Charlie Hagglund rarely paid attention to the morning mail delivered as consistently as though posted on a railroad’s timetable. But receive mail he did, routinely. His regular copy of Boy’s Life, a costly selection from the Science Fiction Book of the Month club and, now and then, a friendly reminder of an overdue library book, was added to the stack of bills and handwritten correspondence received by his Aunt Lillian.
Today’s delivery included something new. A postcard featuring a photograph of a United States Coast Guard Cutter addressed to Charles Hagglund scribed in a fine hand.
Sniffing the card was an unplanned reflex rewarded with the faint fragrance of honeysuckle, or at least what Charlie imagined honeysuckle would smell like if there was any around. With a mixture of dread and delight he turned the card over and read:
“Dear Stink-Pot Boy, if you haven’t yet drowned your sorry rear-end, Ahoy. Got your Aunt’s address from my Uncle, so I thought I’d toss you a line, har, har! Leaving Alameda for Easter vacation and headed your way. Will be there next week. Regards, your friend, Peggy.”
Ignoring the epithet, a reference to a sailor who runs under power instead of sail, Charlie quickly scanned for a postmark. The card had left Alameda three days ago. He tried to make the calculation. “Next week?” he muttered. “When next week?” He thought but did not voice a mild curse at the unpredictability of women.
Morro Bay’s embarcadero steamed with appetizing vapors from boiling crab pots adding to a waft of salt and fishnet, diesel, and creosote. Tee shirts and flowered moo-moos filled shop windows beside displays of exotic shells from distant shores. Billed caps and ashtrays provided proof of one’s visit for those from the San Joaquin Valley enjoying the coolness of the breeze in escape from the oppression of confined air, the dust of cotton rows. The glory of victory in one world’s war was dimmed by the police action in another’s land, but that too had passed, this time in stalemate. Normality and happiness were now pursued with purchase based on credit. Splurges were found acceptable in the efforts to release pent up desires for pleasure pursued through travel and recreation, and meals prepared and served by strangers who also did the dishes.
Embarcadero merchants wily enough to survive more than a season or two at the whimsey of the tourist trade were accustomed to seeing Charlie Hagglund afloat on harbor’s waters. His fourteen-foot former yard boat now gleamed with the white of fresh paint, her transom proudly bearing the name "Bob’s Comet" in navy blue.
Local artists manned canvasses mounted to anchored easels trying to capture the glory of the day, bent on preventing their works to appear as photographic by adding style with palette or brushstroke. They too considered Charlie’s presence a sign of normality in a changing world. Many had tried to capture him in their work, but he never paused to pose. All the more reason to be puzzled by his current behavior.
For the third day, Charlie stood off the finger pier of the Morro Rock Yacht Club aboard "Comet." He would drift with the tide until swept past the pier, then conserve fuel by rowing up-harbor. Once beyond the pier, he drifted outbound once more. Regulations prevented anchoring mid-channel, so Charlie aped the labor of Sisyphus pushing the rock as he repeated his rowing and drifting, rowing, and drifting.
Finally, she appeared, standing on the pier as shiny and white as "Comet’s" paint job, clad in sneakers, pedal pushers, and a blouse free of flounce, a sweatshirt’s arms tied in half-hitch about her neck, her golden locks tucked astern in ponytail. Peggy Phillips had returned to Charlie’s life clutching two bottles of Coca Cola.
Charlie came alongside and secured "Comet" using a bridle rig that allowed single handling.
“Permission to board, sir,” piped Peggy.
“Granted. Hand me those cokes first. Hate for you to end up in the drink with the drinks.”
Peggy perched on the gaily flowered seat cushion, a special purchase for her comfort that Charlie never acknowledged making. “That old Evinrude still work?
“Yeah, she works.”
“Rowing for exercise?”
“You watching?”
“Yeah. Only for about an hour. Wanted to see what you were up to. Tending a diver? Charting the bottom? Waiting for me?”
Charlie pulled out his utility knife and opened both cokes. “You could’ve been a bit more precise about your ETA, ‘ya know. Would have kept me from waiting on ‘ya in front of that crowd of embarcadero seagulls.”
“Couldn’t really estimate my time of arrival being as I was traveling at the mercy of my Father’s itinerary. Besides, a little mystery is good for a relationship.”
“Where’d ‘ya read that? Dear Abby? And who says we have a relationship?”
“How many days you been rowing?”
“Uh, three, ‘er, two and a half, is all.”
“Is all?”
Gulp, slurp, swallow.
"Bob’s Comet" crossed the channel to the sand spit with the smile of a bow wave leading the way. Bringing her to a sliding stop Charlie raised the motor out of the water and leaned astern as Peggy waded ashore with bow line in hand dragging the boat to safety. Charlie joined her and together they secured the boat from wind and tide.
Crossing the spit at the lowest point between a pair of dunes the couple greeted the wind and the spray of the Pacific herself with glee and abandonment. Finding a resting spot above the waterline they watched as breaking waves caressed the coastline. To the north, the mass of volcanic plug known as Morro Rock dominated the horizon. Thru the mists to the south, the land’s end of Point Buchon took aim westward. Behind them, the Cuestas encircled the frame. The vista seemed to disappear as the pair found their world had become one where only the other mattered.
Peggy rested on elbows and let the sunlight rain on her peaceful face. A bit bewildered but not in the least unhappy, Charlie imagined the sweet perfume of honeysuckle mixed with the salt air.
The week passed too quickly, as weeks do for the young exploring first love. Daily trips on the water, a refresher course in sailing for both, and finally, they enjoyed the cool of a Saturday matinee at the Bay Theatre. Charlie bought the tickets, Peggy provided the popcorn. A double feature, but neither remembered what movies they watched. Peggy was scheduled to leave on Sunday morning.
Charlie was as nervous as a cat in an old folk’s home. A good chunk of the money he had saved from last summer’s job at the Fuel Dock he was now wearing. Hard shoes, dark socks, slacks, shirt, tie, and sports coat, all purchased from a J.C. Penny catalog with the expert help of his Aunt Lillian, now held on to him as a prisoner in tweed. It wasn’t enough that he looked like a landlubber, now he had to face yet another fear. He had to dance. With Peggy. At the Saturday Night Ball held at the Yacht Club. For this too he had been prepared by stepping on the toes of his loving, and forgiving, Aunt Lillian.
Charlie tied "Comet" to the pier and walked under the "Members and Guests Only" sign hung over the gangway to the clubhouse. He accepted the “guest” title for what it really meant. “Tolerated outsider.”
But he was surprised at the warmth of his reception, for the most part. Boatowner wives knew him as “that nice boy, Charles.” Boatowner husbands who had paid in gratuity for Charlie’s services afloat and ashore welcomed him as a working sailor, who provided yeoman service. Their male offspring viewed him with a less favorable view. His selection as the company of the week’s most appealing sailor did nothing to improve their opinions.
Chad Snyder had enjoyed the nickname Duke since his little league days. Now in high school, he was blessed by a pitcher’s frame and cursed by an overvalued sense of self-worth. He decided he deserved Peggy’s attention and affection early on, during her first visit the previous summer. Her time away did little to cool his curiosity, dim his expectation. Now, taking another sip of his bourbon-laced coke he watched as she left the room hand in hand with Charlie Hagglund to catch the breeze on the balcony overlooking the pier. Duke decided to make his move. He followed unsteadily in their wake.
In the colored glow of paper lanterns, Charlie and Peggy discovered embrace as a normal extension of the closeness of a waltz, the brushing of cheeks, the smells of perfume, and butch wax. They were even in height, so no stretching was required to find and explore, ever so briefly, lips pressed together in awkwardness. Then a pause as they watched the flashing of buoy lights, the glowing wake of a fishing vessel returning home from the sea. A tapping on his shoulder. Charlie turned in response.
“Shove off, Boat Boy!” slurred Duke. “Your kind don’t belong here.”
Peggy stepped forward before Charlie could respond. “What kind is that, Duck? Sober? Smart?”
“It’s Duke, not Duck.”
“Walks like one, talks like one,” answered Peggy.
“Peggy,” started Charlie.
“Quiet. You’re my guest. Now, Duck, you set sail, before I scream and point a finger right at your scrawny ass!”
“But Peggy,” Duke tried.
“Peggy my left foot! Hit the road jerk.”
Duke spun and walked away.
“I could have handled him, ‘ya know.”
“Yeah, I know. You would have slugged him. He would have slugged you. All three of us would have been thrown out on our cans. And nothing would have been accomplished.”
“Peggy?”
“What?”
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!”
Charlie caught sight of movement on the pier below.
“Oh, crap!” he sighed as he deserted Peggy for the exit. Duke Snyder was headed for "Comet" with a boathook in hand, destruction in mind. Charlie made no apology as he rushed through the dancing crowd, speeding to the defense of his beloved craft. He caught Duke in mid-lunge, his second, of boathook to wooden hull. As they grappled Duke’s foot caught a cleat. He fell backward, hit his head on the pier, then rolled into the water. He didn’t move. He didn’t float either. He was gone. Out of sight.
“Oh, crap!” Charlie repeated. He stripped off the sports coat and hard shoes and jumped into the water feet first. Seeing nothing he forced his head below the waterline and groped under the pier. He latched onto Duke’s body, found his belt, kicked and tugged until the two were in the clear. Popping to the surface he saw Peggy on the pier, boathook in hand. He slipped the tip under Duke’s belt and Peggy took a strain.
The crowd of adults that had gathered helped Peggy land Duke like an oversized mackerel. He coughed, spat out water, coughed again, and sat up. Charlie heaved himself over "Comet’s" gunwale. Eager hands helped him ashore. Water streamed from his newly bought ensemble. He checked his pockets for baitfish. "Bob’s Comet" was scarred but not broken.
A near loss of life has a sobering effect on a young drinker. Duke immediately showed relief at being alive and remorse, much for the same reason. He approached Charlie with a bowed head and an extended hand.
“Thanks, man, sorry I was such a dumb ass. I’ll never take a drink again.”
“Uh-huh. How are ‘ya at boat painting?”
“We’ll see. We’ll see.”
Sunday afternoon was either the end of the previous week or the beginning of the next depending on whether one is more remorseful than anticipatory. For Charlie, it was a toss-up. The Buick idled in wait as Charlie said goodbye to Peggy. This time the kiss was without surprise, without awkwardness, as experience had taught lessons no book could offer. As the car disappeared down the embarcadero Charlie learned another lesson. Saying goodbye did not soften the feelings of loss anymore the second time around than it did the first.
“Come on man, I’ll buy ‘ya a coke” offered Duke.
“Sure, Duck, why not?”
Both Charlie and Peggy have grown up a bit in this episode. I love your colorful way of expressing things like, "He checked his pockets for fish bait."
Not only is Morro Bay a great place to grow up in, a great place to have a romantic interlude like your first real kiss and your first real dance. As a landlubber, I learned to dance early but not in such conspicuous places like the yacht club.
The competition over a budding, becoming beautiful tomboy is very familiar, along with the obnoxious and arrogant jock. At least, when Charlie saved Duke's ass, Duke saw his error and began to make amends. Doesn't happen very often, but when it does makes for good reading rather than lifelong feuds over high school crushes.
The Apple Tree Blossoms in The Fall, is the life journey of Carineh - a child, a teenager, a wife, a mother, but most of all a woman of purpose. From stories of her parents held-up by bandits; the white donkey gifted by Khomeini; her father's death f
Charlie Hagglund rarely paid attention to the morning mail delivered as consistently as though posted on a railroad’s timetable. But receive mail he did, routinely. His regular copy of Boy’s Life, a costly selection from the Science Fiction Book of the Month club and, now and then, a friendly reminder of an overdue library book, was added to the stack of bills and handwritten correspondence received by his Aunt Lillian.
