Scorpion in the Sea

TEN

Mike unlimbered himself from his cramped position on the pier up under the bow of the Lucky Bag, and began to gather up his painting materials. He had spent three hours attacking a section of paint along the waterline that had begun to peel. The section had started off being three feet long, and had grown, as such projects do, to a ten foot long scraping, sanding, undercoating, and finishing effort which ended up taking the entire afternoon.

He was ready for a beer. The late afternoon sun was still hot, and he had the beginnings of a headache from the turpentine he was using to clean up. His hands were covered in paint, and his body glistened with sweat over the sunblock he used on his chest and back.

He heard a low wolf whistle from across the pier. Looking over, he saw two guys in a sloop staring at someone at the end of the bulkhead dock. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he was surprised to see Diane Martinson standing at the top of the steps, some fifty feet away. Coming down the steps was her husband, the Chief of Staff. Diane was dressed in a tight, white skirt and sleeveless blouse, with some kind of colored scarf in her hair. The low angle of the sun illuminated more of her figure than she probably realized. She was wearing dark glasses, and was standing next to the gatepost at the top of the steps. She was fooling with something in her purse, oblivious to the interested looks she was attracting.

Her husband walked gingerly across the float to the Lucky Bag, concentrating on where he was putting his feet. Mike stood there as he approached, feeling slightly uncomfortable dressed only in his bathing suit and sneakers. The Chief of Staff was decked out in a white linen summer suit, complete with boater. While many American men would have looked faintly ridiculous in such an outfit, Captain Martinson presented himself with sufficient style to carry it off. He paused about twenty feet from the Lucky Bag to turn around and wait for his wife. She gave him a long look, and then, with evident reluctance, started down the stairs to the float. Captain Martinson waited for her, and then together they made their way towards the houseboat. Martinson looked the Lucky Bag over as they approached.

“So this is the famous houseboat, eh?” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Mike, glancing over Martinson’s shoulder at Diane.

She was clearly uncomfortable, and Mike wondered if it had anything to do with his working uniform of the day. She seemed to be trying not to look at him. Having made daily use of the Goldsborough’s weight room for the past year and half, Mike knew he cut a manly enough figure, but he still sucked in his gut an inch or so. He wondered if she remembered their encounter in the doorway at the club. The Chief of Staff was saying something.

“We were going to dinner at Hampton’s, and I thought I’d stop by to chat for just a second. Did you get to talk to any of the fishing people about that sub sighting report?”

Mike put down his paintbrush, and picked up a rag to begin wiping his hands. “Yes, Sir, I did, although not to the guy who made the sighting — he’s still out there. From what Chris Mayfield tells me — he’s sort of the senior fishing boat skipper around here — the guy swears he saw a U-boat. He specifically used that term.”

Diane was definitely looking right at him now; or maybe he was just imagining it; her eyes were hidden behind by the sunglasses.

“A U-boat,” said Martinson, musingly. “Strange term to use, unless the individual is fairly well along in age.”

“Maxie Barr is the Skipper who made the sighting. He’s probably Chris’ age, late sixties, maybe seventy. I guess he’s old enough to have seen a U-boat in the big war.”

Diane was standing nervously behind her husband, looking out over the waterway now at the parade of boats. The two men in the sloop next door were staring openly at her, making no attempt to be discreet about it. Mike pulled himself back with some effort to what Martinson was saying.

“Well, if in fact he did see something, then we’re talking about a conventional boat, not a nuke,” reflected Martinson, looking thoughtfully out over the waterway.

Then he became aware that his wife was fidgeting behind him. He frowned. He had asked her to accompany him to the houseboat but she had been strangely reluctant. Mike felt foolish standing there with more sweat than clothes on, his hands still covered in turpentine, as an awkward silence developed.

“Diane, This is Commander, or rather, Captain Michael Montgomery, CO of Goldsborough. Michael, my wife, Diane.”

Diane took off her sunglasses and stepped around her husband to nod at Mike.

“Captain,” she said, quietly, looking not quite at his face.

Mike smiled and looked at her directly, and suddenly her eyes flashed recognition. Mike had the feeling that she did remember him, but was trying to hide it.

“Diane,” he said. “I’d shake hands, but—” He held up his paint covered hands.

She gave him an awkward smile, but said nothing.

“You’re rather famous amongst the destroyer Captains, Michael,” said Martinson. “Living in sybaritic splendor aboard this grand old boat. You must spend many an hour on maintenance, especially with a wooden hull.”

“Yes, Sir. Chipping paint tends to dilute the splendor somewhat. Would you like a tour?”

“J.W., we have to go; the reservations—” interjected Diane, looking over her shoulder at the restaurant in the distance as if it might escape.

“I’m sure they’ll hold the table, Diane,” said Martinson. “Yes, I’d love to see it. If you don’t mind the intrusion, that is.”

“No intrusion at all; it’s actually quite a comfortable home. C’mon aboard.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind, Captain?” Diane asked anxiously. “We can do it another time.”

“Not at all,” replied Mike, intrigued by her obvious desire to leave. “Right this way.”

Mike showed Diane the stepped gangway up to the deck of the Lucky Bag, and followed her up the ladder, with the Chief of Staff in trail. His heart skipped a beat as he watched her smooth hips rise in front of his face as she went up the three step ladder. Once aboard, he took them down through the forward hatch, showing them the two guest cabins and adjoining bathroom, and then into the main lounge.

The lounge was surprisingly large, thirty feet long by twenty two, occupying the entire center of the boat below the main deck. There were four large, brass-rimmed, curtained portholes on either side, and both the walls and the overhead were panelled in various grains of dark veneer. There was a large oriental carpet taking up the entire deck, and comfortable leather furniture placed centrally to face a gas-fired fireplace on the starboard side. The port side walls were inset with bookcases, and the after part of the lounge contained a sizeable dining room table and six armchairs, with a brass, ship’s wheel chandelier centered over the table. There were three doors in the after bulkhead, one leading to the galley area, one to the Captain’s cabin, and the third to a companionway leading up to the porch deck aft.

“Oh, my word, this is quite posh,” said Martinson. “It’s much larger than I expected.”

“Well,” said Mike, trying not to shiver in the air conditioning, “this was a commercial fishing boat at one time, so there was a lot of empty room below decks for the catch.”

From a corner of the room, Hooker sounded off with an epithet, startling Diane.

“A parrot!” she exclaimed, momentarily seeming to forget her discomfort. “This is really too much. Did he just say something?”

Mike felt his face begin to redden.

“Don’t pay any attention to what that bird says; his vocabulary isn’t very polite.”

He desperately hoped that Hooker would not launch into any more profanity. He showed them the galley area, and then let them peek into the Captain’s cabin which took up the entire area under the stern porch.

The master bedroom was also panelled, containing a large bed, its own bathroom on one side, and rows of drawers built into the bulkheads on the opposite side. There were three portholes on the after bulkhead which allowed bright yellow light from the setting sun to stream into the room.

The Chief of Staff made appreciative noises about everything, ignoring his wife’s evident desire to be on her way. Standing in the doorway to his bedroom, Mike suddenly became aware of her perfume.

“This is indeed all quite posh,” Martinson repeated. “I think I can understand its attractions.” He turned to his wife. “Maybe we ought to look into buying a boat, for when I retire, Diane. Do you think you might enjoy something like this? I think it might be fun.”

Diane raised her eyebrows. “Retire? I presumed that that’s still a few years away, Dear.”

Martinson frowned again. “Oh, well, yes, of course,” he said, hastily. “I wasn’t implying that I’m ready to retire. It’s — oh, well, forget it. I guess we’d better be on our way.”

Mike was aware of an undercurrent of conflict in their brief interchange on the subject of retirement. He led them up the narrow companionway steps to the stern porch area, where they could see the entire waterway shimmering before them. The stern porch was screened in on all sides and had a fiberglass roof built on to a tubular steel frame. The deck was covered in rattan carpeting, and the porch furniture was a mixture of wood and rattan armchairs, a table, and some ancient bar stools. There was a gas grill in one corner, set up on a square of bricks. A large fan was suspended from the overhead, and a wooden railing surrounded the porch area inside the screen. They had a panoramic view of the inland waterway in both directions, and the sounds and smells of the water swept over them in tangy contrast to the aseptic air conditioned atmosphere of the cabin below.

Mike offered to fix them a drink, but Martinson, in belated deference to his wife, now firmly insisted that they had to go. Mike led them through the screen door on the port side of the porch and back up the main deck to the gangway steps. The Chief of Staff apologized for intruding, thanked Mike for the tour, and stepped briskly down the gangway, turning to wait for his wife. Diane stood for a moment at the top of the steps. Mike tried not to stare at her. He could not figure out what it was that made her so attractive — she was not beautiful in the conventional sense of the word, but she had a physical, utterly feminine presence unlike any American woman he had met. He was reminded of the French women he had encountered in his travels, who always seemed to project an almost blatant femininity before he noticed anything else about them. She offered her hand this time, and Mike took it, turpentine and all.

“Thank you so much, Captain, for the tour,” she said, her face neutral. “I think your boat is marvelous.”

Still holding her hand, Mike looked directly into her eyes. “It was good to meet you, Diane. Come again.”

She seemed about to smile, but then let go of his hand abruptly, and stepped down the gangway. He watched them walk across the float pier and up the steps. She walked slightly behind and to one side of the Chief of Staff, as she had done in the Officers Club. At the top of the steps, she turned to look back once, but did not wave. One of the guys in the adjacent boat mimed a fainting spell as she left, swooning in mock despair into the sternsheets of the sloop.

“I’m in lo-o-o-o-ve,” he moaned theatrically.

I think I know the feeling, thought Mike, wonderingly.