Tristin Atwood Boat School
Act Two
CURAÇAO
“So when I woke up there was much excitement in the city, which looks like a part of old Holland, except that all the houses are painted in soft colors, pinks and greens and blues, and there are no dikes. (1.3)” –The Cay
The first thing I notice, like a too loud television commercial coming from other room is, the language: Dutch. It doesn’t exactly hit or slam or assail me with differentness, but it is perhaps like dipping your toes into a cold body of water. It’s late, 11pm and I feel dazed as I make my way through the airport guided by the boundaries of retractable barriers. I find the baggage claim area; there are signs in English, Dutch, and French. This makes me feel disappointed, how can I practice mi espanol here? The red luggage rounds the conveyor heading my way; I am the only one with checked luggage and a big ass bag it seems. Everyone else is just here for a visit. I feel like a lagging Pac Man as I make my way through the lines toward customs check in, rolling my suitcase filled with school books behind me. It gets heavier as I think about the workload of two years of school packed into one streamlined container on wheels.
“Tris!” My grandmother’s voice reaches me from somewhere over there, shrill and excited.
“Heeft u iets in uw bagage om te claimen?” A kind faced older dark-skinned woman addresses me in an airport uniform from behind the belt of a x-ray machine.
“Uhhh sorry, I don’t speak…”
“Do you have anything to claim in your baggage?” She gestures at my bags with a blue gloved hand. My face must look so perplexed and she adds:
“Cigarettes, alcohol, money, and or perishable goods?” I almost laugh at this inquiry as a younger man lifts my red bag onto the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine. I place my backpack next to it and unzip all compartments leaving them open and yawning.
“Welcome to Cur-ass-ow.” The young man tells me as he winks and disappears.
“Thank you, no ma’am I don’t have any of those items.” She unzips the large red roller bag and is greeted with books, it’s brimming with books.
“I am going to go to school.” I say and instantly feel foolish.
“TRISTIN!” My grandmother is just now on the other side of the gate signifying the airport boundary of in and out of country.
“Is that your mother?” That woman asks as she zips up my bag and slides it onto the ground with a solid thud. I grip the retractable handle and glance over at my grandmother who, at this point is waving frantically and grinning broadly. My grandfather is standing next to her, his arm around her shoulders, matching smiles.
“No, my grandmother.”
“Well she is very happy to see you, have a nice time in Cur-ass-ow.” I almost want to ask her why Curaçao has that second ‘c’ with the weird hook on the bottom, she would know right. My next five steps put me into another country. Arms envelop me, hugs, hugs, and more hugs.
“You tired sweetie, hungry, sad, scared, we are so happy to see you.” We walk as one unit, one body connected in the crooks of arms and gentle leading hands on backs. I relish the hugs; it erases the uncomfortable and awkward feeling of the flight and landing. I take deep breaths when I am pressed against their chests. I smell Grandmother’s perfume, Grandfather’s old spice and diesel fuel. They both smell of salty air. A wall of humidity hits me when we step out of the cool light air-conditioned air, and a noticeable pressure change as the automatic doors slide open. There aren’t many lights, I feel enveloped, I start to sweat instantly and I am silently glad it’s night time so that no one would see the evidence of my perspiration. Why should I care though? I don’t, not really, who would see? Everyone sweats. The driver’s face is featureless in the night until he places my luggage in the trunk of the cab and his face is washed with red from brake lights. He has a mustache and small dark eyes under smooth black eyebrows.
I sit between them, three of us in the backseat of the cab as we make our way to the marina where Austerity, my new home waits in its mooring. I feel safe. I feel far away and safe. Outside the cab I don’t see much, the headlights only sweep softly over the banks of hills, voids of air above sea cliffs, and cactuses. The cactuses tower above the car in some places, disappearing in the darkness above. I close my eyes and breathe and relax and try to forget, not forget no, but to put behind. The distance from my life before makes me feel lighter.
“We’re here sweetie.” I open my eyes as my grandfather gets out of the cab and holds his hand out for me.
“Dank je.”
“Yes, thank you.” A tip is given to the driver, and he continues back up the road, those tail lights disappearing over the crest of a hill, or a cactus got him I think. I walk behind my grandparents as they lead me down toward the dock. To my right I can make out showers and the marina office building, all dark and sleeping now, two dimensional in the thick night. The roller suitcase makes a fun “TUNK TUNK TUNK” noise as the wheels find every space between dock boards. I like the sound and feeling of resistance in my hand.
“Want me to carry that?” My grandfather asks, turning around to look at me, silhouetted against the dock’s spaced light poles.
“No, it’s okay.”
“We’re almost there Tris, then you can settle in and have a snack and a nice sleep.” My grandmother insisted on carrying my backpack, which she has slung on one shoulder.
“Roger take her bag.” She instructs my Grandfather, not caring that I am capable.
“There she is, we’re home.” My Grandfather’s deep rumble voice has an air of reverence. We all stand together for a moment and look at the boat.
In darkness Austerity waits in her slip nodding and bobbing over the soft waves teased up by night breezes. She wasn’t new to me, and as my foot was met by her rhythmically rising hull I remembered. I remembered previous summers spent sleeping under stars of different skies snugly inside her belly the hull. Wrapped up in blankets and sheets smoothed out by grandma, lulled to slumber by Austerity’s sways and whispers.
“We’re so glad you’re here sweetie.” My grandmother’s warm hand pats my sweat sticky back, my tee shirt clinging.
“We are dear.” My grandfather’s rumble voice makes me more sleepy and in the darkness their tan legs are a stark contrast to the white fiberglass of the ship’s composition. I feel younger and in the past as my hand grips the beginning of the ladder leading down into the insides of Austerity. The teak greets me like an old woman’s handshake; warm, soft, like fleece blankets from the dryer; a touch smell of the best childhood home. Where you feel so safe in the blanket forts of childhood. My grandparents are already below deck, slipping past me earlier to unlock, unbatton, and unqueer my new homecoming. Airing it out.
“I’ll fix you a snack dear, want a Diet Coke? Some cheese and pretzels?” My grandmother is very happy to have me here but I see the strain and exhaustion behind her joy and maybe relief. I descend the ladder; my things were already brought below. I didn’t notice when that happened. I stand awkwardly next to my grandmother in the three by three kitchen space. I put my hand on her arm, my body is not here, or is it?
“Yes please, thank you.” My voice sounds as far my thoughts.
I remember little girl me in the Floridan sun of summer wearing a hat and glasses too large for my head. Listening to Jimmy Buffet, my grandfather at the helm planning the next tact and my grandmother below preparing snacks. She would hand me a plate of Teddy Grahams, mini pretzels next to a glob of port wine cheese, and iced Diet Coke in an insulated plastic cup with a colorful parrot patch glued between the cup’s layers. I knew that if the seas were tough she would be behind the helm. I remember reading The Cay, bunches of Goosebumps books, and Treasure Island in my bedroom by night light as my grandparents slept in their cabin. Their snores adding to the cacophony of nighttime Austerity noises. Which are and were mostly the wind in the rigging and lapping oceans.
My bedroom as it is now and then acts as the living/dining/study room. A horseshoe shaped cushioned bench surrounds the three by five dinner table. To sleep one must transform this space, and I want sleep so I begin. The table is able to be disassembled by removing a metal base held in place by two screw attachments each with two prongs for handles that one can grip to unscrew. Those things are shitty and hurt your hands. Once baseless the table so detached and free can be lowered into waiting beveled lips formed into the fiberglass terminus of bench seats. Next, there’s a cushion and my temples are pounding really bad.