Teach me to sail
By Lila Hartley
There’s a clear gulf out there somewhere, past this darkened bay, and on the deck of your boat, I plant my feet into the floor, bobbing with the quiet ripples. A mast taller than palm trees looms over us, and the boom stretches its arms out wide, trying to hold onto a breeze. I tell you, I don’t know where to start.
You stare blankly at me. You never got around to teaching me how to sail, let alone tie any knots that weren’t made for sneakers. Maybe you thought nautical knowledge was something that worked its way into genes, and I’d carry them, after you. But maybe sunspots from summers spent on Tampa Bay and the Gulf held memories that I would never know. Maybe the sun will never burn me the same way.
You stand at the edge. You don’t worry about slipping through the tightened cord railing. You look out at the water, and something about the shades of blue takes you someplace, sometime, else.
I wait for you to come back.
When you turn around, you give me a soft smile. I recognize it from the mermaid-scaled photo album your mom keeps under the glass-top coffee table. You are a child grinning, hands propping up your head as you lay your stomach on the deck, in a fashion that would make your dad call you a poser.
You tell me, let’s get started so we don’t miss the sunset.
You tell me, hop off, back on the small, damp, wooden dock. Crouch down to unwrap the looped line from the cleat.
You follow me, holding the side of the boat close so it doesn’t float away.
The aged, splintering lines prickle against my fingers, and I throw the excess back over the railing. I follow the rope, then you board too. And you push it, so the dock begins to fall behind. You take hold of the helm and switch on the motor to carefully, slowly maneuver out of the marina. I sit on the now off-white cushions, warm like rosy skin from soaked up afternoon sun, and I watch your hands. Each movement that gets us closer to the bay.
We are past the docks and smell of diesel, past the channel, past the yachts named after beautiful women and clever puns.
You say, time to put the sails up, c’mon. I trail behind you, stepping out to the deck.
You tell me, pull this line down.
I pull. The lines rub against my palms and just when I’ve begun to sweat, you tell me, stop. I tie the rope to the deck’s cleat. I look up from my reddening hands; I see the sails catch wind.
I think I must look a lot like you.
About the Author...
Lila Hartley is a junior in the Creative Writing Department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts (DA). She enjoys performing spoken word and writing nonfiction, short stories, and poetry. She is the President of the Literary Arts Honor Society at DA. Previously, her creative nonfiction essay, An Open Door, and short fiction story, Word Origins: Stetorous, were published in Èlan’s 39th Edition.
About the Artist...
Elio Faucher is a senior at Hamilton High School in Chandler, AZ. He specializes in Prisma colored pencils, focalizing portraits of people and animals. He enjoys experimenting with different media, but steers clear of the lack of control paint has to offer. Last year, Elio won a Gold Key from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and continues to use that as motivation to keep improving his artistic abilities, having shown huge growth
within the last few months.