We walk to the boat. No car. He sold it. “How can I just head out to sea if I have a car?” he says. I open my mouth and say, “back fat.” I’m losing it. Bob looks at me and I say, “I mean, wonderful.” I smile. Queen Positive.

We walk in silence through the industrial park, past a cedar mill. The “marina” is tucked down a steep embankment on the river, so the industry is hidden. In my mind I imagine rolling down the embankment, plopping in the water, and floating away like a log. A free log. Or a walrus.

When we walk down the dock and I see the Snapper, I say, “Oh, she looks fantastic,” even though her paint is peeling, the teak is rotting, and the sails haven’t been raised in months. It’s like a mobile home at dock, I joke. Bob glares at me. I’ve jarred the dream. The boat is made of ferro-cement. If it can float, I think maybe anything can. I ask Bob if he’s worried about Y2K. He kisses me on the cheek and says he’s counting on me and my survival skills to get us through it.

It’s really quiet on the dock. Like, so quiet killers could be waiting behind every pole and mast. Bob says there’s one other couple living down here. He points to the boat beside us. A warm light burns deep inside. He says he’s never met them but he’s sure they must be friendly. Sailors are like that, he says, friendly sorts. You can count on them. Of course I think of Blackbeard and Dread Captain Ned Low, and the happy couple whose boat was hijacked in the South Pacific and who were buried in pieces on a beach on the Palmyra Atoll, written about in exquisite detail in And the Sea Will Tell, a crime book about an adventure gone wrong.

Yes, you can always fucking depend on the salty types. But I don’t say that. Bob is so pleased with himself. He grew up on the Prairies. He doesn’t know pirates are real, people coming and taking away what you treasure the most, murdering you. I want to run screaming, but instead I smile. I giggle. I feign delight. He pats me on my cheek and gives my tit a little rub, leaving some dirt on my white jacket.

We go inside the Snapper. She could be a wonderful boat if she were properly taken care of. It’s all toasty from a little space heater. Bob lights the kerosene lamp. It would be quaint and charming if it didn’t stink so badly — the little sink is full of dishes, slimy and abandoned. I’ve known Bob to just throw them out and buy new ones, when company is coming. But at least it’s warm. I sit down in the dimly lit salon and a dirty plate sticks to my jeans. I look around at the stacks of books all over the place, the dirty pots and pans stacked in the mahogany galley. Bob finds one clean pot and starts cooking up the broken bits from an almost-empty bag of spaghetti. I can see the moon out the little portholes, shining silver on the river, and the snow on the mountain.