“The Mahogany Sailboat”

Ethan is a history major with an American Studies minor. His inspiration comes from many different 19th and 20th century novelists such as Joseph Conrad, Kurt Vonnegut, and Jane Austen, but the writer who has had the most profound effect on him is Ernest Hemingway.

A mile or so off the coast of Perry, Maine, a beautiful mahogany sailboat was resting quietly in the water, bobbing up and down with the peaceful evening waves. The sun was very close to passing through the forested horizon off to the west. As the waves moved inland, they went from blue to orange, and back to blue. 

  Two people sat quietly on the sailboat and watched the sun give its nightly farewell. The first, a man, sat in a wooden chair near the bow, lighting his third cigarette of the hour. The second, a woman, sat on the edge of the boat, dipping her toes in and out of the water.

She told a story about a skiing trip she had taken in Europe, but the man didn’t listen. He was far off in his own world. There, only two things had any value whatsoever: the sounds of the waves pushing against the boat, and the taste of his cigarette.

“Are you listening to me?” She asked, her body turned to face the man.

“No.” He replied, his eyes not meeting hers.

“No?” She echoed, not expecting him to have said that.

“I’m sorry. Yes, I was listening.” He said, returning from the recesses of his mind.

“Like I was saying,” she continued, “I’ve never given it much thought. Do you ever worry about that?”

“What is it I would worry about?”

“Oh, just forget it. I knew you weren’t listening.” she said, pulling her feet out of the water. She stood up and he could see her long, tanned legs. For a fleeting moment, there were four things in the world that had value to the man. “I’m quite hungry. Why don’t you catch something for us to share?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t know how to.” he replied, taking a puff of his cigarette and staring at nothing.

“Seriously? You’re a fisherman who doesn’t know how to fish?” she remarked.

“Oh. Yes. I’m only joking. I’ll catch us something nice to eat,” he said with very little enthusiasm. The woman went below deck.

He had forgotten that he was a sport fisherman, in the area to participate in a tournament. He had only just become a sport fisherman. A few nights ago, he was a marine biologist. Before that, he was a cast-out naval officer. Every career fitting for a man with as nice a boat as his, he had been at some point or another.

He got up and fumbled with the only fishing pole he owned until it looked ready to be used. He flung the end out into the dark water and propped the rod up against the gunwale. He left it there and went down below deck where the woman had gone a few minutes earlier. She was laying in bed.

“I put a line in the water.” He said. “Now, we wait.”

“There’s not much to do besides waiting around,” the woman said. “When will we be going back?”

“I was thinking that we might go back tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Are you sure? It might be…”

“Have you ever seen the sun rise out on the open water?” He always asked that question and it worked every single time. This time was no different.

“No, I haven’t. That sounds nice,” she said.

“It’s heavenly,” he replied with a faint smile.

She did not stop him when he climbed into the bed with her. After all, it was his bed. She was on his boat. She had asked to come aboard. 

That night, as the sailboat moved gently with the waves, and the fishing line remained unbothered, the man was able to feel something other than the rhythm of the sea or the taste of cigarettes. Even if only for a passing moment, he felt something real. All that the woman felt was a profound emptiness.

The mahogany sailboat was ashore the next morning, long before the sunrise. And as the sun peeked over the skyline, the boat could be seen sailing onwards towards the next nearest port.