Stinger - Chapter 2

The continuing story of a sailboat and a man's struggles with the past.

Audio: The author’s voice recreated on ElevenLabs

Hark, now hear the sailors cry, smell the sea, and feel the sky let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic...
-Van Morrison

Gar was up early, imagining the implications of his decision—a purchase that was beginning to feel more like an inheritance.

Mairin came into the living room with two cups, handing one to Gar. They sat together, looking through the wavy glass of the old window.

“What time are you meeting him?”

“Noon. He texted last night—wants to meet at his dad’s. All the sails and gear are there.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a drive.”

A village snowplow clattered by, leaving a thick ridge of snow at the driveway’s edge. The sound faded, and Mairin asked, “Are you still excited? Because it’s hard to read you right now.”

“I am,” his voice trailed off.

She studied him for a moment. “I worry, Gar. We’ve been here before—when things seem to be going well, and you disappear.”

She said his name with an added weight, and he knew he had to choose his response carefully. Surveying the congress of his mind, he quickly searched for which truths could be shared.

“Well, yesterday I was going over the boat with Murph, and we kinda had the same conversation,” Gar paused.

“And… ah… what did you say to him?” She turned toward him, cradling her coffee cup in both hands. “Are you ready to be back out there on the water? Because you know how I feel about it.”

“I’m good. I mean, we’ve gotta live—we’ve got to live our lives.” Gar felt the immediate guilt of his statement and quickly added, “And yes, I know how you feel. I’ve talked about this with Gene, and he seems to agree that—well, you know…”

“Yes—I know. And I know you.”

“Yeah, you do,” he admitted.

“Things are just moving faster than I’d thought. All of a sudden, there seems to be this big sense of urgency.” She inhaled and let the quiet settle back into the room.

“Okay, you’re right. I do feel like I need to do this now, because I’d like to buy the boat while Dwight is still alive. What do I need out of this?” He searched for the word. “…Continuity? I guess.”

“Are you worried that Dwight isn’t doing great? Last time you mentioned him, he was home.” She looked at Gar. “Is that why you’re dealing with his son?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Dwight’s at Strong, and I don’t know—Murph said it wasn’t looking great. I assume it’s pneumonia. And look, I don’t have to get the boat in the water right away. I can wait until next season and take my time.”

“Yeah, right,” she laughed.

Gar smiled, knowing she had seen through him.

---

Jeff Brown slipped on a mask as he walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the pulmonary clinic. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air. After checking in at the desk, he walked the beige corridor to his father’s room.

Pushing open the heavy door, Jeff was greeted by the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the oxygen being supplied to his father by a nasal cannula tube. The fluorescent lights bathed the room in soft shadows on the pale walls. Dwight lay motionless on the bed—his once robust frame now appeared small, enveloped in crisp white linens.

“Hey, Dad,” Jeff said, gently touching Dwight’s shoulder to wake him. “You wanted me to come in early to discuss Gar and Stinger. Remember?”

Dwight’s eyes fluttered open, and he began speaking in his familiar lilting voice, as if mid-thought. “Today,” he coughed, catching his breath, “get that box down from the loft—the one that looks like a small munitions box. You know the one. Give that to Gar. And my ditty box… It’s full of history: pictures, early stuff, delivery documents, a few race flags. It’s not worth anything to anybody else.”

Jeff was comforted by his father’s familiar staccato speech pattern, reminiscent of a bygone era of black-and-white newsreels and baseball radio announcers. Dwight had been a child of the Great Depression, witnessing his professional father struggle to keep the family afloat. At fourteen, in 1938, Dwight had out-earned his father through sheer determination to work on the water.

“Yep, I got it—I know the ones you mean.” Jeff was fairly sure he would have to rummage around to find them.

“Good, good, good. Now also—you need to make sure—okay, make sure he knows the mast and boom are at Shelp’s. Tell him—tell him don’t let Clark Shelp try any tomfoolery and charge for storage. That storage is all paid up through summer, along with the launch—got it?” Dwight paused, his hand trembling slightly as he raised it, signaling there was more to say. “The lines, sails, everything he needs are at the barn. You’re gonna meet him there today—right, right?”

“Yes, I’m all set to see him out there at noon. Can I get you anything? I’m going to head out—it looks like a bit of lake-effect up on the parkway.”

“No, no, nope. I’m runnin’ out of steam. Just one more thing before you go. Tell Gar I need to see him. Tell him it’s important—he needs to come see me right away. Posthaste. Pronto. You can sign over all the stuff, but let him know. Tell him not today, though—I’ve had enough today. They gave me something this morning. But tomorrow—soon—I need to see him.”

“I’ll take care of it, Dad. Can I give you a call this afternoon? Think you’ll be up for a call?”

“Sure, sure, sure. Give me a call this afternoon. Alright. Get going, and I’ll talk to you later,” Dwight said with a weak grin that let Jeff know he was okay and needed rest.

Jeff glanced at the monitor displaying Dwight’s oxygen levels and heart rate, noting the fluctuating numbers. He pulled down his mask and placed a kiss on his father’s cool forehead.

“Goodbye. I’ll talk to you this afternoon, Dad,” he whispered, before stepping out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.