Inflatable Kayak Blog

by Carole Ann Moleti

Liz walked across the wrap-around porch. Rotting wood sagged under her feet. Her hands fumbled with excitement, and she struggled with the old brass lock. The double doors creaked apart. A sense of déjà vu, a chill, a fleeting vision of the house bustling with activity disappeared into dead silence. She opened the mullioned windows, banging until her wrists hurt to loosen the reluctant sashes.

Her footsteps echoed like leaden boots on bare wood floors. A dust ball under an end table turned out to be the remains of a rat, eye sockets empty, teeth visible in a jawbone, desiccated fur barely holding onto the long tail. Bile rose into her throat.

Liz fashioned a rodent scooper from a piece of cardboard. Holding it at arms length, she pulled open the back door and thanked God it wasn’t swollen shut. She stepped onto the porch and tossed it into the yard. The rat broke into two pieces as it bounced off the chest of a man walking up the path through a pine grove bordering the property.

“Now there’s a brave lady.” He watched it drop and, nonplussed, spoke with a heavy Cape Cod accent. “Not only doesn’t she scream for help when she sees a mouse, she heaves it at the fella who’s got the nerve to come walking up to her back door unannounced.”

“I’m so sorry, sir!” Liz looked up as he ascended the rickety steps. About the same six feet as Gerry, he sported a neatly trimmed gray moustache and beard. His voice was more lilting than his broad chest and arms suggested.  Muscles bulged under his “Yankees Suck!” tee shirt.  His eyes, framed by delicate laugh lines, were the same shade of blue as the sky.

He removed his cap and winked. “You must be from New York. The ladies from down there don’t put up with anything, particularly from Red Sox fans.”

“It was a rat, and I wanted to get rid of it. I’m from Boston. Liz Levine.” She extended her hand.
He grabbed it in a gentle but firm handshake. “And I didn’t even ask which hand you used to pick up the rat.” He walked back down and kicked the carcass under the privet hedge that stood against a broken picket fence.

“Now it’s fertilizer. Mike Keeny from just up Stony Brook Road. I came to see who bought the house. Had my eye on it for a while, but the cost of real estate in Brewster is sky high and this place needs some restoration.”

“So you appreciate historical property, Mr. Keeny.” Finally, someone who didn’t think she was crazy moving from a Beacon Hill townhouse to a dilapidated Victorian loaded with original period furniture and tales of bad luck for a rapid succession of owners.

“They don’t build them like this anymore. And it’s Mike. So where is Mr. Levine?” Liz looked down and struggled to hold back the tears. “He’s deceased.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. Is it okay for me to call you Liz? Or do you prefer Mrs. Levine?” Mike grabbed her hands. “I lost my wife two years ago. I know how terrible it is, and I’m a shade older than you.”

“Liz is fine. Being a widow isn’t pleasant at any age.” Her hands slipped from his grasp.

“No, it isn’t. Well, I better get going. I live at 68 Stony Brook, the small colonial. Nothing as grand as your 1875 Victorian, but Brewster is the prettiest town on the Cape, nonetheless. If you need to use the phone, or anything else, it’s a short walk.”

“I have a cell, thanks.” She wished he’d leave.
“I don’t have any technology. Just an old-fashioned kind of guy. Don’t even have cable. Jeez, the things they show on that HBO.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Mike.”

“I’d like to see the place, once you’ve fixed it up.”

“Of course.” Liz turned to go back inside hoping he’d take the hint.

He tipped his finger in a lopsided salute, put his Red Sox cap on, and strode back through the pines.

Something about him seemed familiar; maybe she’d seen him on the beach during one of the summer seasons. Liz burst into tears and cried for a few minutes. Mike was trying to be neighborly. Why had she been so mean?

Gravel scrunched in the driveway, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. An army of young women jumped out of a van, each carrying a bucket, a mop, and a vacuum. A stout redhead got out of the driver’s seat and bounded up the front path.

“I’m Mae of Mae’s Irish Maids. You must be Missus Levine.” Mae grabbed her hand and shook it; the grip of her calloused, cracked hands firm.

“Yes, please call me Liz.” Was everyone around here this friendly?

“I’ve got my best crew with me, Lizzy. This place needs a bit of freshenin’, don’t she now? Run along. I’m the hired cleaner. If yer goin’ to be stayin’ here tonight, ya best be gettin’ some groceries and linens.”

“Linens are in the car. But I do need groceries.” Liz gladly picked up her purse and fled.

Liz unloaded two carts worth of staples and gadgets into the spotless pantries. The smell of ammonia drifted down the stairs. Whooshes of running water muffled the brogues. Liz stayed out of the way, arranged her clothes in the antique dresser and armoire, and made her bed.

By five p.m. the redheaded tornado departed. An eerie silence and chill returned. Liz walked through the rooms. They still needed painting and decorating, but the house looked better than she had expected.

Hunger knocked for the first time all day. She walked down to Paine’s Creek Road and Kate’s, the local hot spot.

“I’ll have the fritta and chowda special,” she ordered, noting how her Boston twang got more Cape Coddish.

Families, friends and couples laughed, shared French fries. Impossibly big ice cream cones dripped down happy children’s arms, staining tongues funny colors and raising multicolored dots on their clothing.

“Numba 63,” called the counter clerk.

“That’s us,” she said. Embarrassed she forgot she was alone, Liz  sprinkled malt vinegar on the fritters and found an empty table.

“You look like you could use some company.” Mike Keeny smiled down at her, holding his hat in his hand.

He looked like the last puppy left in a litter, wondering where all his mates had gone.
She didn’t want to be alone, she didn’t want to be with anyone, she didn’t want to cry. What she wanted was Gerry to be back beside her sharing a clam plate and raspberry lime rickey. She wanted this all to be a bad dream. Yeah, she wanted company.

“Sure.” Liz patted the seat next to her.

“I ordered already.” Mike perched on the edge of the picnic bench on the opposite side.

“Don’t wait for me to eat. Nothing tastes worse than cold fritters.” He studied his receipt. “I’m numba seventy-six, so it’ll be a while.”

“Why don’t you share them with me while you wait?” Might as well act neighborly. “This chowder needs to cool off anyway.”

Mike beamed. “Great idea.” He waited until she moved the plate into the center of the table and took one before he helped himself.

The need to chew masked awkward silence.

“Numba seventy-six!”

Mike clambered out of the bench and returned with a clam strip plate and raspberry lime rickey, with two straws. He couldn’t have known. He’d ordered before he even saw her. He couldn’t read minds. Whether or not it was a sign from Gerry, Liz decided to interpret it as one.

He sat next to her this time-at a polite distance-and pushed the plate next to the now empty fritter container. “Here, share this lime-rickey with me. I’d prefer a Heineken, but they don’t serve it here. Anyway, I’m going fishing after this and beer and boats don’t mix.”

He popped two straws into the top and offered it to her first. The lipstick she’d put on came in handy to mark whose was whose. They made quick work of the clams. Mike enjoyed his fries while she polished off the now cooled chowder.

Heavy comfort food, but Liz’s heart felt lighter than it had in a while. “I need to walk this off.”

“How about a ride with me on the marsh? I’d rather show off my new toy than fish.”

“Excuse me?” She must have misunderstood.

Mike’s cheeks blushed crimson. “Jeez, I meant my new kayak. Never was considered the most well-spoken person in the world.”

“I’ve never kayaked.” Liz always feared the currents at Paine’s Creek.

“No matter. The tide is on its way out so the trip in will require some effort. But on the way out we’ll just need to steer. Got a sweatshirt?” He was either oblivious or not giving up.

“No. I guess we’ll have to do it another time.”

“Naw. I have a spare, and insect repellant. Those green flies can be rough.” Oblivious.

He put Liz at ease—like she’d know him a long time. She was not going to act the same way she did earlier.

He interpreted the silence as agreement. “All set. We want to get out of the marsh before 7 p.m. Can’t miss the best sunset on the Cape, but I’m not prejudiced.” Mike beamed like he’d engineered the topography to take full advantage of its unobstructed view of the western sky.
Liz thought of sitting on the rocks next to Gerry, his arm around her, lips brushing her cheek, whispering a promise about the night ahead. Her stomach churned, mixing comfort food and guilt. Gerry had only been dead nine months, and she was on a date. She grabbed the tray and dumped the trash.

Mike was at her elbow. “My truck is just over there.”

They walked to his pickup, the space between them wide enough to accommodate the ghosts of their deceased spouses. Both lonely, neither alone.

Liz slid into the passenger seat. Her heart thumped as hard as the door. The pickup eased over a rise.

The panorama of shimmering azure water and golden sand bathed in the peachy glow of evening sunshine never ceased to cheer her. High-pitched squeals of kids crabbing filled the air. A father and son tried in vain to get their kite aloft.

“Great night for a paddle.” Mike dragged a silver and blue pile toward the end of the load bed. He plugged a hose into an outlet in the back of the truck and, within minutes, a sleek inflatable kayak morphed out of what looked like a rubber raft that had scraped over barnacle-laden rocks once too often.

Mike slung a backpack over his shoulders and lifted the craft effortlessly. Liz scrambled to help him carry it over the sand, but he handled it with aplomb. The guy was likely in his fifties, but fit. “I’ve got this. Grab the paddles, please.”

Liz picked her way over the rocks and shells, stopping to transfer the paddles to the opposite hand, slip off her sandals, and roll her Capri’s up over the knees. Mike, in the water up to his ankles, held the craft steady while she waded in and climbed into the front seat.

Her eyes met his, which glinted with sparks of happiness.

Postponing the fishing expedition certainly hadn’t upset him. “For some reason, I feel like we’ve known each other for a very long time. You look so familiar.”

“Yes, I suppose we’ve seen each other at the beach. I’ve spent summers up here for years.” If she told him her deceased husband had arranged the date, he’d think she was nuts.

He waded up to his knees and hopped over the side. “Life vests are under the seats.”

The steadiness of the kayak had reassured her, but she complied.

Mike buckled into his. “Never know what can happen-especially with the currents and unpredictable winds. Habit I’ve gotten into, even on my Boston Whaler. He spritzed on some insect repellant and passed it to her before paddling the kayak into a labyrinthine creek.

“What should I do?” Liz experimented with hand position.

“Circular strokes.” He demonstrated the smooth motion. “You just have to get a sense of the timing.”

They slipped into a tandem rhythm and cut through the powerful onrushing current like a needle through cloth. The exercise worked Liz’s upper back and arm muscles into a comfortable athletic stretch. The setting sun still warmed her skin, but neither was breathing heavy,

The rhythmic motion and timeless beauty of the marsh blurred time. It could have been one hour, or one day, or a century ago that they’d entered the narrow channel winding through the sea grass. Tides rose and fell everyday, no matter the season or who was there to witness them.

The creek meandered in one direction, then reversed upon itself in a seemingly endless series of turns.

The kayak skimmed the surface like a dragonfly.

Liz couldn’t see Mike’s face, and alone with her thoughts and memories, lost herself in the peace. She sorely needed this serenity after the turmoil of moving into a house in desperate need of repair and renewal-like its new owner.

“How’re you doing, Liz?” Mike’s voice drew her back.

“A perfect end to the day, Mike. I’m sorry you missed fishing though.”

“I’m a fisherman by trade, Liz. Go out everyday in the summer and most in the off -season. But nights get lonely. Why waste such beautiful evenings and pleasant company?”

Liz turned to look at Mike. Not a whisper of tension etched his face. A tiny smile curled his lips. He paddled, his blue eyes took her in like cold lemonade on a hot day.
The pleasurable tingle of being admired by a man faded quickly to a clutch of remorse in her chest.

“I’m…oh look at the osprey!”

Just in time to cut the tension, the large white bird alighted on the platform built to offer a safe nesting space far from interlopers. The current ran faster as the tide receded. Liz was glad to have Mike’s powerful strokes moving them forward. Sweat dampened her neck. She paused to dip her hand into the chilly water and splashed some over her arms and throat.

“Good idea.” Mike did the same, the kayak jolted and swiveled when he stopped paddling.

She picked up her pace and got them back on the correct track.

He took a bottle of water out of the backpack and offered it to her. “I didn’t expect company so I only have one. Ladies first.”

“I’m okay, Mike. You’re doing most of the work.” She grunted with effort.

He took a swig. “Let’s turn around here. We want to get back before sunset.”

He back paddled, and she did the same. The kayak spun and ran with the current toward the beach. Only an occasional swipe was needed to keep it from getting caught in the eddy.

Rock crabs scampered under them. Small fish clustered near the bottom. Green strands of seaweed streamed like mermaid’s hair in the rushing water.

“Think we’ll make it out before we’re beached?” She didn’t relish the thought of slogging through the mud barefoot.

“Kayaks sit high in the water and only touch bottom near dead low tide. Another reason I like this for fishing. If I have to pull, it glides. Easier than carrying my gear and walking.”

They emerged from the creek and were back at the crescent shaped beach, now packed with people trying to get the best vantage point.

They only scraped bottom at the shoreline. Mike stowed his paddle and climbed out. He steadied it for her, then pulled the kayak well up onto the beach. He piled the paddles and backpack on the sand, then opened the valve. While it deflated they stripped off the life vests. Cool night air raised goose bumps on
Liz’s damp skin. She rubbed her arms.

“I’ve got sweatshirts.” He strode over the sand with the kayak and rummaged in the truck.

She gathered the rest of the gear and followed. Mike draped a huge sweatshirt over Liz’s shoulders and gallantly helped her up onto the rocks. They sat close enough for their shoulders to touch briefly. The orange ball plopped like a giant egg yolk beyond the horizon. Everyone around them oooh’d and ahh’d, and smooched and giggled. Being alone here would have been miserable.

A sense of peace, of relaxation settled over her. Today she’d left her old life behind, not by choice but rather by necessity. The timeless, tireless tides, the serenity of the salt marsh, the glory of a gorgeous sunset enjoyed with a companion offered respite, renewal, reassurance.

Mike helped Liz off the rocky ledge, his hand strong, warm, gentle. There wasn’t much left to say on the short drive back to her house.

“Come in.” Liz unlocked the door.

A warm breeze blew through the floor to ceiling windows, banishing the chill. Mike followed her in.

“Would you like to stay awhile?” She imagined he’d look at the house, but he only had eyes for her. “I’d love to, but you look exhausted. Big day, moving, cleaning, unpacking, getting settled. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Thanks for a wonderful evening, Mike.”

A smile spread over his face. “How about I take you to Chillingsworth one night? They have a great wine list.”

“Actually Mike, I’d rather go to Kate’s. We can bring our own wine down to the beach- for after the paddle–and watch the sunset.”

“You let me know when. Remember, I’m just up the road in case you need anything. Goodnight.” He picked up her hands. After a gentle squeeze, he dropped them, gave his little salute, and disappeared into the pine grove.

Streaks of purple clouds drifted like gnarled fingers through the sky, now tinted pale orange. She, and the house, had come back to life.

(The Author, Carole Ann Moleti writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance with such a light touch, you might not notice the witches, ghosts or fairies. Can you spot any in this interlude from Unfinished Business, her novel in progress set in the historic town of Brewster Massachusetts)

(Carole is an avid outdoorswoman who enjoys winters on the steep, icy slopes of the Northeastern United States and Canada, and summers on the waters of Long Island Sound, upstate New York, and Cape Cod Bay. She’s packed her Sea Eagle 370 and is headed for new adventures, which she’ll be sharing here in the months to come.)