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DAY ONE – Calabash, North Carolina – Mile 340

Nick stood with his hands on the wooden railing.  He looked down at the docks below him.  About half the slips were full.  Nick knew that would change as it got more into summer.  By July, there wouldn’t be an empty berth.  He took a deep breath.  He loved the familiar smell of the marina.  It evoked great memories for him.  He closed his eyes and inhaled, filling his lungs with air and his nostrils with the scent of deck cleaner blended with the odor of diesel fuel and dead fish.  Overlaying it all was the smell of fried onions from the snack bar. 

Nick smiled to himself.  There was always a snack bar, he thought, and they were always frying onions.

Nick opened his eyes and looked around. There were very few people about this afternoon.  Nick could see a couple of marina workers fixing something at the end of one of the docks…a loose board or something.  Nick couldn’t see it clearly.  The docks were in the shape of a T.  Nick stood in front of the office at the foot of the T.  A long dock stretched out in front of him with slips on either side.  The top of the T was another dock with more slips.  Nick knew his boat was on the left side at the top of the T. 

Over to the right, Nick could see a man standing on the deck of his boat.  He was dark-haired, wearing white pants and a navy shirt.  He was talking to somebody, but Nick couldn’t see the other person.  He or she must be down below.  Or maybe, thought Nick, the guy was talking to himself or singing.  Nick did that all the time when he was alone on his boat.

Some sort of psychic energy made the man realize he was being watched.  He looked around until he spotted Nick.  The man shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted up at Nick.  Nick didn’t move.  A few seconds later, the man turned away and went below.

Nick heard voices behind him.  He turned, hoping it would be his boat broker, Carl Henry.  But it was only an elderly couple, making their way down the sidewalk, arguing every step of the way.  Nick sure hoped they had a crew to run their boat.  Neither of them looked capable of even boarding a boat, let alone running one.

Nick looked back to the water.  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the railing.  He was itching to get on the boat.  It was a new boat – well, new to him.  It was actually two years old…one previous owner, a stockbroker who flew too high too fast and crashed and burned on dotcom stock.  Nick was proud of himself for having outlasted the high pressure sales tactics of various boat sellers trying to entice him into a brand new boat and instead got his business manager to look for the same kind of boat that the salesmen showed him…just slightly used.

It was much easier to find boats these days.  Boat brokers knew all about the Internet.  Bernie had found a real bargain – everything Nick wanted and for just over half the price of a new model.  The Lenore.  45 feet of sleek fiberglass and gleaming chrome.

Nick intended to change the name as soon as he could think of the perfect one.  Until then, she would remain the Lenore.

“Mr. Carter?"

Nick turned to see a man advancing toward him.  It was Carl Henry, the boat broker.  Carl was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and high blood pressure, if the ruddy glow to the man’s face was any indication.  Beads of sweat popped out continuously on his forehead, and he mopped them up with a folded linen hankie that he carried for just that purpose.

Carl wasn’t a salesman.  He was a detail man, a number cruncher.  He handled the final paperwork after the salesmen…all younger and taller than Carl, with more hair and better teeth…reeled in the buyer.  Carl treated each transaction as if it were his own child and made sure all the ‘t’s were crossed and the ‘i’s dotted.

Carl wiped his hand on his pants and reached out to Nick.

“Hey, Carl,” said Nick, shaking the man’s hand.  Nick could feel the excited tickle of anticipation run through his stomach.

“Hi, Mr. Carter.  How are you today?”

“Call me Nick.  I’m good.  How about you?”  Gimme my boat!

“Fine, just fine.  It’s a great day…weatherwise…”

Nick nodded but didn’t say anything.  He didn’t want conversation.  He wanted his boat.

Carl Henry sighed and reluctantly held out a large manila envelope.  “Okay, here you go, Mr. …Nick.  Everything is arranged.  The papers are all in here.”

“Thanks,” said Nick, taking the envelope.  It wasn’t the papers he wanted.  It was the keys.

“Will you be setting off today, then?” asked Carl.

Not if you don’t give me the damn keys, thought Nick. 

“I’m planning on it, yeah,” he said.  “I ordered some groceries.  Once they’re delivered, I’m shoving off.”  Nick looked at his watch.  “They promised them for two o’clock.”  His watch read 2:18.

“Well, then, we’d better get cracking,” said Carl.  “Let’s get you aboard.  It’s slip 27.”  Carl pointed off to his left.

Nick picked up his duffle bag and his guitar case and followed Carl down the walkway.  He took a closer look at the boats as he went past them…sleek sailing vessels, powerful racing boats, luxury yachts.

Nick grinned to himself.  That was a stupid phrase, he thought.  Luxury yacht.  Was there a yacht out there that wasn’t a luxury?  Did anyone have to have a yacht to survive?  What was the opposite of a luxury yacht?...a working yacht?...a fishing yacht?...a middle class yacht?

Nick’s whimsical thoughts were brought to an end when Carl stopped suddenly.

“There she is,” said the broker.  “Ain’t she a beauty?”

Nick looked at the boat…his boat.  She was long and sleek and white, 960 horsepower of ‘get me the hell out of here’.

“I understand you want to change the name,” said Carl.

Nick thought the man sounded disapproving, as if the boat might somehow be offended.  Nick opened his mouth to apologize and then thought, what the fuck!  It was his money and his boat and he could do as he damn well pleased. 

“Yeah,” was all he said.

“The papers for that are in there,” said Carl, indicating the envelope in Nick’s hand.  “All the registrations and deeds, etc. were done using the boat’s number, which you can’t change.”

Nick grinned.  “Why would I want to change the number?”

The boat broker raised an eyebrow at Nick as if to imply that anyone who would change the name of a boat could be expected to do anything.

“Just make sure you fill them out and get them to the required department on time.”  Carl paused. “It’s a terrorism thing,” he added in a whisper after a cautious look around him.

A terrorism thing?  What?  Fleets of luxury yachts were being secretly renamed so they could attack…attack what?

Carl seemed to read Nick’s mind.  His face got even redder.  “I don’t mean you are a terrorist,” he stammered, “or even that you are in danger from one.  It’s just red tape.  You know, since 9/11.  Rules and regulations…forms to fill out…mountains of paperwork!  It’s a nightmare!"  Carl patted his forehead again with the handkerchief.

“I’ll make sure I do it all properly,” said Nick, knowing he wouldn’t do it at all.  That’s what he had Bernie for.

“Good, good,” nodded Carl.  “Well, welcome aboard.”  The man stepped to the side and motioned Nick onto the boat. 

Nick stepped gracefully down onto the boat.  He set down his duffle bag and guitar case and carefully placed the envelope full of red tape on top of the bag.  He turned back to Carl, who was extending a set of keys.  Nick took the keys.

“Thanks, Man!”

“You got your final inspection?” confirmed Carl.

“Yes,” said Nick, “yesterday.” 

Nick had hired a professional boat inspector to go over the Lenore from stem to stern.  Everything was in perfect working condition, every item of furniture accounted for, right down to the cutlery.

Carl pursed his lips and nodded.  “Okay then, Mr. Carter.  Enjoy your boat!”

Nick reached up and shook the man’s hand.  He smiled and said ‘thank you’ again, but what he really meant was ‘go away’.

Finally, after another lingering glance along the length of the boat, Carl patted the railing, as if saying ‘farewell’ and turned away, leaving Nick alone.

Finally, thought Nick.  Alone at last!

He grabbed his bags and went below.  He immediately broke into a big grin.  Yes!  This was what he had paid for.  He carefully placed the manila envelope in one of the kitchen drawers.  He looked around the kitchen with its gleaming stainless steel appliances and the shiny black surfaces of the microwave and fridge.  He ran his hand along the countertop…navy blue with grey marbled through it.

The dining nook was a j-shaped white, leather bench hooked around a table.  White throw pillows with navy piping sat against the back of the bench.  Over the long end of the bench was a series of cupboards.  Nick opened them all.  Dishes…glassware…video games…DVDs...

Nick grinned.  Yep, all his needs were met here.  He peered at the panel on the wall under one of the cupboards.  There were over twenty buttons and switches.  They showed the status of the boat…how much fresh water there was left in the tank, how full the holding tank was getting.  It also held the controls for the entertainment centre, even though the TV and DVD player were in the living room area.  A separate TV with an x-box would be in the bedroom, Nick knew.

Nick made his way through the living room, past the white leather sofa and the matching captain’s chairs.  More navy and white pillows dotted the sofa.  On the wall was a picture of a sailboat in a navy blue frame.

That’s gotta go, thought Nick, taking an instant dislike to the picture for some reason.

He passed the guest bedroom.  The privacy door was open, and he glanced in.  Two bunks, the top one a twin, the bottom a double.  Drawers under the bottom bunk for storage.  A closet with a mirror on the outside of the door.

Across from the guest room was another sliding door.  Nick opened it and saw a compact washer/dryer.  He wrinkled his nose.  Laundry!  He hated doing it!  He slid the door closed.  With any luck at all, he had enough underwear to last him through the trip.  He didn’t care if he wore the same pants the whole journey, and since he was going to be alone on the water, he’d wear each shirt as long as he could stand the smell of it.  Nick went back to the kitchen and picked up the duffle bag.  He left the guitar case sitting by the sofa.

He walked up the hall into the master bedroom.  He threw the duffle bag on the bed and sighed.  Home!  Here was home! 

The bed was shaped like a fat tear drop, pointed at the top where it fit into the prow of the boat.  It was covered in a navy blue and white checked duvet.  Two large pillows were in matching cases, and two smaller navy throw pillows nestled together at the top of the bed.  Over them hung a wide mirror.  Nick smiled into it.

Narrow windows down either side were covered with navy curtains.  Nick pulled them open.

He then opened the tall closet and his nose was assailed by the scent of cedar.  Nick knew that was supposed to keep everything smelling fresh, but he wasn’t sure he wanted his clothes to smell like cedar.  He laughed.  Maybe after a couple of days in the same shirt, cedar would be a much preferable odor. 

Nick unzipped the duffle bag and dumped the contents onto the bed.  He picked up a couple of shirts.  He looked at himself in the mirror again and shrugged.  Screw it, he said, and he dropped the shirts on the bed.  He’d get to it later.  He was on Nick Time now.

He went back through the boat and climbed the four stairs to the deck.  He looked at his watch.  3:09.  Where the hell were the groceries?  Nick had planned to…

Well, stop right there, he told himself.  You have no plans.  That is exactly the point of all of this, remember?  Your plan is to be in the Keys in two weeks time.  No rushing, no stress, no getting impatient or bent out of shape over little things.  You’ll get enough of that on tour.

Nick looked around the boat.  He wouldn’t be getting accommodations like these on tour.  And he wouldn’t get to be alone.  That was for damned sure.

And that’s what he wanted right now. 

To be alone.

Maybe that’s what he’d rename the boat. 

Alone.