Trevain stood on the docks and watched The Fishin’ Magician depart until it was indistinguishable from a grain of sand on the horizon. His worries accumulated as he watched his boat float away, completely without his guidance. He was not sure whether he felt more like his crew and ship had abandoned him, or like he had abandoned them. His brother had been right: he had not taken a break from work in as long as he could remember. Now, as he watched his men head off without him, he felt sick to his stomach. It did not seem right to him that he should be left on the land while they sailed off to sea—his sea. That was where he belonged.
He felt a powerful withdrawal from the comfort that his sense of control had given him. Trevain had never realized that being captain of his ship had not only meant that the crew depended on him, but that he also depended on them. Without his boat and his men, his body did not feel like it weighed the same as before. He did not feel like he was attached to the ground. He was unencumbered and free from burden—he was as light as a teenager, and just as terrified.
He wondered how owning and running a floating vessel could have the effect of making him feel so steadfast and immovable. Why did bowling through twenty-foot-breakers make him feel like his roots were firmly planted? When he was at sea, he was floating in stability.
Turning to the parking lot, he began walking towards his car. There was no use standing on the dock and waiting for the Magician and his crew to return. They would probably stay over in Kodiak, and might not return for a week. He glanced back over his shoulder deftly, and seeing nothing as far as the horizon, felt strangely naked. He had been stripped of his boat, his job, and his authority. He returned his gaze to his Range Rover as he approached it.
His eyes fell on the gaudy bumper sticker that Callder had given him for some recent past birthday. Big orange capital block letters against a blue background declared: “EAT. SLEEP. FISH.” He had always seen the sticker as a lame product of Callder’s juvenile sense of humor, but had sentimentally valued it because it had been a gift from his brother. Now he saw it as almost a clinical diagnosis of an addiction. Callder had been serious: Trevain did little more than eat, sleep, and fish—he felt little joy in anything other than work. He needed a break.
“They disobeyed me, so let them work and carry on as they see fit. It’s none of my concern; they’re all big boys. They’ll be fine.”
Unlocking and throwing the driver’s door open, Trevain entered the car without even removing his waterproof yellow rubber clothing. He realized he was still somewhat in denial about the whole situation when he glanced in his rearview mirror to see if the boat was returning. He shook his head to clear it and turned the key in the ignition. Putting the car in drive, he placed his yellow-gloved hands on the steering wheel and used his yellow-booted foot to accelerate out of the parking lot.
The world around him seemed to blur as he stared straight ahead in a sort of daze. He went through the motions of driving robotically, without much conscious thought or focus. His latex-swathed fingers clutched the steering wheel tightly as angry thoughts filled his mind. He remembered the negative feelings that he had been unable to shake on the boat—the sinking sensation of dread. He merged onto the Sterling Highway, his foot heavy with indignation on the pedal. His arms locked stiffly as he remembered the way no one would listen to him. He did not understand how he could feel so much galvanizing rage, yet feel so aloof and withdrawn from his body at the same time. It was as though he had split into two separate beings—one was feeling, and the other one was retreating to a distance and observing himself feeling.
He was unable to appreciate the magnificent views of the Kenai Mountains which the highway afforded. The sight he usually found tranquil and poignant had about as much effect on his psyche as a cheesy greeting card would have had.
Trevain gritted his teeth and reached to the center console to turn on the radio. He browsed through his presets, feeling awkward at pushing the buttons with his large yellow gloves on, but at the same time hardly noticing. He really did feel like something horrible was going to happen, and this anxiety was upsetting. He felt like he had left a huge part of himself on The Fishin’ Magician and all that lingered were the frail remnants of a clumsily functioning person.
A few familiar chords enveloped him from the various locations of the speakers on his car. It was an old romantic rock ballad he had heard when he was younger, and the tune and the sound of the voice roused his memory. His lips began to move along with the long-forgotten words as the song drew the distant pieces of him forth.
These highways just ain’t long enough
for my jaded soul to wander.
These oceans just ain’t large enough
for my spirit to navigate.
Trevain felt the music pervade his being. His waterproofed fingers began to tap on the steering wheel as his waterproofed toes lightly tapped on the gas pedal—too lightly to make a difference in the speed, which he suddenly noticed for the first time. He had been driving at 110 miles per hour. He took his foot off the gas pedal completely for a few seconds to allow the vehicle to calm down.
Unbidden, Wyatt’s words came into his mind: This is Alaska, and it’s fucking gigantic. They can’t afford to put a cop at every exit. He frowned, thinking of the unnecessary and fruitless risk. The risk that his whole crew was now facing without him. He pressed his foot back down until the pedal hit the ground. He glared forward at nothing in particular as he began to accelerate again, feeling a thrill from the wrongness of the speeding. It gave him a sense of control along with a rush of masculinity. Watching the other cars appear to fly backwards made him feel superior to their mellow, listless drivers. The throbbing of the subwoofers added to the experience. He felt alive. He could not recall ever having felt this free on land. Again, he was floating in stability.
He forgot about his responsibilities and only felt his own existence and movement. All awareness of where he had come from and the troubles on the boat slipped his mind. All remembrance of his destination disappeared too, and he just lost himself in the music and the sensation of flying across the road. The smoothness of the rolling wheels over the highway was intoxicating; he wished the highway and the moment could go on forever. He felt the same delirious delight he felt on his boat.
He felt ridiculous.
A lyrical line reminded him of Aazuria, and thinking of her made him feel suddenly embarrassed. Trevain suddenly recalled that he was not heading home to an empty house to wallow in his own distress. He was heading home to where the beautiful dancer and her two adorable younger sisters were now staying, and they would be looking up to him for guidance. There was another ship at home of which he was newly crowned captain. He wondered why for a moment he had been acting like a rebellious youth. He had never even done so even when he had been an adolescent. It puzzled him that thinking of an eighteen year old girl made him feel embarrassed about the puerility of his actions.
“Maybe Brynne is right,” he said aloud. “Maybe I am going through one granddaddy of a midlife crisis.”
He continued driving, swallowing up the miles until his home. Before long, he found himself pulling into his driveway, and glancing up at the windows to check if any lights were on. Would Aazuria be awake? Seeing nothing, he sighed and entered his garage. It was an ungodly hour, and any normal person would be sleeping. It was too late for anyone to have stayed awake and far too early for anyone to have just awoken—that ominous silent moment right in between.
Trevain exited the Range Rover and entered his house, heading directly for the stairs. It slipped his mind that he had not eaten in quite a while, and it slipped his mind that he was still wearing his waterproof fishing clothes as he headed upstairs. He found himself glancing under doors for any signs of light or life. It was just his luck that as soon as his house was no longer empty, he would still come home to find it deathly tranquil. What had he expected? Someone smiling and greeting him when he walked through the door?
He sighed, heading for his bedroom. He dearly wanted to just lie down and let slumber take him. He wanted to forget all about the emotions he had experienced on the boat, and especially all the ones that had been generated since he had left the boat. When he was steps away from his room, he thought he saw the dim flickering glow of a light under a door. It was the room he had shown Aazuria. He felt a small rush of hope that she was awake. How he wanted to talk to her; if only he could see her face once before he went to bed!
He approached her door, trying to walk softly, but instead having his rubber boots squeak loudly on the hardwood floors. He winced at the sound, and inwardly scolded himself for still wearing his rain gear. (It was the first time he had become aware of it since he had left the boat.) It occurred to him that perhaps Aazuria just slept with a dim light on—a night light or a lamp of sorts. He noticed a flicker again as he stared at the glow, and wondered if it was a candle. Did he even own a candle? Surely she was awake—it was not wise to fall asleep with a candle burning, and Aazuria seemed like a very wise girl.
Trevain felt tempted to knock, but he immediately realized what a horrible idea that was. (He had already lifted his hand to the door, but he abruptly lowered it before it made contact.) There was no sound coming from behind the door, and Aazuria was most likely asleep. Even if she was awake, it was rather unseemly for him to knock on her door at this hour! After assuring her that he would be the perfect gentleman, it would be ridiculous to bother her now, in the middle of the night, on one of her first few nights in his home.
She would surely think that he was seeking sex. He shuddered at the foul thought of being considered a dirty old man. He imagined Aazuria’s face painted with fear and distrust if she were to open the door and behold him. He remembered what he was wearing. With a little sigh, Trevain turned away to head down to the hall toward his own room. He could be a patient adult and wait until the morning to see his new houseguest and speak with her.
As he walked away, he heard a light shuffling sound. He turned back and saw the light under her door becoming brighter. His hope was instantly reignited and shortly gratified. The door opened to reveal Aazuria’s curious face lit softly by a flickering candle she was holding in a candleholder. She was wearing a black robe over her nightclothes. She held a book under her other arm.
“Trevain,” she said in surprise, with a warm smile of greeting. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. “I thought you would not return for days!”
“I’ve been kicked off my own boat,” he found himself saying blithely.
“What?” she asked.
“I was supposed to be out at sea much longer, but I was paralyzed by this awful feeling. I tried to stop the fishing trip altogether, but the men just opted to eject me instead. Callder decided to try to run things.”
“Callder?” Aazuria asked, before remembering herself. “Oh, I am sorry. I barely know him; I have only met him a few times. I am sure he is quite capable…”
Trevain started laughing. “He’s completely incompetent. I’m expecting my multi-million dollar boat to return in several pieces, if at all. The boat’s insured of course, but the people can’t be replaced. My best bet is if Brynne and Doughlas take care of things. I’m sure it will all be fine.”
Aazuria stared at him for a moment before she realized that something about the experience had shaken him; the smiles and laughs were all a cover. She gestured inside of her room. “Would you like to come in and talk about it? My sisters are asleep down the corridor, and I do not wish to wake them.”
“Yes. I…” Trevain welcomed the idea of sharing his uncomfortable burden, but then he remembered the sensitivity of the situation. Aazuria was young—impossibly young. It was unseemly to enter her bedroom. He really did not want to make her feel as though he sought to sleep with her.
She cocked an eyebrow at his hesitation. “You really should vent to me about the injustice of it all; it might make you feel better.”
“No. I…” Trevain felt heat flush his cheeks, and wondered why he had been suddenly reduced from a successful captain to a bumbling schoolboy. His own nervous spluttering annoyed him. The conversation was in serious need of a change of subject. Or change of location. Before he could think of the right thing to say, he noticed something strange.
“Were you reading by candlelight?” he asked with a frown.
She glanced down at the candle she held with dismay, nearly loosening her grasp on its holder. “I… well, I was…”
“You should have asked Mr. Fiskel for a desk lamp or a flashlight,” he said.
“Of course,” she answered, “but I did not want to bother anyone so late. I do not mind candlelight.”
“What were you reading?” he asked.
“Oh,” Aazuria said, squirming a bit as she tried to conceal the book behind her. “It is just a novel. I probably should be reading something scientific or historical…”
“There is nothing wrong with fiction,” Trevain said. “Science and history can be easily learned. Fiction leaves you with vague impressions you need to sort out on your own. Human relationships are complex.”
“I believe you are right,” she said softly.
He nodded, reaching up to scratch his head as he looked at the strange young girl holding a candlestick. He thought that the best thing to do was to bid her goodnight and head to bed. He was tired, and stressed, and very likely to say something bizarre or senseless. He did not want to make an ass of himself, and she probably wanted to go back to reading her book. Yes, he should tell her goodnight.
He opened his mouth to wish her sweet dreams, but as he was beginning to realize was often the case when it came to Aazuria, his tongue and body disobeyed his commands. He instead found himself asking, in what was probably the dorkiest pick-up line ever:
“Aazuria… would you like to see my plants?”