Free That Good Night by Richard Probert Page B

solo sailing, usually going away for three weeks or more. No cell phones back then, only pay phones when you could find one on shore. Single handing a sail boat leaves little time to fret about being alone, but at an anchorage or snugly tied up in a remote harbor, that was a different story. I wanted to share the sunsets, the cry of the gulls, a soaring eagle, starlit skies. After a week or so of self-pity, the stabs of loneliness lessened. When not at sea, I spent my nights plotting the next day’s course, writing, reading, and sitting above decks for hours watching stars slowly dance across thesky. When my cruise was over, I had as much trouble citifying as I had in gaining my sea legs.
    I awoke to a sliver of sunlight sneaking around the drawn curtain. With Bob gone, the room felt empty. Following my ablutions and a solid breakfast of eggs with bacon, wheat toast, coffee and orange juice, I had a taxi drop me off at Annapolis Yacht Brokers. A silver Mercedes sat to the left. To the right, was a Beemer sports car, roof down. The brokerage was housed in a grayed cedar shake building overlooking Annapolis Harbor. A yard-armed flag pole with a fluttering U.S. flag accompanied by pennants stood neatly on a manicured patch of grass to the right of a brick walkway bordered with red and white geraniums. An iconoclastic rusting anchor sat stoically at the base of the pole which was encircled by white painted rocks.
    Duffle bag slung over my shoulder, I grabbed the brass dolphin-shaped door handle, swung the door open and strutted into the lobby. To my right was a wall covered with photos of full-suited sailing boats, each seemingly competing for how far they could heel before wind slammed them into the ocean. To my left were two large windows framing the boat-filled harbor. Between the windows was a navy blue wall on which were hung two old bronze ports, with mirrors replacing their glasses. Below the ports stood a shiny brass pedestal complete with compass, iron-ball magnetic compensators, and a brightly varnished wooden-spoked ship’s wheel befitting a square rigger of which there was none among the high-masted, shiny fiberglass fleet resting in the harbor. I was approached by a gorgeous, healthy young woman.
    â€œI’m Kristen. How may I help you?” she asked smiling.
    How I wished I could tell her that she already had helped, just by spilling youth like warm honey. If she only knew how herappearance struck deep into my carnal memories.
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together, youth is full of pleasure, age is full of pain, Youth I do adore thee, age I do abhor thee
. My mind sang Shakespeare as she awaited my answer. I wanted to tell her about Suzy Mae, my first girlfriend. I was twelve years old. About Lori and how we danced to the marvelous and joyous rhythms of youthful romance and marital bliss. About the myths of sex and age. Instead of all that, I said, “I’m here to buy a yacht.”
    More appropriate to mucking out stalls than visiting a yacht brokerage, the loose fitting Wranglers, T-shirt, and Wellington boots that I purchased at Fat Joe’s hardly matched the standard yachty look of khaki, polo shirt, and Docksiders. Add to that an army drab green duffle bag draped over my shoulder, I signaled either being incredibly rich or incredibly nuts, or maybe both. Kristen didn’t seem to care which. With a courteous wave of her hand, she said, “Follow me.”
    â€œWith pleasure,” I responded.
    Ascending an open staircase bracketed by banisters of taut, stout manila ropes, my eyes centered on the sweet swing of Kristen’s youthful hips. Flickers of lusty memories flitted by too quickly before an annoying crick in my left knee interrupted them. Kristen led me to a quietly appointed conference room done up in maroons, browns and, of course, navy blue. Like a jewelry display case full of glittering baubles, a large bay window looked down on the boat-filled harbor.