LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Fiction Submission 2003

Dawn E. Dobson  

Island Time

The crew meeting took longer than Annie expected.  As the owner of the sailboat reviewed the course for the race, Annie fidgeted on the crowded deck of the J-24 and forced herself to concentrate on his droning, nasal voice. Glancing at her watch, she was relieved to hear him wrap it up. “OK, that’s it,” he said without looking up from his clipboard, “See you in the morning, 0600, everybody.”  Squeezing past the other members of the team, she stepped lightly onto the dock and began to walk briskly in the direction of the parking lot.

            “Hey, Annie! What’s your hurry? Meet us up at ‘The Bridge,’” one of the guys called after her. Annie turned, flashed a smile and waved, but kept moving. No time for ‘The Bilge,’ she thought, I’m already running late. Besides, that tropical meat market had left a bad taste in her mouth on more than one occasion. It was a pick-up artist’s paradise- stiff drinks and loose sailors. She could not afford the distraction. It had taken six months to secure a position on “Tabasco,” possibly the hottest racer on the circuit. As the only woman on the crew roster, Annie felt she had something to prove, probably more to herself than anybody else. And Charlie was waiting.

Traffic was thick along the seawall and soon slowed to a crawl. The sweltering heat created a mirage effect, softly blurring the street scene like a movie projector not quite in focus. Annie stared at the montage of humanity rolling past her car: blistered cruise passengers laden with shopping bags limping back to their ships, women bargaining loudly with fishermen under the trees, children in school uniforms gathering in chatty groups on the corners, a lanky Rastafarian striding by with a springy bounce, arms and legs swinging wide. “Don’t stop the carnival,” Annie said softly, inching along. Finally clearing the tangle of pedestrians and taxis, she gunned up the side road leading away from town, the ocean shimmering through the treetops behind her.

 “Damn!” Annie hit the brakes and swerved hard to miss the large iguana scurrying across the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, she could see the creature poised like a statue at the edge of the road. “Death wish,” she muttered, shifting down as the old Corolla struggled up the steep incline. Charlie lived on the north side of the island, far from the noisy, sunny harbor and its crush of locals and tourists. The forest canopy thickened at the higher elevation and as the car dipped through the little valleys along the mountain road, surprisingly chilly drafts shot through the windows. Annie strained to find the overgrown drive, turned sharply at the peeling mailbox dangling from the fencepost, and coasted down to the house, branches snapping as the car tunneled through dense foliage.

         The old house sat more in a clearing than in a yard. Years ago, Uncle Charlie had painted it green so that now, with the siding half-covered in moss and the wide-leafed tropical plants closing in, it threatened to disappear completely in the late afternoon light. Annie couldn’t stand to spend nights up here anymore. Lying in bed, the coquis strangled her ears with their unending high-pitched calls. No one ever saw a sign of the tiny frogs, but the deafening sound forced her eyes wide and blotted out dreams. After a week, she packed her bags with shaking hands and moved on board the “Déjà Vu.” Stretched out in one of the narrow berths on the old sloop was like being tucked inside a giant cradle as it gently rolled at the dock. She slept like a baby.

“Myra?” Annie called out while pushing through the door. The flimsy curtains in the open windows fluttered when the door shut, like a breath going out of the house.

“In de kitchen,” Myra called from the back of the house.

Annie walked past the dark furniture, faded photographs and the half-dozen wooden ship models in the still front room. Dust particles, caught in the shafts of light that pierced the shadows, swirled in her wake.

“Where is he?” Annie asked, entering the brightly-lit kitchen. Myra’s broad back at the stove was the anchor of this household.

“Holding court,” said Myra.

“And?” asked Annie.

“Same,” said Myra, still facing the stove.

“And you?” asked Annie.

Myra did not answer right away. She continued to stir the pot before her, pausing to taste the goat stew before gently lowering the lid. She wiped her hands and began to empty the bag of groceries Annie had placed on the counter. Annie waited. She had learned a lot since arriving on this island almost two years ago. Rule number one: Don’t rush Myra.

 “Well,” she said at last, “I’m surely glad it is Friday. It has been a long week. Lord, but I don’t know how he can sit and sit all day. Now you do remember I have tomorrow morning off?”

Annie winced. She had forgotten.

“Tomorrow is the first race in the series,” Annie said slowly.

Now, Annie….” protested Myra.

“No, no, I remember, your brother is flying in. Damn! I forgot.” Normally, Myra worked half days on Saturdays. Annie came at noon to relieve her. It meant an extra twenty-five bucks a week to Myra. It meant Annie could sail with the team on Saturday morning. It meant everything.

            They stood there not speaking for a moment. Myra began to gather her things.

“I’ll think of something. Maybe I can talk him into coming down to the dock and watching the race,” Annie suggested casually, flipping through the mail.

Myra snapped her head up and looked at Annie incredulously, her dark eyes boring into the side of the young woman’s bent head. She could be intimidating with her flashing eyes and hair stretched back into a severe bun, but Annie turned and met her gaze unconcerned. Gradually, the older woman’s expression softened. She shook her head.  “I need to say goodbye.”  She pushed against the back screen door. “Charlie! Ya!  You know I be leaving. Annie is here. Now behave.”

            The slight figure seated in the middle of the yard raised a thin hand and batted the air as if shooing away an annoying insect.

             Myra sighed. “He’s yours.”

Annie walked Myra to the front where her son already sat waiting in his rusty pickup. Myra gave her some last minute cooking instructions to thicken the stew properly and reminded her of the johnnycakes warming in the oven. She reached for Annie’s slender forearm to steady herself as she climbed into the cab.  Nestling into the wide seat, Myra turned down the blaring radio, lightly slapping her son’s hand when he reached to turn it back up. It stayed down.

“Annie,” she leaned out the window and spoke quietly, tiny beads of sweat glistening across her dark hairline. “If you take him down to that boat, I swear to the Lord you are asking for trouble.”

“It was just an idea, Myra.” And maybe not such a bad one either, she thought as she waved goodbye. She walked around the side of the house to the backyard to sit with Charlie, her evening ritual. Back home in Boston, she would be joining co-workers for drinks at the local pub right about now, laughing and teasing as they hashed over the week at the office. That whole scene was a world away.

“Nuts,” she muttered. Yeah, she had to be nuts, they told her. Who would throw away a career to go down to some crazy speck on a map to look after a grouchy old man who couldn’t get further than two feet away from a rum bottle? “He’s got a boat,” she explained. Worse! A hole in the water where you throw your money! Seasickness! Wharf rats! Lost at sea! But all Annie could remember was the color of the water as it slid under the bow when she was ten years old, her uncle at the helm laughing at the wind and Scott cranking the winch until the “Déjà Vu” leapt across the waves.

Annie paused and looked at the stooped figure seated below her. Twenty years had changed everything. Scott was gone. The “Déjà Vu” was just another neglected, creaking hulk on the dock. The once fearless captain couldn’t muster a trip past the mailbox. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“There’s my girl,” Charlie said without moving.

(To be continued…)