Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired Puget Sound ferry captain, had showed up to the local fire department cookout only because his next-door neighbor had left a tin of his famous alder-smoked salmon on his porch at 7 a.m. with a note scrawled in neon marker: Bring this or I’ll mow your wild rose bushes down. He’d captained the Bainbridge to Seattle run for 28 years, knew every rip current, every fog horn’s unique pitch, every patch of water where porpoises liked to ride the ferry’s wake, and had spent the four years since his wife’s death avoiding every community event within a 10 mile radius. His flaw, if you asked the few people who still talked to him, was that he’d dug himself so deep into mourning he couldn’t see the difference between honoring his wife’s memory and rotting alone in his waterfront cabin. He hid the faint tremor in his left hand, leftover from a minor stroke six months after he retired, by shoving it in his jeans pocket any time he was around other people.
He was leaning against the gnarled trunk of a 100-year-old oak near the grill, cold IPA in his right hand, left shoved deep in his pocket, when she walked over. She was 58, he learned later, Clara Bennett, ex-wife of his old ferry dispatcher, the guy who’d made his life hell for 12 years by calling him back to dock three minutes early every time there was even a hint of drizzle, who’d banned him from bringing his fishing rod on the boat on overnight shifts. She’d moved to the county six months prior, finalized her divorce two weeks before, was working part-time at the tiny Kitsap Regional Library branch in Silverdale. She was wearing faded denim overalls over a thin white tank top, steel-toe work boots, no makeup, freckles dark across her nose from three hours of setting up picnic tables earlier that day. She stood close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint sharp tang of pine, like she’d been trimming fir branches before she showed up.
“Everyone’s saying that salmon’s yours,” she said, nodding at the tin on the folding table next to him, her voice lower than he expected, rough around the edges like she smoked a cigarette every now and then, which she did. He nodded, pushed the tin a little closer to her. She reached for a piece, her elbow brushing his left forearm through his worn red flannel, and he flinched before he could stop himself. He hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t a doctor in four years. She paused, held his eye, like she was checking if he was okay, and he noticed her eyes were hazel, with thin gold flecks around the pupils, crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back for half a second before she grabbed the salmon. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
He grunted, shook his head, told her it was fine. They talked for 45 minutes, leaning against that oak, the sound of kids screaming on the bounce house, the crackle of the hamburger grill, ice clinking in coolers fading into background noise. She told him she’d left her ex because he’d refused to let her keep the 22-foot sailboat she’d bought with her own money, called it a “foolish waste of money for a woman her age.” Ronan laughed so hard he snort-laughed, which he hadn’t done since he was in his 30s, told her about all the times the dispatcher had chewed him out for stopping the ferry for two minutes to let a pod of orcas pass in front of the bow. He found himself leaning in when she talked, his left hand slipping out of his pocket without him noticing, until he saw the tremor out of the corner of his eye and shoved it back fast, face hot.
She didn’t mention it. She just asked if he had any of the old nautical charts he’d mentioned, the ones he’d marked with his own notes about hidden currents and good crabbing spots, said she was taking sailing lessons but kept getting confused by the official maps. He offered to show her his collection back at his cabin before he could think better of it, then immediately felt stupid, thought she’d think he was a creep trying to get her alone. She said yes right away, no hesitation, grabbed her canvas tote off the picnic table and followed him to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150.
His cabin smelled like cedar and smoked fish, the walls lined with framed photos of ferries, old ship wheels, a framed photo of his wife on the bow of his small fishing boat. He spread the charts out on his linoleum kitchen table, and she leaned over next to him, her shoulder pressing against his, her wavy auburn hair falling over his wrist when she pointed to a spot near Blake Island. He forgot all about the tremor, reached out with his left hand to adjust the chart so she could see the notes he’d scribbled in the margin 15 years prior, and she didn’t flinch when she saw the faint shake. She just rested her hand on top of his for two seconds, light as a sea breeze, and said, “These hands look like they’ve held a lot of important things.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, couldn’t, his throat tight. He poured them both a cup of black coffee, sweetened hers the way she said she liked it, with a splash of oat milk, and they carried the mugs out to his back porch, where Adirondack chairs faced the sound. The sun was setting pink and orange over the Olympic Mountains, ferries gliding across the water, their horns low and soft in the distance. She asked if he’d be willing to take her out on his fishing boat the next weekend, show her the currents in person, maybe stop for crabbing on the way back.
He nodded, didn’t even hesitate. He took a sip of coffee, and for the first time since his wife died, he didn’t feel the need to shove his left hand in his pocket.
