled.
I felt my heart contract, quickening my pulse. “You two dated?”
Race looked away. “Dated? No, nothing serious like that. We passed her around, you know, for a good time.” He smiled, still unable to look at me. “You didn’t like her?” Race asked. “Not really, right?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Anyway,” Race said, “thought I should clear the air in case you’d heard anything. Wouldn’t want there to be more bad blood between us. I’m really glad you came around.”
The whole time Race had been speaking, I’d been digging my nails into the windowsill. I didn’t believe him. Aidan would have told me if she’d been with Race. As far as I knew, she hadn’t been with anyone at Bellingham. I tried to relax, asked Race if he wanted to watch some TV. He said he needed to get home. “Do you ever wish you lived on campus?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t fit in. I like my freedom, my king- sized bed. I like being able to lock my door.”