Shroud Lines

Shroud Lines

Sometimes being on the water is the only cure for what ails you. It's always been the case for Malcolm Waters. Regardless of the problems in his life, standing at the helm of his boat as it cut its way across Lake Superior would set his mind at ease. As the bow parted the murky water, his mind would slice through his stress. Each mile from shore would carry him miles from his feelings and fears.

As he drove to the marina today, he mulled over his visit to the doctor's office. It was not good news. For weeks he felt a lump under his right arm. Like most people, he thought it was nothing. He finally went to the doctor after his wife showed him articles on cancer she found on the internet. That scared him into going.

The doctor poked and prodded, did a biopsy, and told him to come back in a week. Showing a confidence he did not feel, he walked into the clinic today and met with his doctor to get the results. He knew he had cancer even before the man opened his mouth. He remembered how the doctor was sitting when he said it. He definitely was not comfortable giving the bad news. He was balanced on the edge of his chair trying to look professional and empathetic, but he appeared to Malcolm to be trying to hold back a wall-shaking fart while sitting in church.

“Malcolm, you have cancer.” the doctor said, his hands folded in front of him. “I'm afraid it's a serious case. If we had caught it earlier, I would have better news for you. Unfortunately, it seems as though your case is quite advanced.”

“What's that mean?” Malcolm asked.

“It means, Malcolm, that your case is terminal.”

“How long?” Malcolm asked.

“Anywhere from six weeks to a year. But I want you to think positive.....” That was the last Malcolm heard. He knew the rest of the story. His dad died from cancer. For two years he rotted away while the doctors pumped him full of radiation and toxic medicines. The pain was unimaginable, the cost was outrageous. The end was still the same. There was no way he was going to die like that. There was no dignity in it.

Malcolm pulled up to the marina and parked his car. He dropped his cell phone on the seat and grabbed his sunglasses and hat. He got out of the car and headed toward the docks. As he passed by the harbor master's office, Bill Jacobsen stuck his head out the door and called to Malcolm “Ahoy! Headed out today Malcolm?”

“Yeah Bill, goin' out on the lake today. Figure I'll head north and see what the Canadians are up to.” Malcolm said.

“Stay safe and have a good time!” Bill said, ducking back inside to answer his squawking radio.

“Yeah, will do. See ya'” Malcom said.

As he walked down the dock, his thoughts turned to his boat, his beloved 'Fancy Nancy'. She was a great boat, thirty feet long and able to handle the worst that Lake Superior could throw at her. She had carried him through some rough waters, much like the boat's namesake, his wife Nancy.

He reached his slip and untied the bowline. He boarded Fancy Nancy and headed to the cockpit, his eyes looking at every fitting, line, and surface on the boat, checking to make sure she was ready to head out. Seeing no problems, he flipped the switches to turn on the boat's bilge blowers for the obligatory two minute fume clearance drill. As the fans hummed, he busied himself with powering up the rest of the boat's systems and dragging the sails he would need up on deck. He was on autopilot now, taking care of the chores that needed to be done without having to think about them. His mind was still focused on the mass of malignant tissue nestled under his arm.

After a couple minutes, he shut off the blowers and cranked the engine. It caught immediately and rumbled to life. He slipped his stern line and eased the throttle into reverse. As the boat glided out of the slip, he felt the calming of the water start to take effect.

He motored toward the aerial bridge on Minnesota point. As he approached, he blew his horn to signal the bridge keeper that he intended to pass beneath it. A moment later, the bells of the bridge began to ring and the roadway started its slow ascent. He moved past the bridge and up the canal. Tourists on the side waved at him. He waved back, smiling at how lucky he was to be on the water instead of standing on shore wishing about being on a boat.

As soon as he reached open water he set the autopilot on a course of 030, designed to take him into Lake Superior. He grabbed the main winch and hoisted the mainsail. Once it was up, he shut the engine off and hoisted a Genoa. The wind caught the sails and gently pushed Nancy to her hull speed. Malcolm sat back in the cockpit and felt completely relaxed, at peace with the world.

For three hours, Malcolm took Nancy north by northeast into Lake Superior. The faintest outline of the higher ground was visible on the horizon to the south, and only the water was visible in front of him. The swell was rather large for an August day, and Nancy rode it like a lady. She would gracefully rise and fall as she passed through the water, occasionally sending mists of water back to the cockpit as her bow slashed into the oncoming waves.

As he sailed, Malcolm thought about cancer. Nothing in his life, even the death of his father from the same disease, prepared him for his own fate. At least on the water, you could see the dangers to your life, and usually avoid them. With cancer, you carried it within you, invisible and totally unstoppable.

“Well, shit.” he said. To think that his sailing days were numbered depressed him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life sailing the waters of the world. That was an impossibility now. He felt robbed of his future, cheated out of the dreams he had earned.

“What will Nancy do without me?” he asked himself. There was no answer. His wife would continue to live. His kids were married and gone, he had no one to support other than his wife, and his life insurance would take care of her.

He walked down into the cabin and grabbed a cold beer out of the fridge. As he took a sip, he looked up into the sails and rigging. The canvas was pulled tight against the driving wind, and the shrouds and stays creaked under the load. He scanned the horizon and saw nothing but endless waves. “Many people have died on this lake, many people better than me.” he thought.

He looked at his GPS systems and saw that he was twenty-three miles from the nearest land. He drained his beer and returned to the cabin. He removed the door to the engine compartment and leaned in. At the side was a sea-cock. He opened it and water began to flow into the engine bay. He walked forward to the head and opened another sea-cock. More water entered the cabin. As he made his way back to the cockpit, the frigid water was at the level of the floorboards and rising.

He climbed back on deck and went to his EPIRB cannister. Opening the canister, he disabled his emergency beacon's automatic feature. The boat continued on its course, oblivious to Malcolm's actions.

He sat back in the cockpit and waited for the boat to fill with water. It was apparent that something was wrong already, as the heel of the boat had increased and it had slowed to half the speed it was going. The mainsail's boom was almost dragging in the water and the port rail was already under the waves.

With a sigh and a smile, Malcolm stood up. “I'm going out my way.” he said. He planted his feet on the cockpit coaming and jumped into the water. The frigid water of the lake hit him like millions of needles. As he bobbed to the surface, Fancy Nancy sailed away, down on the port side and sinking as she went.