Free Body of Immorality by Brandon Berntson

enjoyed scanning the ocean with the telescope. He was a true man of the sea when he did this; he felt like Ahab. At times, he saw the hump of a whale, a sailboat, or dolphins at play. More than once, he witnessed flying fish emerging from the surface and descending into the water again. Grinning to himself, he wondered if he’d ever stumble upon a sea-dragon. One thing about the ocean, he realized, was the affordability it provided to his imagination. The space in his head was clear, allowing room for primitive, ancient reflections of tales at sea. The telescope was like a writer’s favorite pen, something he kept close at all times, and sentimentality washed over him when he peered through it, a reminiscent spark of love similar to when he’d opened the present on his twenty-first birthday. No woman had ever given him that feeling, and when Marion had left, his love for the sea only grew in proportion.
    “Below with love!” Tommy cried from the deck, raising a bottled beer. “Below with love!”
    Tallard grinned, felt the warm wind whip against his face, and leaned over the railing. He scanned the sea with the telescope again.
    “Oh, shut-up already!” Art called from below, and Carl—out of the corner of his eye—saw Tommy throw his dark head back and laugh.
    Good times, Tallard thought. Real good times.
    For a split-second, he forgot about good times with his friends. On the horizon, he spotted a ship centered perfectly in the middle of the setting sun. The sun was an intense yellow/orange ball over the straight line of the dark sea. It was hard, of course, to tell with the brightness of the sun (Tallard winced), but there was a ship out there.
    Ships, of course, were not rare on ocean waters. They were, in fact, a dime a dozen. The possibility of something out of history, however, was something else altogether, and that’s what the ship looked like to him. Because of the sun, and the distance, it was hard to tell. The shape of the vessel was distinct, however, a shape he recognized. Tallard studied it, peering closely. It wasn’t a speck on the ocean, but it was big enough for Tallard to see three huge sails. The bulk of the vessel made him stare for a few minutes longer. He’d seen pictures, studied and read about them, but ships of this kind were reminisced only in museums and picture books. Yes, he recognized it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d would say he was looking at an exact replica of the Santa Maria, the Nina, or the Pinta, what they called a carrack or nau. Only the red crosses were absent.
    But that was ridiculous.
    Wasn’t it?
    Tallard smiled, thinking about the years he’d spent on the ocean. If the ship were an ancient vessel, it would be the discovery of a lifetime.
    As dad had given him the telescope—as a boy dreaming of a nautical life—he was a kid again. A wave of naiveté slipped cool hands against the base of his scalp, easing around his brain. Soft fingers massaged his thoughts, sending him into cool reflections as if he’d experienced this moment five-hundred-years ago. As if he’d seen the ship before in all its glory. As if—no—he’d sailed it. It was not, however, déjà-vu. Seeing the ship defined his life more than the Pacific, more than Preservation, or Marion flying off to New York with her rich, publisher boyfriend.
    Time slipped away, his friends, and the houseboat. Carl Tallard fell completely, unalterably in love for the first time in his life. He forgot Art and Tommy were here with him, and when he did think about them, he wished they weren’t here.
    How can you say such a thing? Do you really mean that?
    No, he didn’t mean it, but he felt it—if only for a second.
    He was standing in the middle of a head-on collision between two racing boats at full throttle. It could only mean one thing, he thought. The discovery of the ship, the chance encounter, was definitely true love.
    He was crazy with it.
    But how could that be? He couldn’t tell for sure.