The Boatbuilder – Part 2: Launch Day

The boat was finished on the last day of August. It stood on the slip in the evening sun, a long, graceful wooden sloop with a pale cedar deck and a name painted in tiny gold letters on the stern: Second Draft. Joanna had chosen it.

They sat on the dock with the lantern lit, the fog drifting in as it always did, their feet dangling above the dark water. Wren held a mug in both hands.

"Tomorrow you'll sail her," she said.

"We'll sail her."

"She's yours."

"She's ours." Joanna took the mug and set it on the planks. "I want to say something, and I want you to tell me honestly if it's too much."

"Okay."

"I'm falling in love with you. I think I have been since the rivets."

Wren's eyes shone in the lantern light. "It's not too much," she said. "I'm well past the rivets."

The kiss was salty and slow. Wren's hands, strong and rough from the boatyard, cupped Joanna's face as if she were something she'd built to last. When they parted, they were both laughing and out of breath.

"Come up to the loft?" asked Wren. "Please."

"Please," said Joanna.

The loft above the workshop was a long timbered room under the roof, with a wide bed and a skylight full of fog and stars. They undressed each other slowly, laughing at hooks and stubborn buttons. The quilt smelled of cedar. Wren was careful, thorough, patient as ever, and Joanna answered with a deep, sure warmth that surprised them both. Beyond the walls the sea breathed against the pilings.

On launch day the sun burned the fog away by ten. They slid Second Draft down the slip into green water and watched her float, perfectly, on her own lines.

"She floats," said Wren.

"She floats," said Joanna. "Now let's see what she does with two."

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