I’ve often wondered why he doesn’t just quit work and go sailing again. He has stories of sailing, but those are from seven years earlier. And there are always other people in the photos he has, people who look like swarthy seamen and were likely the ones at the helm in the storms, even though he would never admit it. They must have done the real work.

He thinks because I’m from the East Coast I’ve got the sea in my blood — he grew up surrounded by land, so I bring authenticity to his sailing. The only goddamn way the sea will be in my blood is if we sink in your goddamn boat, my man.

I remember getting out of the tub, wondering if I’d ever loved Bob. If a walrus like me could ever love anything other than polar cod and bivalves. I stayed in the tub so long my toes and fingers shrivelled. The water got cold and grey. On the way shivering down the hall I saw a single letter sitting on the small hall table. I asked Bob if there was any mail other than that. Silence. He turned the page. “No . . . not for you,” he replied.

I left wet fingerprints on the envelope for me. It was from Tara back home. Good old “Back Fat.” My mother must have given her my latest address again, probably assuming Tara had matured now that she was twenty-nine years old. I didn’t open it. And I left it there until I threw it in my backpack before catching the bus out to Mission. My reckoning was, I might be able to steel myself enough to read it on my “retreat.”

The boat rocks gently all night long. I listen to Bob snore and pull the dirty sheets closer to me — there is a vague comfort in the smell of his stale sweat, the way he farts when he sleeps. He’s very consistent in this way. I lie there all night, just in case the boat breaks free and starts floating down the river. I’ll be able to get Bob up in time and rescue us. The perils of sailing are real, even when moored to a dock.

I lie there breathing in the mildew and thinking about the letter from Tara shoved in my backpack. Even though I haven’t opened it, the familiar guilt gropes at me when I think about burning it with a lighter. Even when I think about putting it in the garbage I feel guilty. But that letter waits for me in the bottom of my sporty backpack like an envelope full of travelling manipulation and insecurity. Tara’s probably bought a non-refundable ticket and is planning on moving to Vancouver and wants to stay with me. It’s like she can’t leave high school behind.

Then I think about when I was seventeen with pink cheeks standing there in a strapless bra and curled hair. Tara was helping me dress before Samuel came to get me in his father’s car. I’d put on hot-pink lipstick to go with the big taffeta Cinderella prom dress and black patent-­leather heels. I loved that dress. I remember thinking what a hot babe I was. Until Tara started talking.