Diving the Wrecks. magdalena zschokke

He smiled at her and took a bite while gesturing with the thermos.

      “Yes, thank you,” Emma said, taking the thermos from him and unscrewing the lid. It clattered into the bottom of the boat. When she bent over to pick it up, the sandwich fell from her lap and landed in the bilge water. He had bent over to grab the top of the thermos at the same time, and they barely avoided banging heads. Their hands met on the cup, and Emma pulled back as if burned. Then she laughed as if she’d made a joke and, hoping he had missed it, picked up the sandwich and set it next to her on the bench.

      He sat up, swished the thermos cup through the lake water, shook it clean, and filled it with tea, holding it out to her like a sacred trophy. She sat absolutely still watching him, feeling a heavy importance settling on her. She reached for the offering with both hands and, just for an instant, their eyes locked. Before she took a sip, she held the metal cup until she could feel the warmth through both palms.

      “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

      He shrugged and reached behind him for his sandwich, which sat securely wedged between an oarlock and the center bench. “It takes time getting used to the motion,” he said kindly, though she knew he really meant to say, “Clumsy oaf!” and “Let’s go back.” But they sat there, uncomfortable and dreadfully aware of each other. The only sound was the tiny tapping of waves against the hull, a halyard clicking against the mast in the rolling of windless motion, and their swallowing.

      Emma had never heard herself swallow so loudly even though the sandwich had turned soggy from the bilge. One corner of it was so wet it ran through her fingers as soon as she picked it up. She clamped her hand more tightly around the whole thing in order to hold it together, bit off a large piece, and swallowed it almost whole. She thought she’d gag and throw up, but she managed to keep it in. It hurt all the way down past her sternum, where it seemed to get lodged. She gulped tea, burning her tongue, and inhaled loudly. She blew on the liquid before finishing the rest, which created a loud slurp. Red in the face, she passed the empty cup to him. He took it, filled it, and sipped, looking contented.

      When he turned his head, she dangled her hand, pasted with soggy bread and wilted brown lettuce, in the water. It would wash off, and someone would be happy to eat it. Only, the next time she looked down at her hand, she found a whitish mess of gobs and bits floating, spreading through the water. There was a piece of lettuce and, among the slimy bread bits, some cheese. She splashed her hand wildly and gaily shouted, “Look, a gull,” pointing to the opposite shore. “No, right there in line with that church tower. Just look, really!”

      She even got up from her seat to stand next to him so she could point better, her eyes in line with his. By the time he had located the pigeon and explained in detail how to tell the difference between a gull and a pigeon, the boat had drifted far enough that the whitish blob was no longer so visible.

      That was the main memory she had of sailing: shame. She could still feel the soggy, white-bread paste on her hands, and the way her tongue had gone numb, as if it had grown a second skin, from where she had burned it.

      And then the wind had come up. He had instructed her on how to lean her weight against the pull of the wind, but the boat had fallen over anyway. It was freezing cold, shockingly so. The day had been pretty, spring-fresh, and sunny. Suddenly, it was gray; the water was freezing; and she was splashing about in it. What betrayal!

      Water this flaccid and tame should be warm or, at most, cool to the touch. When she had trailed her hand in it, it had been that. Now, it was so cold that her head felt like it had gotten caught in a vise. She splashed, trying to decide on a direction for her return to land, although, for one frightened second, she thought she had forgotten how to swim. She sank and came up sputtering and coughing.

      By the time he had righted the boat, the day had gone completely gray and windy. The wind had been behind them for most of the return to the marina. Then he dropped the sail and rowed the last few hundred yards. She had stumbled at the ramp, while he held the boat steady with his oars. He unstepped the mast and dismantled the rudder, laid all in the middle of the boat, and together they dragged it up the ramp. Once on its rollers, they bailed. Then he wiped the boat down, while she stood next to him in shivering misery, and finally they pulled the cover over the hull. They walked to his house where there were towels and a comforting, round mother with cookies and tea and a bosom which she wished she could lay her head upon. He had never invited her sailing again. She had liked his mother though.

      She jerked out of her memory and realized that she no longer stared at the ceiling, but lay on her side and the ship had been replaced by the edge of the chest of drawers, which held their underwear and sweaters. She turned onto her back and tried to lose herself in the tall ship again. “Frank!” He had said Frank would be over for dinner.

      What horrible news!