Compass

Yep, that's the Goodewind.
Built in 1928 and apparently still sailing.

There was the time Stillman nearly capsized a team of international biologists and a boat crew. He and Pan had signed on as assistants to a Royal Geographic Society expedition to scientifically survey the Pitcairn Islands group, specifically Henderson Island, Oeno, and Ducie Atoll. It was part of an effort to get Pitcairn and its band of licentious mutineers and their neighborhood islands listed as a World Heritage Site. The adventure was quite romantic, in its own way, though the young Stillman’s essential task would be to carry fossilized coral for the geologist, observe crake behavior, search for seeds in the poop of Henderson Island fruit doves, and pay his own way—the project coming up a little short of money at the time.

He and Pan got on Goodewind—a steel-hulled ketch from World War II days—at Papeete for the sail to Pitcairn Island itself. On his first midnight watch with Quint, a first mate of sorts, young Stillman was left at the wheel while Quint went into the chart room and stayed there for a while looking at charts. Stillman, not wanting to reveal his naivete, chose to reveal his fecklessness instead.

He thought he could stay on course simply by watching the bubble-shaped compass. Stay true to a SE heading and what could go wrong? Except idiosyncracies of the sea sent him a couple degrees north of SE, then a touch south of SE, and with a little more correction a bit further north of SE, then a little too much SSE … ESE … etc., etc. etc. With each correction, Stillman’s fear ramped up as he tried to cover up his incompetence and the accompanying embarrassment.

And suddenly the boat lurched around, the main sail swung, and the boat came around in quite an opposite course than intended. The sudden thunk and shift brought out the crew like a handful of fretful ants—Quint first then the captain and everyone else. Stillman was speechless with shame as he realized he had stupidly endangered lives and a sailboat due to his own inexperience and fear of appearing stupid … ultimately proving the point.

Fortunately, the wind was less than forceful and no lasting harm was done. The crew turned the ketch around and the voyage continued—though Stillman received a kindly talking-to by the captain. Stillman, though, would not have thought it inappropriate—and would not have protested one wit—if the captain had keel-hauled his sorry ass for being a self-absorbed dumbshit.

The Goodewind crew soon taught Stillman, and he soon learned, that proper piloting is not a matter of being slavish to four letters, numbered degrees, and vertical lines on a floating ball. A sailboat sails best when the pilot picks a slow-moving cloud, or better, a bright star, and gently points the bow in its general direction. Direction is best managed with a gentle hand on the wheel and a feel for wind.

It is a life lesson Stillman seems to have done his level best to forget. But yesterday, he went paddleboarding on a quiet bay, his first time to paddle a surfboard while kneeling and eventually standing up. He did fine, but realized afterward perhaps the same revelation applied.

Forces

Nothing grows old in Paradise. Stillman figures it's because nothing lasts that long. A still driveable if suffering car above the driveway has a bumper sticker on its back window: "HONK IF PARTS FALL OFF!"

He has not seen so many dinged, rusting vehicles since he lived in the upper Midwest with all the salting of the winter roads. He knows it must be the sea air. Sometimes he thinks he can taste it in the rain—or maybe it's just sweat. And park a car in one place for a week and vines will remove the hubcaps and do a giant squid on the bumpers and transmission. It's a tough neighborhood for anything that lies still too long. Rip Van Winkle would never have been seen again if he'd drifted off in Paradise.

It's definitely hard on some cottages that someone left and has yet to return to, and are unlikely to now. They perch dark and drowning on hillsides above and below the roads and steep drives. Moss-slick stone stairs lead down or up, but they don't go far before disappearing. Rusty blemishes like pimples form and grow into sores on corrugated roofs. Mold mutes bright pastel colors. The empty windows are black. Washing machines that will never cycle again slump on the covered porch, their white porcelain finishes in a siege lost to salt air. Dark orange cement mixers darken to splotchy brown and settle, unlikely to turn again. Signs like "Whazzit-Whazzit Villa" and "Casa de Whazzit" go gray, recede into evergreen shadows. Overgrowth tears apart rock walls in slow motion, like an eminently patient octopus worrying a clam.

Somebody loved those places enough to try to build dreams there, at least in Stillman's imagination that tends to romanticize romance and the end of romance. Somewhere there may be pictures of those days and those places in shelved photo albums, and perhaps memories that go with them. A couple or family may have lost track of who and why and what that key in the kitchen drawer once opened. Perhaps the builders —now far away and facing chillier days—still drift off and have a glimpsing dream of ten thousand rainy fingers tapping on the roof, of the wall they pulled from the hillside itself, of the new cistern they poured to contain all the rainwater they were certain would come year after year, next season if not this one.

But nothing lives forever here except the jungle vines that reach and twist and pull apart with a patience only possible in Paradise.

Weight

Stillman shed a lot of weight for the journey. Several tons, he figures, once the library went to the used book store, the clothes went to the thrift store, the bookshelves went on Craigslist, and the golf clubs and espresso machine were left on the neighbor's steps. Another ton+ if cars are part of the equation. But then there was a love he left, and judging how heavy that left his heart he figures it was pretty much a wash by the time Dionysus's dad picked him up for the early AM ride to the airport with just a big suitcase, a big-screen computer monitor (double-boxed), a veteran Timberland carry-on, and a backpack fit-to-burst.

He had to shed a final ten pounds in the terminal. He had figured if he could heft the new silver-shelled suitcase it was not over the 50-lb. limit. He was pleased he could lift 60 pounds when he learned it weighed that much. But he wasn't as philosophical about the $100 charge. The contents didn't add up to that, though the suitcase itself probably did. So he found a carpeted corner where the bank of pay phones used to be when there were such things as pay phones and he disgorged. He shifted some stuff to his carry-on. But then it was over the side—an industrial-grade surge protector, black Johnston & Murphy dress shoes he'd taken good care of with cedar stretchers and everything, blue jeans, and his favorite pair of University of Colorado sweat pants. He hoped the garbage guys could find some use for them. He had been pretty sure they'd be too warm for Paradise but had hedged his bet. Now he threw the hedge out.

He came in two pounds under. He probably could have kept the sweat pants that he wouldn't wear.

Bringing his dumbbells was out of the question so those went to a friend's teen son who was getting to that age when he might want dumbbells. But Stillman is also of an age and his body softens and weakens more quickly now. A little lifting keeps the creeping softness and weakness from discouraging him overly much.

So he had this idea. Rocks. He could lift rocks. There are plenty of rocks in Paradise and he began keeping an eye out for ones of certain sizes, certain weights. He found what seemed like a ten pound block to replace a little green medicine ball that was among the things he'd left behind. Ten pounds is about right for a lot of exercises. Then he watched for bigger for presses and rows and spotted a 30-pounder at the top of the driveway, a rock that was longer than thicker.

So he now he lifts rocks on the deck and tries not to think about the chances of dropping the big one on his head. Are the chances cumulative? Or calculated solely per set of lifts? Or per lift?

He lifts pretty much every day, between rain showers. And someday, maybe, the weight of the rocks he pushes, pulls, and presses may equal that of all he put aside and left.

Metaphorical Leaks in Metaphorical Boats

Stillman's boat leaks.

Metaphorically speaking, because Stillman doesn't have a boat. He likes boats, likes the idea of them, but he does not understand them—real boats or the metaphors they sail on. But he knows writers are supposed to dwell on sailboats--working with and adapting to the reality of wind and sea and all that to go wherever the wind and sea are likely to take them anyway.

More or less, and metaphorically speaking.

But he sat and thought of a boat last week, saw himself inside it with a caulking gun and torn up towels to be stuffed into whatever cracks he might conjure. But then he went topside and his imaginary boat was high and dry and up on a frame in a driveway. It couldn't leak and yet he feared it would. And he thought, perhaps, boats should have a chance to leak for real in real water.

Metaphorically speaking.

No, it is not his boat that leaks but his downstairs room. It leaks when it rains heavily—like last night. His downstairs room is below a flat, tiled deck. It is not obvious where the rain gets in, but it does most every time heavy showers slide in from the east. For Stillman, the phrase "the rain gets in" always brings to mind the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band song about fixing a hole. But it is not possible to fix this hole, as far as he can suss out, because there is no hole, as such. There is only the tile of the deck above, and the seams of the boards in the ceiling below. The rain gets in where it can't be seen or stopped. To fix that hole would be to remove the deck and ceiling and start over, with little confidence that such an effort would find and fix the hole, or simply send new rains in search of new leaks.

It drips pretty much all day after a heavy rain, like last night. The water has created its stream bed and now seeps in it.

The rain last night was so heavy the leak worked its way along the seam to the middle of Stillman's downstairs room. It also found ways through the cracks where the main house meets the downstairs room. It came in along the wall. He put out small plastic trash cans, towels, an empty cat food pail to catch the obvious drops. Still, the leaks water-stained the Maramekko canvas of a navy blue sailboat on a navy blue wave that hangs above the bed. 

Ironic, really.

The leaks in his room do not bother Stillman overly much. As long as they don't wet the bed or waterlog his desk, he works around them. He actually feels good about not worrying about working around them.

However, he thinks it is time, perhaps, to accept that his boat is already in water and he already knows how to sail his boat--in a fashion. He now accepts that it leaks, that all boats leak. All boats leak no matter how long one pretends to keep the boat on shore and inspects its inner hull and caulks this and stuffs rags in that.

It leaks. Life leaks. That is what pumps are for, Stillman tells himself.

Metaphorical pumps for metaphorical leaks in metaphorical boats.

Of Paradise and Parasites

Stillman has made a self-discovery. He hiked a beach with Pan, Dionysus, and J and dismissed their whimpering and flapping arms as he led them, shirtless, through the scrub back to the car. He sighed through his nose. He rolled his eyes. Sometimes he waved his arms like a Chinese lucky cat so they would not feel he was ignoring their distress, though he was in fact ignoring their distress.

Back at the house above The Bay, they counted welts—10, 20, 40, 80 ... 100+ each. They medicated with prophylactic rum against dengue fever and to toast the terrifically terrible persistence of syringe-nosed insects and flies with jaws larger than their heads--a feature that is physically impossible, but any creator who tried to explain that to the flies probably risked making it to Day 6. 

People said we're moving to Paradise, Stillman thought. So who's to say it isn't Paradise for parasites, as well as for people who make calendars? He considered the etymology of entomology, but again couldn't remember which was which.

Stillman vaccinated himself with the others but did not share that he had found all of three bumps on his back and shoulders ... and they might only be ganglion cysts, him being 50 and all. He feared his companions might be demoralized.

The next morning, Stillman sat on the porch with coffee and watched a singular mosquito bump against the ankle of his crossed leg. He wondered if hair would grow there now that he no longer had to wear socks or shoes. Five minutes passed. The mosquito's attention wandered. Eventually, so did the mosquito. A small, crested anoli leapt from a chair leg and did what Stillman could not bring himself to do.

Stillman went back inside where Pan and Dionysus were debating coffee or medicinal rum—or medicinal rum in their coffee. 

"I may be an X-Man," Stillman announced.