They touched briefly, and stepped back away from each other in confusion. He was aware of a subtle perfume, and the soft feel of her body. The back of his right hand had momentarily pressed against her belly. They both were startled, and began apologizing simultaneously. He thought of a dozen flippant things to say, but was distracted by her dark, appraising eyes. They stared at each other for one second longer than was appropriate, a visceral, subliminal channel opening briefly between them, and then she half smiled, half frowned, stepped around him and was gone.
He stood there, feeling like a tongue-tied teenager. She had been nearly as tall as he was; probably just her high heels. Part of him wanted to turn around, go after her, apologize again, do something to maintain contact. Then his better judgement reasserted itself, told him to get gone while he could. The Chief of Staffs wife, for Chrissake! He fled through the side door, and went out to the parking lot, a mosaic of images still imprinted on his mind of her disturbing beauty.
He unlocked the door of his car, a white, 1966 Alfa Romeo hardtop coupe, known by aficionados as a “big Alfa.” He slid in, and lit off the engine, which came to life with a satisfying vrooming noise. He drove out of the O’Club parking lot a little faster than was necessary, aware that the Chief Staff Officer probably had seen or heard him leaving.
What had that woman been doing out there alone on the patio; maybe she had been as bored with the reception as he was. He wished he had been able to keep her there for a moment. He made his way across the base, past the piers and the repair buildings, and out the main gate. Turning right, he drove down past the long fence which bordered the airfield for a mile and a half. The Naval Station itself was collocated with the Mayport Naval Airfield, home to four squadrons of anti-submarine warfare helicopters. The tops of the hangar complex were visible above the palm trees and dense palmetto groves which framed the landing strips. To get to the village of Mayport, he had, to drive
almost all the way around the perimeter of the naval complex, a distance of some four miles.
Mayport itself was a tiny fishing village at the junction of the St. Johns river and the Intracoastal Waterway. The St. Johns flows north up the east coast of Florida, through the city and port of Jacksonville, and then east to the Atlantic, while the canal-like Intracoastal Waterway parallels the east coast of Florida. The two waterways joined in a Y-junction a few miles inland from the mouth of the St. Johns on the Atlantic. A ferryboat ran from the Mayport side to the opposite side of the St. Johns, to allow the coastal highway to continue up the Florida coast to Georgia.
Several commercial fishing boats were based in Mayport, tied up to aging wooden piers on the Waterway. There was one large seafood restaurant, an historical tourist attraction called Hampton’s Fish House, which was perched directly on the point defining the intersection of the river and the Waterway, and right next to the ferry landing. The village of Mayport consisted of a few stores selling bait, tackle, and beer, and one gas station. Between the ferry terminal and the main river were two sandy dirt roads embracing a collection of ramshackle wooden houses. On the other side of the fishing piers lay the Mayport marina.
Mike drove down the hard packed gravel road to the marina, parked, made his way past the marina office and across several floating pontoon piers, and went aboard his houseboat, named the Lucky Bag. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by a raucous “Shit-fire!” from a large green parrot who was roosting on an A-frame perch in the main lounge. The parrot stretched his neck and began the bowing routine parrots do when greeting their bonded pair mate. Mike dropped his briefcase on the leather room couch, and walked over to the perch. The parrot was dipping and weaving, and Mike bent his head over to one side, and then the other, much to the parrot’s delight. They then recited the parrot’s repertoire of unsavory language, and, when all the formal amenities were over, he pitched the parrot onto his shoulder board and headed for the bedroom to get out of his Navy uniform and
into his marina uniform of khaki swim trunks, a t-shirt, and ancient tennis shoes.
The Lucky Bag was a converted commercial fishing boat, eighty feet in length, with a proportionally deep beam and draft. The interior had been gutted and rebuilt to accommodate a large central lounge amidships, two guest cabins and a bath forward, a galley just aft of the lounge, and a spacious master’s cabin which took up the entire after section below deck. The engines had been removed, and the engine room, located beneath the galley area, now contained a diesel generator, an air conditioning plant, and the remaining utilities. The deckhouse had been modified to retain the pilothouse and a companionway ladder to the lounge forward, but the entire after section of deck had been made over into a large, covered, screened in porch area which reached all the way to the stern. With the boat moored bow-in at its pier, the porch overlooked the entire waterway and river junction area.
Mike fixed himself a gin and tonic in the galley, and then he and the parrot went up the after companionway ladder to the porch to watch the sun go down over the river junction. After an evening of serious Navy, and a week at sea, the view from the porch deck was particularly lovely. The western sky over the palm trees across the waterway was filled with red and orange hues and light, stringy clouds. The waterway itself was a shimmering sheen of orange, sparkling light, cut repeatedly by a steady parade of small craft going in both directions. There was a slight onshore breeze from the Atlantic ocean, coming from behind the marina and the naval base hidden in the trees. The screeing noises of the gulls, the puttering hum of small boat engines, and a mixture of music from the radios on passing boats provided a soothing contrast to the metallic environment of a warship, with its tight, confined spaces and atmosphere of anxiety over old machinery and often dangerous evolutions. He found it wonderfully ironic that he could slip out of the Navy entirely by simply stepping onto this old houseboat on the river.
Upriver there came a loud honk of the car ferry’s horn as
she got underway from the far shore and headed for the Mayport side. The ferry’s horn was echoed by the lesser blat of a commercial fisherman standing into the junction. The two skippers were exchanging signals about how they were going to pass in the junction of the two waterways. The St. Johns was navigable to large, ocean-going ships from its mouth next to the naval base all the way up to Jacksonville, which meant that considerable care had to be taken when operating any kind of boat in this busy intersection. Mike put Hooker, as he called the parrot, down on the back of a rocking chair; Hooker promptly cussed him and dropped a bomb on the newspaper that Mike kept spread around the rocker to protect the rattan carpeting. Mike retrieved his binoculars from their box by the companionway door, focused them, and identified the incoming fisherman as the Rosie III. Good, he thought. Chris Mayfield. Now maybe I can get the skinny on this stupid submarine business, as well as some fresh snapper for supper. He put the binocs down and retrieved Hooker; the bird walked down his arm and took a slug of gin and tonic, getting a beakfull and then putting his head back to swallow.
“You’re going to get fucked up, there, Bird.”
“God Damn!” croaked the parrot, helping himself to one more shot. He wobbled a little on the return trip to Mike’s shoulder.
“Idiot bird,” grumbled Mike.
Mike left the porch via the port side main deck, and went down the brow to the pier. He waved to a couple of girls who were opening up their boat for the weekend. The big chested blonde invited him to stop by; he acknowledged the invite without actually saying yes or no. With Hooker on his shoulder, he walked across the floating moorings to the sand parking lot, and headed down the dirt road towards the commercial piers.
The Rosie III was docking in a cloud of diesel exhaust and shrieking seagulls, who were anxious for whatever scraps might be coming their way as the crew finished cleaning out the nets. Mike could see old man Mayfield in the door of the boat’s pilothouse. Christian Mayfield was
about seventy, and he had been fishing almost his entire life on the Jacksonville fishing grounds. He affected a poverty-stricken demeanor, always complaining about the high cost of everything, but Mike happened to know that he owned a third interest in Hampton’s, as well as many of the house lots in the village. He normally would not give a Navy officer the time of day, but had been intrigued by Mike’s choice of habitat, and his habit of bringing Hooker into the back bar at Hampton’s.
The front bar of Hampton’s was where the tourists went; the back bar, separated from the main dining room by the kitchens, was reserved for locals, and the bartender, an enormous black man called Siam, made sure that this rule was observed. The day he had moved onto the houseboat, nearly a year and half ago, Mike had decided to check out the action at Hampton’s. He had gone into the tourist bar with Hooker on his shoulder. The hostess had been flustered by the bird, and especially after Hooker started up with his salty language. She had told Mike he had to leave because no pets were allowed in the restaurant. Mike had objected on general principles, and then Hooker helped things out by proclaiming a word which genuinely embarrassed the waitress at the top of his durable lungs. The waitress had called Siam, who doubled as bouncer. Upon discovering that the offending customer was almost as big as he was, and being even more intrigued by the parrot’s language, Siam had invited Mike to the back bar. He later told Mike he was curious as to the extent of the bird’s vocabulary, cursing being something of a fine art in Siam’s opinion. Siam and Hooker had compared notes on profanity apparently to Siam’s satisfaction. The bartender then tried to pet the parrot, who promptly took a chunk out of his hand, much to the delight of the regulars. Mike had been a local ever since. Thereafter Siam had great fun trying to induce the uninitiated to go down and pet Hooker on the head. He also kept a small, wooden box with a towel stuffed in it under the bar for those occasions when Hooker drank too much and passed out.
Mike used the side entrance near the kitchen into
Hampton’s, thereby avoiding the fancier front foyer. The back bar was a small, plain room, with only five booths along the water side, and a long bar with a steel foot rail made from the steam exhaust piping of the original ferry, and stools running down the length of the landward side. Most of the long wall on the waterway side was glass, which overlooked a railed deck, and a floating pontoon to which boats could tie up. Waterborne regulars could moor to the pontoon and come directly into the back bar for a beer if they wanted to. Behind and above the bar ran panels of mirrored glass, which let the serious drinkers enjoy the view outside without having to execute dangerous maneuvers on their barstools.
Siam was polishing glasses and ignoring the one other customer when Mike came in. When he spotted Hooker, Siam got out the wooden box and slid it down the bar, and began mixing a gin and tonic for Mike, putting in extra lime. Hooker was partial to lime. Mike took a seat at the end of the bar, and waited for Mayfield. He wondered if he should call the ship, to make sure the shut down of the main plant was going all right. The Chief Engineer would stay aboard until fires were pulled under the two boilers and the ship was on shore power. Another good deal for the snipes, to stay aboard after everyone else went on liberty. He decided to give it another hour, so as not to appear that he was worried about what was going on in the ship, even though he usually was. Mayfield banged through the side door, and yelled for a beer. He spotted Mike and joined him at the end of the bar.
“Hello, you ugly fuckin’ bird,” he rasped, scowling at Hooker.
“Fuck your Mama,” squawked Hooker, aiming a bomb at Mayfield’s right boot. Mayfield shied his boot away at the last instant. He smelled of sweat, fish, bourbon and diesel oil in equal proportions.
“Dirty little fucker,” he said. “Hey, Siam, this fucking bird just crapped on the deck, for Chrissakes. What kinda place you runnin’ here, anyway.”
Siam just shook his head; he was not much for conversation.
Mike had been letting Hooker suck on the gin and tonic for a few minutes, and the parrot was now rapidly developing a starboard list. A cocktail waitress came in from the front bar to get a steel tray of ice, saw the wobbly parrot staggering around the bar, and shook her head disapprovingly. Mike, figuring enough was enough, laid Hooker down in the towel box, where he promptly closed his eyes and passed out in a heap of feathers. Mayfield looked over into the box.
“You’re gonna kill off that little fucker, he keeps drinkin’ like that,” said Mayfield,.
“Hasn’t hurt you any, best I can see,” replied Mike.
“I’ve been going to sea longer; toughens up your liver and lights. What’s happening with the fucking Navy these days? I thought I saw number 920 out there along the Stream the other day.”
“You sure did. Some wiseass called in a report of seeing a submarine out there, and we were elected to go see. You don’t happen to know who that was, do you?”
“Yeah, I do. It was Maxie Barr on the Brenda. He called me about it the other morning on the marine; him and me sailed in the Liberties in Willy Twice, so he figured I’d recognize a U-boat if I saw it. And he said it was a fucking U-boat, came up on the surface, sorta halfway up, and then went back down again. Scared the shit outa him.”
“He called it a U-boat?”
“I just said that, didn’t I? Yeah, he called it a U-boat. Said them fucking Nazis were back, and that he was gonna tell the Navy, get somebody out there to kick their asses.”