Fitting In
I spotted the itinerary for what remained of the day, atop the small desk in my adorable compact cabin.
“Eighteen hundred hours,” I mumbled, my head down.
The two young crewmembers who had escorted me to my cabin, good-looking guys, one white and the other African American, were waiting. So, I went on.
“I know how to read this time. I grew up in a military family,” I said.
The Black guy, Jerome, nodded, then smiled.
“Navy,” he proclaimed.
I laughed. Jerome lifted his right hand for me to slap.
Without anything said, Jerome and I both understood. We were military brats, sharing a moment of special kinship. Throughout our strange nomadic and often regimented upbringings, we’d been dropped into towns where we didn’t know a soul. Meeting another kid, whose dad or mom wore a perfectly pressed uniform to work and lived far away for periods of time, provided a temporary assurance that we might fit in some place in the world.
Moments after the crewmembers walked out, the voice of our expedition leader, Sean, came over the intercom. In case we’d wandered onto the wrong vessel, he reminded us that we were aboard the National Geographic Quest, soon to be sailing toward the California Channel Islands. He advised us that we should make our way to the lounge for a mandatory meeting, bringing our orange life vests along. In case we could possibly miss the vests, he directed us to look on the wall. Two bright, bulky, square-shouldered vests hung next to the little desk, two because the cabin could house a couple. I was only one, a widow traveling alone on my fourth group trip since my sad, solitary life began.
My cabin was at the end of the lowest deck, next to something called the mud room. In my solo travels, it appeared to be the norm. Hotels, where I stayed on the eve of meeting my group, inevitably housed me in the room furthest from the elevator. I could only think that management wanted to hide a woman alone, away from the couples and families.
I grabbed my vest, pulled open the heavy metal door, and stepped into the hall. Carrying orange vests, strangers marched ahead of me, then mounted the first and second set of stairs. I followed them as they entered a wide-open room, brightened by sunlight from large windows all around. It was a bit unnerving to join a crowd where I didn’t know anyone.
Seating of various sorts, from couches to swivel chairs in pleasant pastels, filled the room. Everyone was standing, though. I found an opening, walked to it and waited. A tall young man stood in the center of the room, holding a microphone. He tapped the microphone and began to talk.
I recognized the voice that had directed us there for the meeting; Sean. He welcomed us again and repeated his name and title. We would, he assured us, move on to the fun and interesting activities included in the itinerary that had enticed us to come. But first, we needed to learn how to put on the vests, in the unlikely event of an emergency.
Sean provided step-by-step instructions on how to secure the straps and clasps on the equipment designed to save our lives. He emphasized that there was a specific order to follow on fastening each part.
I fiddled with the collection of black cords, trying to recall what had been said, but forgot. A man suddenly slipped in front of me. Before I knew it, his hands grasped my cords. In a soft, kind voice, he explained that I needed to secure one cord and then a second. In a moment, the task was done.
I lifted my gaze from his hands. He smiled and I gave him a shy grin back, grateful but ashamed. At the same time, I experienced the quick, relieved recognition of fitting in. The feeling was what I remembered from elementary school on a military base with the crewmember, Jerome. I was new and had suddenly made a friend.
The man who assisted me, whose name I would learn was John, was a renowned marine biologist. He was one of the half-dozen naturalists accompanying us on the trip. Like the other scientists on board, he would give a talk on one of his areas of expertise. He would also lead groups on hikes when we were ferried to shore. His kindness made me feel less alone. I could also tell, from the parentheses framing his lips, that he was no longer young. Like me.
An act as simple as helping me put on a vest, that could keep me afloat and save my life, had left me in a sea of confused emotion. Since the death of my husband, Richard, a year and a half before, I hadn’t been close to a man. The absence of such contact, once a normal and expected part of my life, made the momentary breach of personal boundaries feel intimate. I was sure it wasn’t intended that way, however.
Before the start of the voyage, I feared I would dine alone, while the couples on board sat together, enjoying themselves. Instead, I found myself easily fitting into groupings for drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the cheerful lounge or at an eight-person table for dinner. I met another widow, whose loss was more recent than mine. I also befriended two women traveling solo and spent an enjoyable dinner with them, recounting our most memorable travels.
One splendid morning, I hiked through a canyon bursting with wildflowers on Santa Rosa Island. I enjoyed a wide-ranging conversation with a tall, slender man, whose wife hadn’t come on the hike. We learned that we lived not far from one another in Northern California. The wildflowers, views and abandoned wood-sided farm buildings reminded both of us of a favorite park, Point Reyes National Seashore.
Each connection I made helped me feel less alone. We had all boarded the small ship to learn about and hike on islands that made up the lightly visited Channel Islands National Park. We shared a deep love of wildlife and nature, a lifelong interest in learning, and a passion to protect the planet. Because of the ever-worsening impacts from climate change, protecting the planet was especially important. Decades-old grief from being the lonely new kid in school that was reignited by the loss of my husband made me anxious about sailing solo. I found myself gratefully surprised to feel part of a group.
One afternoon, I opted to spend time on a Santa Rosa Island beach. We zipped over on the Zodiac and climbed from a wooden dock down a rusted metal ladder to the sand. I realized that John, the kind naturalist, was with us. One of his specialties, it turned out, was intertidal life.
The beach was framed by sandstone cliffs, whose myriad slender layers were sculpted in shades of burnt orange and brown. Though I’d strolled countless strips of sand, I had never seen anything quite like it before. I wished the day was closer to sunset, when I could capture wondrous, golden photographs. My joy was momentarily pierced by thoughts of my photographer husband, Richard. He would have loved Santa Rosa Island beach. How much more I would have enjoyed it if he were with me.
I plodded through damp sand to join the group where John was telling something about the large chartreuse ribbon of kelp draped over his hand. My thoughts moved from sorrow to wonder, as he explained that the plant was safe to eat and high in Vitamin C. If sailors of long ago had known to eat the plant that grew plentifully in the sea, they would not have perished from scurvy, as scores did.
I walked beside John, as he bent to pick up shells. He showed me a brown, black and white shell that looked like a funny hat, then turned it over so I could see the other side. Once home to a living creature, the outer surface was jagged and rough. The opposite side was smooth and shiny, white with streaks of pale pink and blue. He explained that the indigenous people who once lived on the island, the Chumash, used to make jewelry from the shells.
John had told me the name of the creature that once made the shell its home. As soon as he said it, the name slipped from my mind. Moments later, wearing a sly grin, John asked for the name. I had to admit I didn’t know.
The exchange warmed my heart. I’d felt a closeness to him when his face had hovered inches from mine while his hands masterfully closed the fastenings on my puffy vest.
Several months before, I had started noticing whether men were wearing wedding rings. I had no idea if I was interested in dating again. Whenever the question arose, the thought of being with a man other than Richard seemed as crazy as suddenly finding myself fluent in another language. I had loved and been intimate with only one man for thirty years. Plus, I was old. I might have been past the age to date or fall in love.
I couldn’t ignore one fact, though. I was lonely. I spent too much time alone and most of my limited socializing was with women. I loved my friends but couldn’t ignore that I missed male energy.
As we walked on the beach, I thought I saw a silver band gleaming on the fourth finger of John’s left hand. It seemed to have appeared miraculously since I hadn’t noticed it before. I silently reminded myself that it didn’t make any difference, as John and I hadn’t exchanged a single word that could be considered personal.
A jagged rock barrier suddenly blocked our way. John scrambled to the top, then reached his hand out for me to grab. I held on, as I climbed up next to him, then let go of his hand. He dropped onto the other side and reached out again to help me down.
We were soon joined by the others, who’d been somewhere behind us on the beach. What had felt like an intimate moment was gone.
Before I knew it, we were having our last gathering in the lounge, enjoying drinks and hors d’oeuvres and receiving instructions for disembarking. The following morning, the expedition ended with a walk off the dock. I spent the morning, sitting alone in a large room, at the hotel where my journey had begun. Nearly all the other passengers had gone to the airport or to the hotel garage to retrieve their cars.
I used the time to catch up on the journal entries that I’d been too busy to write.
As I rolled my suitcase toward the door, I noticed that John was sitting at a table, with one of the other naturalists. “Hello,” I said and asked if, like me, he had a long wait for his flight.
He nodded and said, “Yes.”
Though I hadn’t asked him a single personal question about his life, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “Where are you flying to?” I asked.
“Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” he said. I struggled to mask the disappointment I was sure had shown on my face. His home was thousands of miles from mine.
I told John to have a safe flight and added that I’d learned a lot from him. Without waiting for him to respond, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and dragged it to the door and outside. Neither of us said anything more.
© Patty Somlo
Patty Somlo’s books, Hairway to Heaven Stories (Cherry Castle Publishing 2018), The First to Disappear (Spuyten Duyvil 2016) and Even When Trapped Behind Clouds: A Memoir of Quiet Grace (WiDo Publishing 2016), have been finalists for the International Book Awards sponsored by American Book Fest, Best Book Awards, National Indie Excellence Awards, American Fiction and the Reader Views Literary Awards.
The Loch Raven Review 