I’m still breathing in slow, heavy rhythms of sleep during my first moments on deck, and I round my shoulders against the damp, cold air. Fog hangs all around the boat, and dew drips from the rigging as we splash buckets of salt water down the decks to clean. The icy water bounces over the lip of the bucket, landing in my boots and soaking my shorts. My hands stiffen and ache as I lower the bucket by a rough length of rope and haul it back up and over the rail.

Passengers begin shuffling around deck. They move awkwardly like penguins, circling and pacing as they wait for coffee or their turn in the heads . The galley sounds grow louder, and cast iron and tin create a discordant xylophone played with wooden spoons and metal spatulas. Out of the smoke stack, the diesel stove expels a thin, oily exhaust, and I move through the morning as if automated, smiling on cue to passengers, adding vigor to my chores when the captain walks by.

* * *

It’s hard to remember how happy I was, or even remember who I was, before I got this job as deckhand. Maybe if there were more women deckhands, it wouldn’t have seemed like such a big deal. Now a summer’s worth of insults and minor emotional abuse from the captain and mate has me shaken. Not only is my confidence gone, but I can’t seem to understand why I’m here or why I feel the need to prove myself—to the captain, who will never be satisfied—to his wife, who will never be happy—and to my boyfriend, the world, and myself.

I try not to think about the Captain’s remarks, which sometimes reverberate in my head, convincing me I’m nothing.

"If it didn’t take you so long to mouse those shackles, we wouldn’t be late for our Coast Guard evaluation."

"Astern! I said astern not ahead! What are you doing?"

"For the last time, go under the cleat. I’m not going to tell you again!"

I ignore feeling like a child, having to receive permission to do anything, and I even try to pretend that my boyfriend, a career sailor on another boat, won’t be gone at the end of the season. What I wonder is what will be left.

* * *

Wiping down the rail with a chamois, I notice the fog lifting and see one of the passengers emerge, gliding toward the schooner in Anna, our little pea pod. As she ships her oars and grabs the swim ladder, I reach down and catch the line. Jen, the first mate and captain’s wife, hurries over, and we help the passenger aboard.

"Why don’t you let me have that line, Lisa. I’ll tie Anna off the stern until after breakfast."

"Uh…actually…would you mind if I skipped breakfast and rowed to shore for a bit? I haven’t been ashore in weeks, and…"

"Yeah, go," she says motioning with her hand and walking aft.

I almost can’t believe it, but I don’t stop to question. Before she has time to change her mind, I lower myself into Anna and push off. With several quick strokes on the oars, I realize that I haven’t grabbed any money. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever I might need doesn’t matter. What I need is this, so I pull harder on the oars, leaving the Mary Day behind.

There is a slight roll from swells out at sea, but it doesn’t disturb the glassy, reflective surface of the water. The fog has retreated past the mouth of the harbor now, and the sun is bright and warm. I row into the main docking area where a lobster boat leaving, its diesel engine's deep vibration a familiar sound. The skipper waves, which surprises me, so I wave back, holding the edge of the float with my other hand. I gather the little clothesline of a rope attached to Anna’s bow and tie it to a cleat.

I start walking up the dock with my head still turned over my shoulder toward Anna. She floats so lightly on the water that the light bounces off little waves and swirls psychedelic shapes all along the smooth, glossy paint. Turning away from the harbor, I can just hear the sound of the lobster boat rounding the point of the harbor as it fades into the distance.

I walk up the hill past what looks to be a small restaurant or bar, empty this early in the morning. Further up but still part of the same building is a one-room art gallery with a CLOSED sign in the glass portion of the door. Through the glass, I see little carvings of piers and sea gulls, lobster boats and buoys. And in the window there are large carvings—jovial, smiling fishermen in yellow rain pants and black rain hats. The expressions etched into the carvings aren’t flat like the souvenir figures in most shops and galleries. They’re round-faced and cheerful. And the pieces are large—too large to be purchased as mementos and placed on living room shelves in Iowa or Kentucky. I imagine the artist and picture a bearded man with a hardy laugh—someone who doesn’t take life, art, or anything too seriously—someone who sees humor and beauty in the myth, as well as in the reality of coastal life.

On the outside wall of the gallery, there is a portion of an old fishing net with colored glass globes placed within the mesh; I assume that they are old lanterns from ships, beacons of some sort. Now they just refract the light by the gallery turning the sun into a milky green like the sea.

Not 200 feet from where I've tied the pea pod, the fishy, low-tide scent from the docks is already gone. The sun, just coming over the trees now, is hot and simmers up the fragrance of the shrub roses, growing in the sandy soil by the side of the road. Heat bugs crack the morning air like static electricity, leaving the crickets competing with each other in the chorus. And pollen drifts up and down a slide of sunlight above the tall grasses.

Moving down the road at a steady gait, I'm suddenly aware of my appearance. Still wearing knee-high rubber boots from the morning wash down of the schooner’s deck, I feel silly. I laugh a little at myself, which feels refreshing.

A little way down the road, I pass old white houses with carefully trimmed lawns and wide, wrap-around porches. Petunias and impatiens are packed to bursting out of half barrels on the front lawn, and hanging baskets of fuschias extend from the porches’ roofs, so their blossoms dangle above the rails.

A little further, the road forks and a small general store is on the right. I remember that I don't have any money, but I open the screen door and enter anyway. The floor is made of worn wooden planks, and it reminds me of the old country store where as little girls my sisters and I used to get penny candy and giant dill pickles wrapped in wax paper. I think I smell the licorice, but inside it’s cinnamon and bread dough that scents the store.

A woman and a teen-aged girl stand behind the counter at the back left of the store, and when they see me, they smile.

"Mornin’. Need coffee?" the woman asks in a distinctive coastal Maine lilt.

"No thank you," I smile.

Looking me over from ponytail to knee-high rubber boots, she has an easy, knowing grin.

"Up from the boat? You look like crew to me."

"Yes," I smile, self conscious of my attire but immensely pleased not to have been mistaken for a passenger.

"Well, hope you don't mind. I need to have a cup of coffee. We've been waiting for our first cup."

"No, of course not. I'll just look around."

She pours coffee and the scent mingles with that of the fresh bread and spices. I stroll up and down the tiny aisles, of which there are only three, looking at the items on shelves with reverence as if in a museum. My hands clasped behind my back, I don’t touch anything. Light shines through the old wooden six-paned window at a visible angle, and in the last aisle there are old-fashioned pots and pans for sale—items rarely purchased at a general store—and I wonder how long they've been here.

When I’m by the counter again, the woman asks me how often our boat comes to Little Cranberry.

"First time this summer," I reply.

"Well, if you get back here and your crew wants pizza, you can call us ship to shore…if you're tired of what they're having on board."

"Really?" I laugh, surprised at her insight into the monotony of schooner cooking. "I'll remember that."

"Yeah. We're here, so we don't mind. You can just call...you know on the radio."

"Well, I hope we get back soon," I say fairly certain that we won’t.

I smile and wave as I walk back out through the screen door, careful not to let it bang closed. Out on the street, it’s still quiet. Just a few gulls squeal in excited conversation off towards the harbor, and the crickets and bees create a light hum by the edge of the road.

Walking back down the road, I look to my left and see a slight, old woman coming out of the front door of one of the large, white houses. She moves delicately but with purpose, and I notice she is carrying a flag. As she nears the flagpole, she smiles like a grandmother who can see only good in those around her. She grabs the cord and starts tying the flag on, deftly as if she’s done it a million times before.

"Beautiful day today," she says smiling at me while still tying the flag.

"Gorgeous." I say amazed by her cheer and the uplifting nature of her voice. I wave good-bye as I walk past her, and I feel a twinge of melancholy that we’ve only had time to exchange four words. At the harbor, I look back at Little Cranberry Island wistfully, and I wonder when I’ll ever get to come back.

* * *

Four a.m. on deck, and our schooner is quiet as I make my rounds. I move past the glow of the oil lanterns and look down the companionways leading to passenger cabins. I peek up into the small boats in their davits and shine my flashlight along the waterline from bow to stern, where the silver beam of light dances. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just making sure that all is safe and still. When all I can hear is is the sweet slap of ocean swells tamed by the sanctuary the harbor, I’m satisfied. Ten minutes after I’ve begun, I’m recording the barometer reading, general conditions, wind speed and direction into our log. I look at the other watch entries and see exclamation marks from earlier in the night. BEAUTIFUL STARS!!! Another entry is followed by a smily face.

Leaving the main cabin, my cautious steps touch the varnished boards lightly, and I try not to disturb my sleeping crew-mates. As I listen to their slow inhalations and hushed sighs, I feel the meaning of the word "watch" and sense myself a presence in the calm of the slumbering boat that feels large and protective. HOME