Charles Williams: Gulf Coast Girl

“Let’s don’t ever go to land again,” she said. “Let’s stay out here forever.”

I had reached that overloaded condition again, where I could no longer express myself. “You’d miss television,” I said.

We swam in a circle around the sloop. “We’d better get out,” she whispered. “It’s growing light.”

I grinned at her. “That wouldn’t bother the other goddesses. Where’s your union card?”

She laughed. “Freya was probably never paid for parading half-naked in a night club. She’d have got self-conscious, too.”

I climbed out and helped her up. She was a tall blond gleam in the pre-dawn darkness as she hurried past me and down the companionway. She clicked on the light and I heard her draw the curtain. I went below and dressed in dungarees and put on some coffee. I lit a cigarette and sat listening to her moving around beyond the curtain.

It had been a thousand years since yesterday. It seemed impossible the two of them had been here in this cabin just one dawn ago, with their guns and their cold-blooded deadliness, and that we had been so near to dying. I tried to figure out what I felt about being responsible for their deaths, but I couldn’t run down any feeling about it at all. They lived by violence. They had died the same way. It was just an industrial accident.

I thought of the police looking for me. And for her. But if our luck held they would never know we had left there in a boat. Nobody would know except Barclay’s gang. They knew we had all gone to sea together and the boat had never been heard of again, and they’d be looking for us, thinking we had killed the two of them and tried to run with their lousy diamonds. But how could they ever find us? Nobody could find us.

She came out. She had put on a short-sleeved white summer dress. She smiled. “The last of my traveling wardrobe. If I don’t get to wash something pretty soon I’ll be down to a swimsuit.”

“Maybe we’ll get a rain squall and catch some fresh water,” I said. We had plenty yet, but you never used it for washing or bathing at sea.

We took cups of coffee and sat down in the cockpit. It was light now, and the sea was empty and blue to the horizon.

“Do you think anybody could ever find that plane?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think there’s a chance. What he saw may have been a tide rip instead of a shoal. And even if he was right and he crashed in shallow water near surf, on the weather side of a reef or shoal the plane would break up in a matter of weeks and be covered with sand.”

“You wouldn’t have looked for it any more, anyway, would you?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t lost any diamonds. Have you?”

She shook her head.

“I’ve already got what I wanted,” I said.

“Thank you, Bill.”

She was gazing off to seaward. I’d never get tired of just looking at her, I thought. There was variety in her, and contradiction. The generally smooth humor was balanced by that flash-burn of a temper I’d seen twice, when she was provoked or pushed too far, and the definite hint of sexiness in her face by the straightforward honesty of the eyes.

She turned and saw me looking at her. I grinned at her. “You don’t mind my calling you Swede, do you?”

She smiled. “Of course not. But my mother was a Russian Finn, not a Swede.”

“Hush. All squareheads are Swedes. And you’re all the big, beautiful Nordics in the world rolled into one. If they ever consolidate into one Scandinavian country, I suggest they put you on their money.

“It’s not that I don’t love the Irish half of you, too,” I went on. “But the Irish are supposed to be very dark, when they’re beautiful. Every time I look at you I half expect Thor to come running up and hit me over the head with a short-handled hammer and say, ‘Hold up thar, you polecat, where you a-goin’ with my gal?’ ”

She laughed. “Who’s going to miss television?”

We went below and cooked breakfast. We had bacon and eggs and set up the table between the settees and had paper napkins and were very proper.

A light southeasterly breeze came up at midmorning. We hoisted sail and tacked up against it all day. It died again in the late afternoon. I put another coat of paint over the sloop’s name. It was the same the next day, and the third. We’d beat up against a whisper of air all day and lose what we’d gained when it died and the current set us to the westward. We began to joke about it. We’d never get into the Yucatan Strait. And we didn’t care.

We swam. She sun-bathed—in the two-piece swimsuit at first and later in just the bottom part of it. We rigged a hand line and caught fresh red snapper for dinner. I lettered the new name and port of registry on the stern of the sloop: Freya of San Juan, P.R.

I began to teach her seamanship and navigation. She protested she couldn’t learn the latter because she’d never been any good at mathematics, but I assured her the math involved was predigested when you used the tables and that the thing that took skill was the sight itself. We practiced each day at noon, shooting the sun, and took star sights at dusk and dawn. We were still over the Northern Shelves, not more than twenty miles to the eastward of the point where Barclay and Barfield had drowned. The current was setting us back when we weren’t under way.

She loved it all. That was the thing that made it finally complete. I had thought at first she might merely tolerate it because I liked the sea and boats and sailing and because it was our only escape, but she took to it as naturally as the Vikings she was descended from.

She was watching me take a sight one noon. “I’m so happy,” she said. “We’ll remember this always, as long as we live, won’t we?”

I glanced at her. “Sure. But don’t forget, this is only the beginning.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Of course.”

We were lying becalmed again the next afternoon when the rain squall hit us. She was sun-bathing on the forward deck in the half bathing suit and I was reading aloud to her from a paper-bound edition of The Heart of Darkness I’d had in my gear when we saw it darkening to the eastward. We both ran below. I left the book and took off my dungarees and shoes. It burst over us without too much wind but with a tropical deluge of rain. As soon as it had washed the salt from the deck I blocked the scuppers and opened the filler cap to the fresh water tank and let it run full. When I had topped it off and put the cap back on, I turned, and she was coming forward again with a small bottle of shampoo in her hand, grinning at me through the deluge.

“Here, let me help, too,” I said.

We gravely sat down in opposite directions on deck, as if in a love seat, and unpinned the roll of ash-blond hair. Rain fell over us in sheets. I poured some of the shampoo into my hands and we rubbed it on her head, trying to work up the foam against the beating of the rain. She was naked from the waist up, and well tanned now, and she looked like an Indian in a white turban. Our eyes met and she started to laugh. Soap ran down her face. I kissed her and got soap in my mouth. We held onto each other and strangled with laughter while the rain rinsed her hair clean. We could never pin down afterward what had been so funny about it.

When the sun came out we sat in the cockpit with towels, drying it. It gleamed like freshly burnished silver against the smooth, tanned skin of her face and shoulders. If I live until I’m ninety and never see anything beautiful again, they don’t owe me a thing.

That night when we prepared dinner she changed into the white dress again, and when she came out of the forward end of the cabin she had a small bottle of perfume in her hand and was touching the glass stopper to the lobe of an ear.