I take this call. I’m told that I’m going somewhere in Alaska. I hear the word “Nome” at one point. Nome? Sounds a little too much like ‘no’ and ‘home’ put together. For those who know better, it is.
I’m sad about it. Summer’s going to come and go while I’m up there. I’ll probably miss my son’s first college move-in day. It’s more about me, yeah I know. I missed his birth by a few hours, too. All because of a stinkin’ boat. He doesn’t seem to mind or be too upset. I knew that day would come, too. Just because I predicted it, though, doesn’t mean I’m less sad about it or any more prepared. Don’t you see, little focker, I’m teaching you something valuable about whatever it takes. There’s still time for him to write the old man a card.
I snap out of it. Now I know how I was at that age. I’m listening to my new boss talk about flights and duties and pay and other stuff. He’s an old deckhand of mine, no shit. We go back more than ten years. Homie couldn’t drive a wheelbarrow before I trained him. Now look at him: port boss. Still can’t drive a wheelbarrow apparently. I’m happy for him. I’m most grateful for the work. It’s my return to tug-boating after almost fifteen years of being away from it. I didn’t have to sit for an interview or defend my resume–most grateful. Time now for me to dust off these steel tips, I’m telling myself. Make strong again these boat muscles.
Reality barges in for a sec. “Bro, it’s been a minute,” I tell him, “I just wanna let ya know that, okay?”
True, I haven’t been on this kind of boat in forever. I really gotta bone up on my bends–carrick and the becketts–and what’s an acceptable gear pressure on these hulks again? Think think. Course when in doubt, there’s always you get to rile the skipper out his rack. Says so on every universal captains’ standing orders I’ve ever signed. It’s what he’s paid for, but still–
“Don’t worry, Bro, it’s like riding a bike,” he says.
How long before I’m skipper? Do I even want the responsibility anymore?
I like these thoughts racing and ricocheting inside my head. I was rotting back there at my old job. I feel alive again, good nervous. I don’t know what or how else to do the right and manly thing besides what I’m doing.
Plus there’s a real peace associated with going to sea this time. No wife at home who everyone wants to boink. The kid’s all growed up. I’ve got the best life has to offer anyone young or old who’s not on meds. Wait, though. Nome?
Nome!
Already, I’m going somewhere when I get back. Damn right I am. Brazil. Back to Panama. Somewhere with cute accents and big butts, it’s all I know.
Until then, I get to feast my eyes on muskox again. I saw them over twenty years ago when I was in the Guard. Big furry sumbitches, too. The small wooden town. I think I got pretty hammered in a saloon style bar with my icebreaker homies, I don’t remember. Does the Iditarod even go on anymore?
Do polar bears come as far south to hunt muskox? Because they can sure as hell swim. They don’t mind paddling up to boats last I saw, either.
It’s my last dance, I tell myself since even before the call. I don’t mean just this one hitch. “Last dance” as in these next 5-7 years. I’ll be in my early sixties on the other side. I figure then’ll be a good time to start a think tank or a political party or, hell, run for an office. It’s what’s the sixties and seventies ought to be set aside for. It’s the right proportion of youth and wisdom.
Besides, I ain’t done dancing. Dragging chains around, climbing moving ladders , lassoing lines. Check it out: you grab the standing part with your weak hand, the eye of the line with your strong hand, you take the splice side and–fuck it, I’ll take a video of it when I’m out there. It looks cool when guys do it from 20 feet out or more.
We’re at the end of our talk. “Will I get my own room?” I ask.
“What’s that?”
Oh nothing.
“There’s no place like Nome,” I say.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 