43
The sloop glided past anchorages and moorings
and entered the hidden realms of the wharves. In a bright alley of yellow-brown
water Mitchell examined the floating docks roped between brine-blackened
creosote pilings to port. Sections, nothing for a wheelchair. To starboard a
small seafood factory squatted on the wharf. The white hulls of two old lobster
boats streaked with rust were tied to the factory’s dock. Too narrow, no room.
Mitchell looked behind the factory to find an empty nightclub, its tall glass
panels stared down on more docks roped to the wharf pilings. He could have used
those docks and the docks roped to the tall pilings below a massive pier ahead,
but the helmsman drifted the powerboat alongside the dock sections to port.
Mitchell followed the long steep ramp angled from the docks under the nightclub
to the top of the pier where a board and batten one room company shack with a
big window thrown open sat under a roof sign:
MAC’S MARINE TOW
NEWPORT, RI
The tide was at ebb. I feel like I’m sitting in the bottom of a quarry he thought.
On the dock Andy tied off the sloop and returned the tow line to the crewman. The helmsman throttled the powerboat and turned it sharply alongside the sloop. Mitchell was unbuckling the grasping glove with his teeth. The helmsman watched from the powerboat and even with his sunglasses Mitchell could tell the man’s eyes were riveted. Then it registered with the helmsman - this guy is paralyzed.
The helmsman smiled. "I'll leave you some tools. I have to make a run. We’ll look at your boat when I get back."
Mitchell felt the trap snap shut. "We have tools. How long?"
"An hour."
"Listen we need to deal with this."
"When I get back." The helmsman throttled the powerboat for the harbor.
Mitchell’s mind was spinning with costs of taking the boat out of the water, repairs, storage expenses or trucking the boat back to the Connecticut. Storing the boat anywhere would cost more than he had. Twenty years lost in a heartbeat.
Andy sat on the cabin top and stared off toward the harbor. There was nothing he could say and for once Mitchell was thankful for it.
"Do you want anything?" Mitchell asked.
"I could use a soda."
"There's probably a machine on the pier. Take your time." Mitchell took a long drink from the jug but there was no solace in it. It occurred to him to ask Andy to buy a pack of cigarettes but he only watched him walk the docks to the ramp and then up to the pier.
A boater throttled down his dinghy to the other side of the dock then climbed out and tied off. This is the dinghy dock for boats from the anchorage Mitchell realized, watching the man hold a piling to step over the water between docks. Hat and sunglasses, jeans and deck shoes. A boater freed for a while from the sail trim, the weather and the sea. The man took his time climbing the ramp to the top of the pier. Then he was gone.