The Supply Boat – Part 2: Open Water

The fog lifted on Saturday, and the whole Atlantic lay revealed.

Noah stood in the bow of the supply boat in borrowed oilskins, grinning like a child. The sea was a hard bright blue, flecked with white, the islands scattered like green stones. A seal slid off a ledge and watched them go by. Gulls wheeled overhead.

"This is it," said Eli, at the helm.

"This is the best thing I've ever seen."

"Wait till we haul."

He taught Noah to gaff the buoy, to bring up the trap, to measure the lobsters and toss back the small ones. Noah got soaked twice. He pinched his thumb. He laughed until it hurt. At noon they ate sandwiches on the lee side of an island, bobbing in the swell, with the sun hot on their faces.

By evening they were back at the harbour, sunburnt and happy. The sky turned apricot. The island lit up one window at a time. On the dock, Eli boiled a pot over a camp stove and they ate lobster with their fingers, butter running down their wrists, sitting on upturned crates with their boots off.

"Can I ask you something?" said Eli.

"Yes."

"Are you staying? After the first year?"

"I'm staying," said Noah. "I'd like to."

"For the school?"

"For the school. And the supply boat."

Eli's smile faltered into something soft and shy. "May I kiss you, Noah?"

"Yes," said Noah. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to splice rope."

"I'd have taught you anyway."

Eli kissed him, salt and butter sweet, a hand rising to Noah's sunburnt cheek. Noah kissed him back with eager tenderness. The harbour lapped at the pilings. The first stars came out over the dark spruce.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Eli.

"Green," said Noah. "Very green."

In the island school, in the corner of the blackboard, a child has drawn a boat with two stick figures. Underneath, in chalk: Mr Noah and Mr Eli.

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