There is a particular kind of conversation that happens on boats at night. When the wind dies and the stars come out, there is nothing left to do. All you can do is sit in the cockpit and be honest. Scarlet Spinnaker is that conversation. Or rather, it is the conversation that almost happens. Then there is the one that takes its place instead.
…
He stood there for a while after she had gone. The marina was waking up around him. Engines were roaring on neighboring berths. A halyard tapped somewhere. The smell of coffee wafted from the harbor office. The spinnaker was still in the forepeak. The pendant was wherever it always was.
His phone lit up on the cockpit seat.
An email. From the skipper.
He read it once. He stood very still. Then he read it again, more slowly, the way you read something that has rearranged the room you’re standing in. He looked up from the phone at the dock where Sola had been thirty seconds ago.
Something had changed in his face.
He stood there at the transom with the phone in his hand. The marina was waking up around him. For a long moment, he didn’t move at all.
A Modern Fairy Tale missed. Or does it?
Lyrics
Night falls, stars above, wind has died,
Just the two of us in the cockpit, quiet night,
He breaks the silence, sitting by my side:
"I saw your pendant—what's it hiding, right?"
I pause, stare toward the distant shore.
"I believed in fairy tales. Not anymore."
Sunsets burn and sunrises gold,
Every passage has its end,
Fairy tales are only mine alone to hold—
That's what the ocean meant.
"There's a crimson spinnaker up front," he says,
"Should we raise it for the wind ahead?"
"No. We're not on a broad reach, can't fly it this way,
And I saw it in the forepeak, by the fenders—
It's scarlet, not crimson, by the way."
He smiles, "Don't know the difference, for sure,
To me it's just F-zero-zero red,"
We don't talk about it anymore.
Dawn breaks. His home marina on the line,
We dock it smooth, secure the lines with care,
Professional to the end, I try to be aligned,
But something's shifting in the morning air.
Standing on the dock in morning light,
He asks if I want coffee, breakfast, stay the day,
I have a flight to catch, I have to go away."
I shake my head, "My taxi's waiting right in sight...
Sunsets burn, sunrises fade,
Every passage finds its shore,
Beautiful things aren't meant to stay—
That's what the ocean's for.
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