May 27, 2025 | No More Wake, the Water Has Settled

The first sail was all Lyle and Emmett could talk about for the weeks that followed, and after they docked the boat around one in the morning, beaten and tired and cold and wet, their old sailor tops and bottoms were all shriveled and holey and missing buttons and zippers and strings to hold them together, yet they were very bright—orange and yellow and red—and that’s all that mattered to them, even though they were slightly bitter about it, and Lyle sat in the cockpit yawning big and said to Emmett, “Guide us into shore safely,” although they were still shaken up from a reef they bumped into after misreading a buoy that wasn’t lit with any lights, and they came to a sudden stop in the middle of the waters, pushing them forward in a sort of tacky mess, nearly knocking them off the boat, which would have looked comical from the shore if anyone had seen it. The calm waters made it easy for them to dock without hitting the tall tree close to the shore that had a long branch hanging out far over the water, the one Lyle was warned about when he bought his slip from Chip. They took Emmett’s car back up to Mallets Bay, driving north on a cold night, and dropped Lyle off at his car, which was right where they had left it—in front of the boat lines waiting to be launched into the water, a pretty serene sight once the clouds had cleared and the shadows of the large ships showed their true giant stature. Then they parted ways after a good moment of feeling like they had done something good in the world. They talked a couple days later and said that they both slept in their cars that night.

A few days later, Lyle had stayed a few nights on the ship, though the cushions were damp—because the air was tight, and airflow was needed to keep them from becoming a moist mess. Each evening he laid down and ended up wiping his face with a towel he kept set up on the counter next to his bed, slightly annoyed, and he did this again just a few hours later when the moistness had become even more dreadful than before. His life away from Chipman Point had just begun—he’d gotten a job as a handyman near Lake Bomoseen, about an hour south of where his boat was docked. Only a couple of days had passed, spent laying down late at night with the window cracked, cool air seeping in—though not all the way, because it was still late April and very cold. He laid his head on the pillow each night wondering if he should go back to the mill, pay his dues and respects, and finally keep the promises he’d made to himself years ago: to write his road books and dream again of one day becoming a famous writer.

When Sundays come around, when the end of the day has settled and the people on the main dock have all gone home, and when the days have begun to warm from the eerie cold that floats above the canal in the mornings from the south mountains, Lyle climbs out of the cabin and does his morning stretch, then takes a quick look back at his sailboat—just a few seconds, but they last long and he remembers them well. He walks along the corridor of stones and dirt and sand and up the steep hill, just so he can turn and stare back down at the docks, the small bay, and the two big sailboats that sit so still—held in a morning tune, with a fresh smell in the air that seems to make the fish jump from the water with joy. On this particular Sunday, a couple of fishermen sat by the dock with a candle lit not too far from them, making a nice glow with their shadows reaching slightly overboard and their voices muffled yet clear, illuminating the surrounding waters and Lyle’s boots that were just touching the little part of the water. In front of him was Paul, which extended far out into the ocean bay with the sailboat sitting across the waters, docked up against the movie fisher all around. But Paul wasn’t catching a single fish; instead, he just sat there peacefully, listening to the water shake and rumble and all its quietness.

But he heard Lyle coming down the steep quarter path and turned slightly but didn’t look his way and just carried on enjoying his night, as Lyle was going to do once the boats had been moved out of the shore and onto the water. Lyle started to see a little bit here and there of a camper, which was parked right behind a solid line of trees, and people were in it, sitting at a round table, the light catching his eye. He burst by, trying not to be seen. He just saw peaceful conversation having them on them. There were three of them—a man, a woman, and a kid—and they were talking and laughing and eating something for dinner. Maybe it looked like pasta, Lyle wasn’t sure. He chuckled as he walked through the long corridor and made his way to the long stretch of dirt, rocks, and metal mess that was so dark that when he arrived home late at night, it was hard to see. For a moment, he thought someone was a prowler, but it could’ve just been a shadow of his own.

Once he passed the first building, he saw the boat that the old man had helped him with the other day when he was struggling to do his own boat. Sometimes Lyle peeked inside just to see if the old man was there, to give him a warm welcome and say all the nice things he had done for him that day when he was in a bind and the boat was caught by a gust from the south and was really beat over in the yard before taking a sharp right into the dock where the boat was docked. Laughter came from ahead around the small fire for people, and Lyle heard the voice of what sounded like it could be Chris, Mark, or Harry—the gentleman who had talked about the boat the day before. His crazy laugh, his work laugh, a laugh with a raspy tone that sounded like a voice Lyle had heard long ago when he worked a construction job he didn’t like very well, thinking he could only do…

...Lyle closed the hatch and took off his boots just before nighttime, unlacing them and shaking out the gravel after his worn feet ached from walking all day. It hadn’t stopped raining since April. The trees were growing greener and greener with water splashing around his face, and he could hear the rain—not just hear it, but really hear it. It talked to him, talked to everyone, but right now it was only talking to the man kicking stones down the boardwalk toward his lone sailboat. There were holes in his socks. People showed up for night swims, night rides, or night fishing. The dark was fixed. The waters were calm, peaceful rain filling the windowsill at the broken mesh, and there was a slight odor—not good, rather salty or bad. A good clean and wash might do the truck some good. Tomorrow was a new day. The sun might shine. If it didn’t, nothing had changed. Each day was the same—for better, of course—but always the same.

Lyle took quiet steps, stepping from the dock over the lifelines and across the boardwalk—that slippery slope, afraid to fall in the water, making a loud whooshing noise that woke the lady sleeping in the top room of the old Chip Point building. He was up before dawn and arrived after sunset. The cabin had become a little space where he could think, talk into his studio notebook, and dream. Just dream, as he heard the fish splash around once in the morning and once in the evening. The same fish. He wondered if they all looked the same. It was always the same.

The morning of today—daybreak—opened up to the great land as Lyle came down the hill leaving the boat. The early morning sun cast a light smog that rolled and sat still along the front bank of a mistletoe tower of a mountain, with little cows grazing in the distance looking like little polka dots rolling along and staying still in the grass. Coming down into the valley was where a little river had flooded into the grassy plains of someone’s field, and two young boys were canoeing along. It must’ve been deep enough for the canoe anyway to try along the water, and it looked like good fun too—a bit of a tour this morning. Later that day, Lyle had been dreading having to cancel the flight he’d planned to Japan in October, even though he had been certain this year he’d be going. Everywhere he went on the road in February, March, and April, all he heard from different people was “Go to Japan.” Part of him thought he couldn’t keep going on all these strenuous adventures only to have them and not write about them afterward. So, Japan would have to wait—for now, he thought, as he picked up the Japanese language book, he’d been given for Christmas last year and began scanning its pages again and again, trying to spark some ember in his chest for going somewhere far away, in hopes of learning something about the world.

9:45am - A Note in My Journal from May 22, 2025

"This page is stained with a coffee spill from two days ago when I was hurrying off the dock because it started to sink really low—all because it hasn’t stopped raining for four days and the water levels are very high, although not as high as they once were some odd years ago. I know this because the concrete steps that lead into the marble and stone building, right out-front underneath, have writings—or engravings, or carvings—of different dates and the high waters that had come once: 1972, 1973, 1984, 1992, 1996, the year I was born. The finesse of them cannot be removed, and the people who wrote them are long gone. If you were walking around aimlessly, you would miss the significance of them. So I wrote all these dates so that I could remember them, and maybe when a talk starts with me—someone who had been here when the water was high and the boats were in a mad frenzy floating above the docks and throughout the waters—then I would know, and I wouldn’t forget. It has gotten quiet in recent days, and I need to find someone to share this talk with."