The Joy of Sailing

By Jimmy Garrett My grandfather is a man of few words. All my life weve been across the room from one another, him in his lounge chair trying to see and hear the TV over all the family clamor; me sitting on the floor alone playing with Legos. Every once in awhile Id make my way unnoticed to his chair, where hed let me have a few sips of Paw-paws yucky coke which was a strong blend of Jim Beam and CocaCola. It was our secret. During the holidays and family get-togethers, he and I shared the habit of trying to just keep out of everyones way. I would find something to do off by myself, usually reading a book or building castles out of wooden blocks in the back bedroom. When the den became crowded with family and all hope of watching his program on the History Channel was lost, he would slip quietly out to the wood-shop he had built behind the house. My Grandpa, my father and my uncles placed every board and hammered every nail in that shop. He was a master craftsman and he taught them all a great deal about woodworking whether they admitted it or not. At my aunts wedding reception, he donated his wood-shops still bare foundation to be used as a makeshift dance floor. Many Halloweens he spent hours emptying the shop out and then converting it into a haunted house which he would open up for the kids to tour on the big night. But beyond those few exceptions, the shop was off limits to us kids. On the rare occasion I got to see him at work, I remember the patience and dedication he exhibited for each cut. He would sand every corner and surface, the midnight-blue Navy anchor tattoo

rippling on his muscular forearm. He would hold the sanded wood up near his gold-rimmed spectacles and blow the dust away, inspecting it closely for imperfections. He made all manner of things in the shop, but the things that stand out most in my mind are the toys. Elaborate toy chests with intricate carvings and cushioned seats that would play music from a wind-up box when you opened the lid. For me, he built an indestructible wooden logging-truck that could be pulled along on a chain. It had windows, headlights, rolling wooden wheels and a detachable trailer that held logs, each of them cut to fit neatly inside. One of his most ingenious devices was a wooden-hot air balloon, rigged to a string and pulley on the vaulted ceiling of the living room. He would fill it with candy-canes every Christmas with the condition that only he had the right to raise and lower it. My cousins and I would dance around him, begging for him to come and work the string so we could snatch a few candy canes. He kept a 50s era Coca-Cola machine in the shop that would still take quarters, and if you asked nicely, he might give you one. I would swing open the big wooden door and creep into the dark for a cool coke during our summer visits. If I went in alone, I would often pause in wonder before heading back to the house. I remember setting down my soda bottle on a bare wooden desk, the ring of condensation sinking into the thirsty wood. I would run a hand over the cold, clean lines of a table-saw, or test the sharpness of the drill press with my fingertip. I would blow the saw-dust away into the beams of sunlight and watch them swirl and dance in the light. If I became mesmerized and lingered too long, he would fling the shop door open and shoo me out with a good-hearted swat. I always assumed he kept us out because he didnt really want us around. Now, as I piece the man together in my mind, I think of the detail and craftsmanship of all those wooden gifts. And through the haze I remember the smile it would bring to his face to see the delight his creations brought to his

grandchildren. I now suspect he kept us out to keep that wonder alive, to never see these wooden playthings lying about his shop in unfinished pieces. I always told myself that when I was grown I would ask him to teach me all that he knew about wood-working. Then when I became grown, I told myself that I would wait until I had the time. And now, that time is running out. Im the last one in my family to come here. Over the last few weeks Ive been so busy with work and school and life. Too busy, in fact, to trouble myself with the four hour trek down to Houston, TX, where my Grandfather is lying whisper-quiet in an ICU bed. What finally got me here was a detour on the way home from the wedding of some high-school acquaintance of my wife down in Morgan City, LA. What does the T stand for in C.T.? My wife asks as we circle the hospital parking lot looking for a space that wont require too much walking. Tinsley, I tell her, Charles Tinsley Byrd. I say it over in my head and as it rolls around the voice morphs into an aristocratic English accent. For the first time it strikes me how reminiscent it is of some 18th century British Admiral. As we traipse down the hospital halls, it puzzles me even further; why Ive never given his name much thought before. Ive spent many nights at the computer Googling my Garrett lineage. Im a history minor and I DVR all the shows about naval battles on the History Channel. Since I can remember, I have been obsessed with the notion of ships and the freedom of sailing the ocean. My grandfather battled the Japanese in the Pacific Fleet during WWII, and sailed to ports all over the globe, but Ive never asked him about it, not once, in the 25 years Ive been able to talk. As we twist and turn through the eerily silent maze of hospital hallways, my wife and I are making casual conversation. Thankfully, it occupies my mind enough to ward off the cold feeling of this hollow hospital. At one point, we share a laugh as we both catch a whiff of tacos from somewhere and 3

look at each other and say tacos, at the same time. But as we round the final corner and I catch sight of my grandmother through the glass wall of the sterile ICU chamber, the whole scene around me grinds to a halt. She is standing beside a silver aluminum bed-frame, clutching the withered hand of my grandfather in hers. All the episodes of ER and Greys Anatomy have not prepared us for this like one might think. We slow our approach and I feel my wife reach over and take my arm. Im not sure if its for her or for me, more likely for us both. A navy blue blanket is draped across the gaunt frame of my paw-paw, Charles Tinsley Byrd. Theres a constant hum from somewhere in the ICU chamber, subtle and low, yet it seems to smother every sound from outside the room the instant you enter. There are tubes coming out of him in every direction. A neon yellow tube protrudes from his forearm just inches from the old tattoo. The navy anchor, once so articulate and vivid, has melted into a misshapen collection of blue blotches. My eyes follow the tube up to a bag of yellow liquid. My grandmother follows my gaze and tells me that its pure protein. Thats to help him get big and strong, says my grandmother loudly and clearly to him, clutching his hand. This one, she announces, motioning to another bag that looks like a runny chocolate milkshake, is full of spinach and broccoli and liver, and all the things he wont eat at home. My grandmother, normally cynical, sarcastic and rigid, has taken on a persona Ive never seen before. She smiles down at him and rubs his hand in hers, making eye contact. No its steaks and baked potatoes honey she cooes, steaks and baked potatoes. He nods his head at her and smiles with his bloodshot eyes. The oxygen mask steams and clears in slow intervals. Each time he takes a breath, the oxygen machine reminds us of his frailty. The click and 4

hiss of the compression cylinder sounds like Darth Vader. He turns his head to look at me as I speak, and his eyes are hauntingly vibrant. We make eye contact and it stuns me, rendering me at first overjoyed that I came to see him and then heartbroken that I havent really seen him most of my life. Now, as I at last have come face to face with him, I think about him as a man. I think of all the secrets and stories of the sea he mightve passed on. I think of all those masterful wooden creations he built with his skillful hands. Now those hands are frail and withered, draped at his sides on the navy woolen blanket. I reach down and take his right hand and immediately I have to fight the urge to recoil. It feels unnatural and cold to the touch; more like hard, hollow plastic than a living being. My mind is racing, darting between on-rushing memories, trying to move forward, to find some words that will shatter the awkward silence. The hulking green monitor on a stand nearby continues its maddening slow beep. I lift my eyes back to that haunting gaze. Back in the Navy, I ask, Did you learn much about sailing and the ocean and things like that? He rolls his head slowly from side to side, No. Oh. I reply, defeated but determined to continue talking about something. Anything. Because Ive always wanted a sailboat, and Ive been thinking about getting one when I graduate. I was hoping you could show me a few things. I doubt that I sound convincing despite my best efforts. He stares at me for a long moment with that piercing gaze. At last my Grandmother scoffs, What would you want a sailboat for?

She rolls her eyes and looks from me to my wife, who nods in agreement. They laugh at me in unison. My grandmother continues on that it sounds like a pointless pursuit and a waste of time and money. My grandfather rolls his head and looks at her, furrowing his brow. He lifts his trembling hand up, batting weakly at the oxygen mask. My grandmother reaches down and removes it so that he can speak. For a moment he is still, his eyes staring up through the ceiling, garnering the strength to speak. He takes several deep painful breaths then turns and looks up at me. Have he takes another deep, wheezing breath, fun. It crashes over me like a wave. Such simple words, but I know he didnt expend that amount of pain and effort to comment about the joys of sailing. He means that I shouldnt listen to a word she says. He means that I shouldnt let my wife or my grandmother or my job or my responsibilities stop me from sailing if I still dream of sailing. He means that if he were twenty-seven again and young and strong and full of life, he would sail to the ends of the earth. His head falls back onto the pillow and he motions for my grandmother to put the mask back on, which she does. She and my wife are smiling casually at him, humoring the simple phrasing and silly talk of a dying old man. I grip his hand and nod to him, and through his eyes I see reels of home movies all flickering silently over each other. His life. My life. The bits and pieces of film where they come together for Christmases and birthdays and graduations and weddings. Between us there are ages of silence. There are the questions, doubts and regrets of two men cut from the same mold. There is the cancer and the 6

liver-failure and the pneumonia, slowly doing what the Japanese fleet never could. There is the smell of hospitals and an oxygen mask, steaming and clearing in slow intervals. Through the eyes I make him a silent promise, and I hope with every fiber of my being that it brings him some peace here in the clearing at the end of the path. I promise to never forget this moment, and I promise to shoulder the burdens of everything he always wanted to do but didnt. I promise that long after he is gone, I will live.