Issue 12 – Creative Nonfiction

A high summer day, end of August, Bar Harbor, Maine. Tide’s out. We stand squinting on a metal pier some 25’ above the water, queuing up for a windjammer sail aboard the Margaret Todd, a 151’ four-masted schooner. Once they open the gate, we passengers must make our way down a steeply in­clined grate to a floating dock at the end of which we will go up a set of wooden steps to come aboard the ship. It’s only 10:00 a.m. but the heat is increasing with the rising sun which glitters on the harbor, already burning our bare arms and legs.
It’s a two-hour sail out of the harbor and around French­man’s Bay. The dock is filling with tourists. A lady next to me has brought a baby stroller holding a dachshund who blinks out at us through the screening. “You should have seen her this morning,” the lady laughs, her red-lipsticked mouth agape. “I don’t know what was wrong with this dog. I had to drag her along! She wouldn’t use her back legs and stand up.”
Her friend pokes her to get her attention. “Hey, your mother is hanging over the railing with her phone trying to get a photo of the boat. She’s gonna drop it.” The mother, an excited woman in her eighties with steel-wool colored hair is rushing back and forth on the platform snapping pictures of the harbor, the islands, the schooner below us and the people waiting to board. A family with two red-haired boys, about six and seven, stands behind us in the line. The kids already have the jitters and are trying to escape their parents’ grasp.
“Alright, we’re going to start boarding in just a few min­utes,” a young woman in a “Margaret Todd” t-shirt announces. We all step aside as a lady in a wheelchair is steered through the crowd to the gate by her husband and two young male crew members. It takes all three men to stop the chair from racing down the sharply-inclined ramp with its occupant in it. Holding our breath, we all strain forward to see what will happen. All goes well until the wheelchair gets wedged in-between the rails of the wooden steps. Several other crew members yank it free, lifting the lady safely aboard.
She and her husband are in their forties and neither of them change their expressions while all of this is occurring. “MS?” I think to myself, as I watch them secure her chair on the port side, up front. Now the rest of us scramble aboard, choosing our seats. Dan and I get a bench facing two South American women seated at the rail. The red-haired boys and their parents are in-between Dan and the wheelchair couple. Stretching out on the bench, the boys began teasing each other until the mother moves to the rail with one son, sepa­rating them.
A lady in a long skirt, grey hair in a French twist, takes a seat with her husband and a group of older men and women.
People trickle on in small groups. We still have five minutes before the cruise starts.
“I’m boiling,” I tell Dan. “I wish so many people didn’t wait till the last minute.”
“Once we start moving you’ll be cool enough,” Dan re­plies. The last passengers board; a young couple carrying a curly-haired strawberry-blonde toddler.
We feel the ship move beneath us like an earthquake.
The captain’s microphone crackles to life as he welcomes us. “We request that until we are out of the harbor and raise the sails, everyone remain seated. All children must be in physical contact with an adult when walking around the deck.” The parents of the two boys both tighten their grips on each kid. Anyone can see the brothers are dying to get at each other across the isle.
“Look, Dan. These are two of the Porcupine Islands.” We pass in-between the islands; tall, tree-covered and rounded. “I think they look much more like hedgehogs than porcu­pines.”
The sails are unfurled and raised, and the Margaret Todd sails past several rocky shoals as we enter Frenchman’s Bay. We’re allowed to walk around the deck now. Almost every­one but the couple with the wheelchair ends up on the star­board side, straining to see the sleek bodies of harbor seals playing around the rocks.
“OOOH!” A shout goes up as a harbor porpoise leaps out of the water near the bow on the port side and all the passen­gers hurry back across the deck to stare fixedly into the froth, hoping for another sighting. The lady in the wheelchair sits open-mouthed, having clearly seen the porpoise rise out of the water into the air, like an unexpected gift; sudden, pre­cious.
“You were right, Dan,” I say, zipping up my fleece hoodie. “It is cold out here!”
We tool along with only the wind moving us, as the crew tries to maneuver in-between the thousands of lobster traps that bob on the dark blue water like colored balloons.
Halfway through the sail, one of the halyards becomes en­tangled in one of the blocks. Everyone becomes quiet as two young crew members, a woman and a man, leap aboard a stack of life rafts to untangle things.
“The wind out here in the bay is so strong that we need to lower most of the sails to get back around the Porcupines and into the harbor,” says the captain. I glance at the lady in the wheelchair, whom I haven’t heard speak. Her brown hair whips around her face; she appears to be lost in thought. Her husband returns from standing at the rail and takes a seat beside her, giving her hand a squeeze.
Just then, the little toddler cries out, “Daddy, up, up . . . Daddy, Daddy . . . NO . . . NO!” I turn to see a small thrash­ing shape in pink, spread-eagled and furious, strawberry curls bouncing.
“She looks just like a little red starfish,” I tell Dan.
The wind stills and we glide by Sheep Porcupine Island.
“Look up at the top there and you will see an eagle’s nest. Yup, there’s an eagle; maybe one of the chicks. They’re just about fledged,” the captain tells us. Sure enough, a small white shape can be seen against the blue-black shadows of the dark green pines riding the air currents like a dandelion seed. . . .
“Daddy, Daddy . . . NO! up . . . DOWN!!” The child’s screams cut through the air. Everyone tries not to stare but takes a peek as the ship docks.
“Somebody needs a nap!” I hiss to Dan over the hysteri­cal child. Even the boys can’t look away. The woman in the wheelchair looks wistful. Makes me wonder if she has chil­dren. I’m betting it will be a real challenge getting her back up that steep ramp.
The Margaret Todd docks without issue. Dan and I move towards the wooden steps, anxious to be away from the screaming child.
“One last thing,” our captain adds as we depart. “Those of you who plan to walk out on the sand bar to Bar Island over there, (he’s pointing) need to know that the tide will be coming in and within an hour you won’t be able to walk back. Your legs will be useless once that sand bar is 6’ under water.” The lady in the wheelchair and her husband will be the last passengers to leave the ship. I look back to see her being lift­ed down the wooden stairs and wonder what it’s like when your legs are useless.
View Two
Jack is determined to take me on the windjammer sail. I would have been happy to do something on the shore but I wanted Jack to have a good time on our holiday. We arrived at the dock half an hour ahead of schedule, but neither of us reckoned on the tide being so low. Here’s the thing: If you have never been helpless, I mean, where you really can’t walk, you can’t imagine all the obstacles you will encounter.
First of all, I can see that the water level is about 6’ below the high-water line. What this means is that somehow Jack will have to get the chair down a long, very steep ramp just to get us to the floating dock. As I look down, I am picturing Jack losing his grip, the chair accelerating until, “BANG!” It hits the floating dock, tips me out. As I slide across, I can see the sparkle of blue water in-between the slats. My last thought before I slip into the icy harbor is, “Jack was deter­mined to take me on this damned boat ride!” I hear myself scream, shrill and high-pitched. . . .
“EEEECH!” The gulls circle above us, screeching as we wait atop the pier. Jack stands behind the chair as two strong young crew men run up the steep ramp and grab the arms of my wheelchair. The three men provide the brakes as I am inched down the slope to the floating pier. By now, a crowd of fellow passengers stands, fascinated by the spectacle, watch­ing from above; even the children, hoping . . . no . . . maybe just imagining my chair breaking loose.
I am rolled across the floating dock to a little portable wooden stairway, which acts as a gangplank with hand rails to help passengers climb on board. Of course, my chair gets wedged in-between the rails. A few more crew members run over, muscling me loose and lifting the chair on board. Jack wheels me as far forward as possible, parking me next to the roped-off area at the ship’s front. He takes a seat next to me.
“See?” he says, sweat rolling down his forehead. “That wasn’t hard.”
Two red-headed boys and their parents take the seat next to Jack as the passengers swarm on board. The kids pay me no attention as they poke and pinch each other until they are separated by their parents.

“We request that until we are out of the harbor and raise the sails, everyone remain seated. All children must be in physical contact with an adult when walking around the deck,” the captain announces over an intercom. The parents, facing each other, exchange significant glances.
We wait, baking in the hot August sun, for the tardy pas­sengers. Not a cloud in the sky; not much wind here in the harbor. Finally, a young couple with a tiny red-haired toddler hurries aboard and, amidst much scrambling on deck, we feel the Margaret Todd’s powerful engines backing us out of her berth. Turning slowly, as though we were in a blimp, the schooner motors in-between the rounded, forested islands they call “The Porcupines.”
Oh, look! We’re out of the harbor and they’re hauling up those huge red sails. Even Jack is helping. I think they just ask for help to make the passengers feel like they’re true sail­ors.
“Now that we’ve raised the sails, feel free to move around the deck and explore,” the captain announces. Jack stands at the rail, watching the water, somewhat in front of me, but I can see a little smile on his face. It’s the same smile he usually wears. But the way the light plays off the wrinkles around his eyes tells me he’s somewhere back in time, back before the accident. With his silver hair blowing across his forehead I still see a twenty-year-old Jack, freckles and that reddish hair. There’s a wildness about red hair. . . .
Now that people may walk about, the two little boys are more interested in knuckling each other than observing the water.
“Captain’s shut off the motor, honey,” Jack says, and, sure enough, the ship glides quietly through the bay like a great white swan. He and I sit together; most of the passengers have relocated to the sunny side of the deck. We tip our faces upwards, eyes closed, breathing the fine salt air. I am glad for my sweater, especially in the shade of the sails.
“OOOOH!!!” A harbor porpoise vaults out of the water before us in a graceful arc. Now people’s gazes are glued to the water, hoping for another sighting. The Margaret Todd threads her way through a sea of colorful lobster traps, past several rocky shoals. Two slick brown seals play at the shoal’s edges, too far away to be seen clearly without binoculars. Passengers begin to settle down, lulled by the ship’s motion and the sun’s warmth.
“Listen. . . .” I whisper to Jack. “It’s so quiet!” The only sounds were the luffing of the sails and a distant bell ringing in a buoy. We can hear the cries of the gulls that trail the oc­casional lobster boats. White, white birds whip through the blue wind above; the sharp prow of the schooner parts the deep blue waters like a young lover. Seals and porpoises, slip, unseen; swift dark secrets below all of us.
I am imagining myself escaping my wheelchair and roll­ing towards the the rail. Before anyone knows it, I pull my­self overboard, into the icy cold chop. As I sink down, down through the bubbles, I open my eyes, feeling my body grow sleek and streamlined. These useless legs become strong fins that propel me forward with each muscular stroke. I don’t feel the cold; just an exhilarating sense of freedom . . .
“DADDY . . . DADDY! . . . NO . . . Up! . . . Up!” a tod­dler’s voice splits the air, shocking me so that I nearly do fall out of my chair. If I turn my whole upper body I can see the commotion halfway down on the other side of the deck. Simultaneously, the crew has begun to lower the sails, one of which’s lines have somehow become entangled.
“As we return to the harbor, look up at the top of Sheep Porcupine Mountain there and you will see an eagle’s nest. Yup, there’s an eagle; maybe one of the chicks,” the captain tells us. We can barely see the bird against the dark foliage. The crew takes their places as we enter the harbor.
“Passengers, please return to your seats now while we start the engine to come into the dock.”
We are all straining to hear the captain over the scream­ing child. With her strawberry ringlets, her little pink sweat­er and pants, she had worked herself into a tantrum, flailing her arms and legs out to the sides.
“She looks just like a little pink starfish,” a woman tells her husband.
“Daddy . . . Daddy . . . NO UP! . . . Down!” she howls, com­manding the attention of all the passengers. As we watch, the furious toddler kicks herself free of her father’s grasp and hangs by one arm, limbs akimbo, exactly (indeed) like a star­fish.
“Boy, somebody needs a nap,” the lady near me says. “Glad we’re back in port!”
The child’s piercing shrieks nearly drown out the captain as he thanks us for sailing with him and warns us about walking out on the sandbar to Bar Island. I think he’s saying something about the tide coming in but all I hear is, “Your legs won’t do you any good. . . .”
I watch the child’s mortified parents climb down the wooden stairs carrying the little girl, whose screams are sub­siding into a loud wail. Her little legs, however still flail so hard that one of her shoes flies off, nearly slipping into the water. Such strong little legs!
I am the last passenger to exit the ship. Jack and the other crewmen drag me and my chair backwards up the ramp to­wards the shore, where, I know everyone will complain about how long it takes to get their “land legs” back.

Jealous of her eyebrows. Jealous of her waist. Jealous of his clear skin, her shiny hair, his thin nose, her long, long lashes. Of white teeth, straight teeth, of that cupid’s bow smile. Jealous of high cheek bones, slim thighs, sloping fingernails. Of confident bodies. Of big eyes, any color but brown.
Jealous of eighty-dollar leggings. Of that perfectly distressed pair of jeans that can only mean money. Once, I considered saving up for a Vineyard Vines shirt un­til I realized the only difference between that and my oth­er t-shirts was the associated name. Jealous of the ability to call $30 cheap. Jealous of hands warmed by chai tea lattes, Septembers with back-to-school wardrobes, and replacing beat up shoes. Every time I buy groceries, I think about how studies show that using those insidious little plastic cards in our wallets instead of paper money separates the pleasure of consumption from the pain of payment. Jealous of those who don’t notice dimes on the sidewalk, jealous of saying yes to dinner plans. Jealous of living without the weight of expens­es. Of financial stability, of choosing a college based on what you dream, not what you can afford.
Jealous of living without the anxiety from still trying to dream, anyway.
Once back in grade school, I pocketed a large quartz rock from my friend’s car while her mom drove us home, then turned to show her through the rolled-down window as if I had just discovered it in my front lawn. The stone burned in my hand. As the car disappeared back around the corner, I threw it into the bushes.
Jealous of those who look sincere when they apologize. Jealous of those who weep during sad movies without feeling ashamed.
Jealous of tap experience, physiognomic dexterity, eye contact, vibrato, nasal resonance, she who could belt above a high C, he who could slip into personalities like second skins, they who fit the director’s visual cast of the character. The it cliques in my high school drama department were corroded by years of exposure to peer comparison, hierarchical power structures, and survival-of-the-fittest mentality. To befriend was to envy; at the end of the day, we were all enemies cling­ing to one another.
Athena’s jealousy created war, snake-haired gorgons, and spiders. Mine just perpetuates pathetic self-pity.
Jealous of realistically drawn portraits, well written prose, new ideas; jealous of feeling that invigorating spark of the creative genius, of the semblance of originality. Jealous of conveying exactly what I mean out loud, not only on paper. Of the minds that create around me, if only because they are not connected to my own. Jealous of enough sleep. Of foreheads without furrows, yet also of foreheads furrowed in concentration. Jealous of un-torn lips, hairlines without bald patches from constant pulling. Of easy grins. Of small acts of kindness, a listening ear, thinking without bias, the ability to be selfless. Jealous of calming voices, caring hands, of quick trust and incautious friendship. Faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains, but I have to drive over every one I come across. Of internal monologues without the corruption of static, and being able to defend the truth in the face of blackmailed affections. Jealous of integrity. Jealous of loving others far from the looming guillotine of hyperbolic thoughts.
The truth is I like my eye color. Only in photographs do I find it lacking.

You’re in Pier One, a sort–of upscale Oriental import store, about to spend $800 on an armoire the saleslady tells you is from Indonesia. You’ve been stalking the armoire for weeks, popping into Pier One on your lunch hour, wandering amidst tinted blue glassware ringed with red rubies, a mir­rored bedroom set you find totally undesirable, and rattan love seats with matching chairs and ottomans painted an unattractive maroon like the color of the Ford Spitfire your parents had in the 1950s. But the armoire you’ve been eyeing has a delicate indefinable color, a cross between lime green and teal blue that reminds you of summer and the scent of the ocean.
You have outgrown your hippie days when rent was a bourgeois obligation you felt entitled to ignore. You no lon­ger stuff your underwear into a milk crate and push it under your bed. You now have a law degree, a well-paying job, a dresser, credit cards, woolen suits, high heel shoes.
Despite the mini-drama of your lunch-hour comings and goings, you know you’re going to buy the armoire. You just need gestation time. The saleslady has a high tolerance for 236 
your strain of aberrant behavior, feigned ambivalence, as nat­ural for you as gravity’s pull, always present, weighing you down.
It should be, you think, the simplest of formulae: See. Like. Want. Buy. But nothing is simple for you about wanting.
Twelve years old, you and your mother are on the sub­way barreling towards the department stores in Downtown Brooklyn. You secret your teenage heart’s passions—the plaid-pleated skirt all the girls are wearing, the baby-blue cardigan, soft as desire—inside your not-quite-blossoming body, two bullets for tits is mostly what you remember. Your mother insists on rummaging through the sales racks at May’s, the marked-down, everything’s-a-bargain mecca for those who hurt for money, and those, like your mother, who can’t stand to spend it. Your mother heads for the Junior’s department in the sub-basement, where miscellaneous re­jects—a cardigan minus its buttons, a skirt missing a zip­per—hang in out-of-size order.
As the escalator clanks down, you reluctantly ask, “How about going to A & S?” telling yourself, don’t let her know how much you’d prefer it. A for Abraham and S for Strauss is the upscale store down the block.
“Don’t be fooled by chichi labels and fancy names,” your mother says.
You scour the miscellanea until you find a lemon yellow blouse. You pull it off the rack, count the buttons, hold its billowy cotton up to the florescent lights, checking for stains. You say to your mother, “I think it’s ugly,” for in the ex­hausting strategy you perfected in childhood you know that your not wanting the blouse may be reason enough for your mother to buy it.

Now at Pier One, there’s cash in your checking account and credit on your charge cards, so money’s not the issue. The saleslady recognizes you, the recidivist ruminator, and slogs over.
“So, how’s work?” she asks.
“The usual,” you say, curt and dismissive, the way you usu­ally talk to your mother.
“Is today finally the day?” she asks.
You’re about to say “yup” when suddenly all you can think is, what would my mother say? 
But you know what your mother would say. After ogling the price tag, she’d say, So much for an armoire? Really? Or she’d say, What’s wrong with closets? Or say, Such thin wood. You should get a darker color, even though the thickness of wood has nothing to do with its color.
The saleslady takes out her pen. She begins to scribble the model number on a pad she’s pulled from her apron pocket. But instead of “yup,” you say “stop.” You tell her you want to think about it, because first, you have to deal with your mother.
“Your mother’s here?” she says.
“Often,” you say.
You sit in a black-and-white rattan chair, its back arced into the shape of peacock feathers, part of the outdoor pa­tio display. A combination flamboyant fowl and Oriental throne, the chair sells for $450, and you can’t imagine anyone who would be out of her mind enough to buy it.
“It’s my money,” you say to your mother once you’ve set­tled into the rattan chair.
“So, go spend it,” she says. She bends go spend it into its opposite: Why in the world would you want to buy that stu­pid armoire?
So you say, “Don’t be nasty.”
“Who’s being nasty?”
“You know exactly who’s being nasty.”
Then she says, “I know who’s not being nasty.”
You’re about to say, “yeah, who?” but before the gunfire gets out of control, you realize you’re never going to get your mother to drop the who’s-being-nasty-to-who stuff. She is, like you’re afraid you’ve become, stubborn.
The saleslady waves from across the store. You wave back, so she saunters over.
“What’s up?” she says. “Did you get through to your moth­er?”
“Still trying,” you tell her.
As soon as the saleslady’s out of earshot, you say to your mother, “What do you really think of the armoire, Mom?” though you don’t know whether what your mother thinks makes a difference to you anymore, or you just wish it did.
So you don’t know why you’re making such a fuss, or why you’re stuck in the peacock chair waiting for your mother to tell you the armoire’s a fascinating color, a teal that’s tender, like green, and a green that feels blue, like the color of the ocean.
Then you remember running zigzag over the scorching sand, pail and shovel in hand, resting your burning feet on other families’ blankets while your mother lugs the cooler, blanket, and chairs to where her friends sit. You are seven, a spry girl but a tentative swimmer. “No,” your mother shouts as you race towards the ocean. The spray tickles your face. The wet sand soothes your feet. Birds caw. Shrieks of delight merge with the roll of the ocean.
You picture your mother. The straw hat, the sunbaked skin, the unruly hair, the ruby lips, her fulsome breasts packed into a dark navy bathing suit, hands on her hips, planted like a monument in the shifting sand.
You pull yourself out of the peacock chair and wave to the saleslady who’s kept her cautious eye on you. You wonder whether she’s concerned about the sale or worried about you. She hurries over.
“Today’s the day,” you tell her.
“You got through to your mother?” the saleslady asks.
You want to say yes, whether or not it’s not true. But before you can, your mother whispers, “Tell the saleslady I never said ‘no,’ ” though she knows that’s not the truth.
Your mother follows as you proceed to the cash register. She hovers, like bated breath, as you wrestle your Amex card, both rigid and bendable, out of your wallet. Once wrenched free, you grip it like an unruly child, afraid it might slip from your hands.
“One of my favorites,” the saleslady says, pointing past the chaos of the tinseled glassware and the clamor of neon blue to the armoire, its elusive color a wish, an ache, an inchoate longing.