Volume: 2
The beginning of a 1400 mile voyage on a powerboat.
My proclamations of "never again" going to sea changed nothing. Something different would magically appear and off I'd go. As spring blossomed in 1999, the enticement came from Johnny Montana, who wanted to deliver his new purchase, an old fifty-three foot powerboat, from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Newport Beach. Johnny was a rare triple emditz, in that he owned a business and two yachts. He enlisted Ainslie Lake, the Sailing School administrator, and her husband, Matthew, who worked at Johnny's company, eXar, to help. Johnny, of course, had to cancel at the last minute because of business meetings. So, Ainslie and Matthew called me.
This trip forced me to better understand my position in the service industry. Leading the way in my skill set, I commanded computing machinery to vomit unending information to business mismanagers who ultimately made the exact wrong decisions based on what I provided. For this, they paid me ridiculous amounts. My next service down the pecking order consisted of providing flight instruction. Since students expected to pay about a twentieth of what I made in software, I narrowed my clientele to experienced pilots who owned planes I could use in exchange. At the bottom of my service menu was sailing, sometimes racing, sometimes teaching, sometimes just helping out. For this skill, to which I brought the most experience and knowledge, I was paid not with money, but with incarceration, bad food, and living conditions a grade below squalor that were usually tilted or at least in motion and tossing me around. This took place in the name of adventure. Some deep conditioning, perhaps from a previous life, rendered me unable to say no to seeing what was out there. My sailing logbook has 483 of these voyages dating back to when I was sixteen. After this Volume Two trip, there were a handful more to endure, detailed in Volume Three. Some sludge in my brain finally oozed into its proper position after the last one, allowing me to say, with sincere graciousness, "No thank you."
After making a few phone calls, I rode my bike down to The School and discussed the delivery in more detail with Ainslie. The most urgent topics: this was a powerboat and none of us knew anything about powerboats; the Pacific Ocean off the coast of the Pacific Northwest was its most brutal in spring; and Ainslie wanted to bring her two children. Ainslie and I stared at the floor for about a minute. I broke the silence with, "Alia." But Alia was out of town. "Call her anyway. You're the boss, right?" Ainslie made a few more calls.
I introduced Alia in Volume One as my sixth-grade crush. We muscled through our twentieth high-school reunion together in 1992. She escaped from domestic oppression and went to work for The School after learning everything about sailing, engines and food. Since the reunion our relationship strengthened. For parties, weddings and after-regatta sailing brawls, redundancy noted, we served as each other's date and sometimes shield from obnoxious people, redundancy noted again. Sometimes we made out; other times we just fell asleep in each other's arms, listening to music. She knew of my virus-induced, lack of sexual interest. I had made clear that I feared both disease and the emotional upheaval sex can bring. With Alia, though, I couldn't ask for a more relaxing and comfortable friendship.