Our vessel was a heavy, 14-foot pullboat made entirely of wood. During the day we traveled our pre-destined course, rowing mostly because there was never any wind. If there was, Jess's friend already knew everything about sailing and she would volunteer, scampering from port to starboard, expertly angling the sail for optimum speed. I stuck to what I knew. I never learned a thing. At night, we lay boards across the seats and folded ourselves into our sleeping bags, side by side, not six inches apart. One or two people had to be on watch at all times to make sure the boat didn't float away. Sitting at the prow, looking out over the inky black of the water, time passed. You spoke in soft tones so as not to wake anyone, doling out idle chatter. Who do you think Danny (the good-looking boy) likes? Do you believe in God? What kind of music do you listen to? Do you think aliens exist? The sea quietly lapping the sides of the boat, the dark dome overhead, the sleeping figures below, lent an air of conspiracy and gravity to such over-discussed and generic topics. One might hear the plunk plunk of poop hitting the surface of the water because that's how it was done, sitting on the side of the boat. Everyone waited till their watch to go.
Danny, it turned out, liked Jess. And I remember wondering why he didn't like me. I would catch myself staring at her, the long brown curls pulled back in a half-ponytail, her slightly sporty look. At first it was unclear who Danny liked. The rumor was that Jess's friend, with her crop of shaggy blond hair, was the target of his affection. It was as if he had dispatched a course of counter-intelligence to scramble any notions his fellow sailers might have, his instincts suggesting this was not the best environment for a teenage crush. The boat being an incubator for pre-adolescent hormones, the stocky boy developed a crush on me, because I was kind and neutral. I was ambivalent about his advances. I enjoyed the attention. At least someone likes me, I thought. But he was a little too large.
Towards the end of the trip, we landed on a small Maine island, Outward Bound's headquarters in the wilderness. We were given a bolus of brown goop wrapped in tinfoil and told to spread out and spend the night in solitude. I found a lovely spot. A patch of packed dirt on a hill just above the sea, surrounded by rocky outcroppings for protection. When I lay down, all I could see was a patch of sky. I watched the sun throwing out its orange light across the water. I spotted another girl from the group but we didn't approach each other. When I went for a short walk though, picking my way over the hillside, I turned the corner and what should I find but the group had convened. Danny and the girl he liked sitting next to him. Exploring an unfinished house with clean, modern lines, plastic flapping in the wind, a slab of anger hit me. I had lost respect for this group who couldn't be bothered to withstand the rigors of aloneness for one night, who had tarnished this sacred exercise, adulterated the wilderness with their inane chatter. I remember the counselor, the woman, telling us that our group dynamics had been the worst she'd ever witnessed in her career at Outward Bound, and she did not finish the trip with us, choosing instead to leave. I watched her strong back ensconsed in a purple fleece recede down the dock. I remember her telling us this but I don't remember quite how bad it was. If there was squabbling, infighting, tantrums, I don't know. At the end of the trip, I let the fat boy down gently, took a picture with the group, retrieved my Outward Bound water bottle and certificate, and went home. Years later, upon finding the photo, I see that I was beautiful. Having just showered and combed my hair, an even tan on my face, wearing a periwinkle shirt, Danny was a fool for not having liked me.
