15. That Connection

A chapter from my upcoming book, The Story Story: A Voyage Through the Islands of Connection and Engagement for Writers, Speakers, Professionals, and Visionaries

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With breakfast dispensed with and society’s ills dealt with, Strider ordered his crew ashore. “Get ye all to the boats,” he ordered. “Go find stories.”

“You’re not going?” asked Kaitlin.

“I’ll go later,” replied Strider. “I’m used to a lot more alone time than I’m getting—and I’d like to do a little ‘curriculum’ planning for the Story Congress … er … the Happiness Congress.”

Kaitlin shot him her best lonely puppy look. “Do you mind if I stay aboard and share some of your alone time—if such a thing is possible?”

“I’d be delighted,” said Strider. “You can help me make some more bread.”

The other members of the Happiness Congress exchanged knowing glances and then arranged themselves three per boat. Audrey and Lenore headed for the nearby dock with Micky Tomm flailing at the oars. Walter and Doug reclined luxuriantly in the bow and stern of the other dinghy while Vincent’s graceful strokes carried them swiftly down Man-O-War harbour.

Strider and Kaitlin stood on deck watching the crew leave. Once they were out of sight, Kaitlin turned, wrapped her arms softly around Strider, and buried her face in his shoulder. Centuries passed while she breathed in his scent and he felt the soft tickle of her hair against his cheek.

Kaitlin collected her thoughts. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days. I know you felt that electricity when I touched your hand at the ice cream shop back in New Plymouth. And I see how you look at me.”

Strider offered a self-conscious smile.

“This is the part of our story where I get scared and vulnerable, but Strider, you’re the most remarkable man I’ve ever met. You have this way of looking at the world … this beautiful, infinite tapestry of stories you weave … and everyone else’s story is just a thread in that tapestry … and your story is just a thread in everyone else’s—in the story of the Universe … and…” A tear sparkled down Kaitlin’s cheek. “Here I am, the writer; I’m supposed to be articulate and I’m blubbering.

“I … well … Strider, would you say something, Goddamit? I don’t have words for this, but I’m damned sure you know how it goes … and I just want to know if you … I mean … do you …?”

Strider took Kaitlin’s hands in his. “Of course I do, Kait. Of course I do. I felt a special connection with you the moment I saw you look down at me from the dock back at Moraine Cay with your eyes all full of ‘who is this odd guy with the zebra pants?’ and ‘is he here to rob and kill us?’ It startled me.”

Kaitlin sniffled and laughed. “So here we are—two oddballs from two different planets. What do we do? How do we…”

“Get together?”

Kaitlin nodded.

“You might not like the answers—a big part of me doesn’t like the answers—but those answers are ‘slowly, maybe, not on this trip, and we already are.’”

“Too complicated,” jungle man. She stepped closer and looked into his eyes.

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you, Kaitlin?”

“Jesus, Strider! I’ve never been this aggressive with a man in my life. Short of crawling into your bunk naked, I can’t think of a way to make this any easier.” Another tear left a glistening trail on Kaitlin’s face. “I’m the woman; I’m the one who’s supposed to be telling you to cool things down. Strider, I …”

Strider sighed, embraced Kaitlin again and led her down below to the main cabin. “Sit,” he ordered gently.

“I guess this means we’re not…”

“Please … sit.”

Kaitlin poured herself onto the settee. Strider handed her a pillow and sat facing her.

“Kaitlin, the first thing I want to say is ‘thank you.’ Yes, I have feelings for you, too. Yes, I feel the same way you do. Yes, I want to take you to my cabin and start making tsunamis in the harbour. You are brilliant and articulate—and quite a beautiful woman—and thank God you had the testicular fortitude to say what I was afraid to.

“But though the best inspiration shines like a sunbeam into the window of the soul, it was you who suggested that it is we have to ‘hold the pen for God.’ Let’s not pretend that you won’t be getting back on an airplane in a few days and flying 3,000 miles away. You have a job and a cat and …”

“I know, but that all feels like another world. It’s all so far away and surreal and…”

“This is probably one of those really stupid things men do at the most inappropriate times, but I’m going to tell you an ex-girlfriend story. Will you humor me?”

Kaitlin nodded.

“I used to make a little money chartering this boat. I never had an official captain’s license or a Bahamian work permit—and I got tired of sneaking around the islands trying to make it look like this week’s fresh group of ‘old friends’ weren’t part of an illegal business, so I don’t do it any more—but one day, Katya came aboard. Katya: Kaitlin. Perfect, huh?”

Kaitlin smiled weakly.

“Katya was a professional contortionist. Not only could she turn herself into a human pretzel, she could climb around the rigging like a gibbon and perform aerial stunts with a gigantic red ribbon. Katya had an IQ of about 600. She got on board, wrapped her brain around the aero- and hydrodynamics of sailing and did things with this boat that made me look like an amateur.

“To make a long story short…”

Kaitlin smiled. “Strider, I didn’t think you had it in you!”

“I have to keep you on your toes or you’ll lose interest, my dear … but by the end of the cruise, we were…”

“Now that must have been interesting!”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but yes, Katya’s unusual elasticity afforded some opportunities for intimate connection that … well … let’s just say that added to my certain knowledge that I was never going to find another Katya Kuznetsov.”

“So what happened?”

“By the end of the cruise, all the other guests were pretty uncomfortable. Boats aren’t very private places, and though I’m used to having couples aboard who want a romantic holiday, it’s different when two giant magnets clank together and start pretending they’re eighteen years old again.”

Kaitlin giggled.

“And then we made plans. It was all so perfect. She called Cirque du Soleil and told them she was going to drop out of the tour. She flew home to settle some affairs and came back a week later, and we started looking at navigation charts. We bounced around the Abacos and then we headed south through the Exumas and down to the Turks and Caicos. We jumped off to the Dominican Republic and the Virgin Islands, made love on deserted moonlit beaches, gazed at the stars, talked about life and stories and…” Strider paused.

“One day, the fantasy got old—at least for Katya. She woke up one morning on a boat in the middle of the British Virgin Islands and realized she’d seen a lot of islands and a lot of beaches and a lot of me. Whatever it was that we’d set out to achieve together had been achieved. I was content with ‘happily ever after,’ but few people are. I think it was starting to feel like a beautiful prison sentence to her. We’d had all our deep, philosophical conversations and explored the outermost limits of sexual intimacy. We’d sailed together in calms and storms and each of us had learned to sleep soundly when the other was at the helm. It was perfect—for me.

“You see, I was happily ensconced in the metaphor I’d made for myself; this was my story. Katya hadn’t grown up dreaming about pirates or adventure voyaging or sailboats—and she wasn’t a writer or a painter. The sailing life didn’t free her up to work on a novel or develop a theory or write a business plan. Her full-time job ended up being having me as a loving pet. She needed me to distract her, to divert her from her supposedly glamorous life swinging from the top of a circus tent. She left that to share my supposedly glamorous life sailing through the tropics. What she got was the tabula rasa—the blank slate she needed to write her destiny on—and that wasn’t a destiny she was ultimately meant to share with me.”

Kaitlin closed her eyes and visualized beautiful Katya with a painted face and a feathered headdress atop her long flowing hair, balanced on the tip of the Metaphor’s bowsprit clad only in a shimmering silk ribbon.

Strider inhaled his own memory picture and let out a long breath. “I poured her into an airplane. We were both sobbing like babies. But she wasn’t happy. She needed to write her story, but she couldn’t do that as long as she was riding on the back of mine. We had a beautiful connection, but she had this bright, beautiful mind and this talented, flexible body. She had all the tools she needed to change the world—but hanging from a silk ribbon in front of an audience hadn’t helped her do that, and sailing in paradise hadn’t, either.”

“So what happened to her?”

“She went home to Siberia and started the ‘Red Ribbon’ women’s organization. When young girls in Eastern European orphanages turn 18 without getting adopted, they get turned out into the street because the government won’t support them any more. You can imagine where too many of them end up. She teaches them to use their minds and their bodies in whatever unique ways best help them pursue their destinies.”

“She sounds perfect—and perfect for you. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

“Stay with me, Kait; don’t go into the light.”

Kaitlin laughed.

“Katya and I needed to write a piece of our story together—and we did. But Katya’s a lot like me—probably too much like me. She likes her own story to be barebones and uncomplicated—like I do—but she loves helping other people with their conflicts and transformations. I think we came together and she wrapped her head around the storytelling bit and then needed to go somewhere where she could apply her talents. We loved sharing life, but our time together—and the fact that a hot romance in paradise wasn’t keeping her glass full—helped her find her true path.”

“Are you still in touch?”

“We send postcards here and there, and an odd letter shows up at the little Man-O-War post office once in a while. She married a sweet, pudgy little guy who’s got a generous heart and a successful export business. He puts the girls to work in his warehouse, and she puts that massive brain of hers to work helping them write life stories of happiness, success, and fulfillment. She’s got a couple of little rug rats to chase around, and stories of circus life and sailing life to share—or to reflect on quietly and smile over depending on which stories she’s thinking of.”

“So where does that leave us?” Kaitlin twisted one of her braids.

“Where it leaves us is that we have an obvious connection, but I’m not going to get hot and heavy with you on a boat with six other people aboard. I’m not going to split our group into the Happiness couple and the Disgusted Congress.

“Where it also leaves us is that the connection is there and the interest is there, but if you’ll allow me to be brutally unselfish about it—for both of our sakes—I think you need to go home and put your story in order. You don’t have enough data about either me or sailing to drop everything you’re doing in Seattle and move in here—and that’s not a recipe for a lasting relationship, anyway. Living on a boat can be romantic as hell, but there’s a lot of ‘chop wood; carry water’ stuff that catches up with people.

“But Strider, how are we going to find out…?”

“Kait, I think we already know. We have a connection. We feel it and we acknowledge it. We’re sitting here talking about it. If you want to write a story where we spend time together and see what that connection grows into, I’d be thrilled and honored to write it with you. But I’m not going to let you abandon whatever story you’ve spent your whole life developing so you can hitch a ride on mine. If you want to explore our connection, if you want to share a story with me, you have to write a complete, self-standing story of your own that intersects with mine.”

“What about you, Strider? What about your story intersecting with mine?”

“We’re not two people sitting in the dark writing independent secrets—at least not since we started this conversation—but if we are to be whatever it is we are to be, it will come from both of us writing good stories and getting those good stories together. Come back and spend a week sailing. Go home again and let the experience settle.”

“Would you visit me in Seattle?”

“I’m not good with crowds and tall buildings and traffic, but with a very understanding tour guide, it might be fun.”

“And then…”

“And then we’ll become acquaintances or lovers or life partners or friends or spouses—spice?—or whatever silly labels we need to apply to make sure our connection rolls into the appropriate tube once we drop it into the sorting machine. We’ll get together and we’ll bounce off each other or we’ll stick together or … Do you really want to screw this up by writing the whole damned script after spending half a week together? We’re here—now—together. Let’s hold the pen for God, but let’s acknowledge that’s all we have to do. Let’s not ‘work on the relationship’ or put ourselves in a position where it’s more important to write a mediocre ending than a cliffhanger. In a month, we’ll feel how we feel. In a year, we’ll feel how we feel.”

“But how will we know…?”

“Kait, look at the stars. How will you know? You can’t. Look deep inside your soul at everything you are not. How will you know? You can’t. We’re adrift on an endless sea of stories. Stop analyzing the water. The important story is that you and I are sitting here holding hands, confronting the Mystery together. Everything else is just politics. Take a minute and burn this moment into your memory—the having, the wanting, the fear, the joy, the certainty, the confusion, the complexity, the simplicity—the big ocean of conflict and the promised land of transformation that lies beyond imagination. What happens to us after we ‘get together,’—whatever that means? What happens to us after we die? It’s the same abstract question and the same ‘hazy white light with harp glissandos’ answer.

“A lot of vacationing women came on and off this ship when I was in the charter business. For a while, I thought I must be pretty special; I got propositioned left and right—and I’d never thought of myself as unusually attractive. But whenever someone would stay on, the relationship would last a week or a month or two or three.

“After a while, I realized I was that ‘grass that’s always greener.’ Plenty of women want to leave all the drudgery of urban life behind and go swinging through the jungle on a vine with Tarzan. ‘Me Tarzan. Me climb tree. Get coconut. Protect Jane from hungry lion. Ride with Jane on elephant.’ But eventually, the jungle gets old if you like air-conditioning and Chinese takeout. My story is attractive to a lot of people, but it’s attractive like Disney World is attractive. Nobody rents a permanent room at the Polynesian Village; it’s a fantasy.

“Meanwhile, as much as it would be fun to change scenery for a week, I’m not fantasizing about going to Jane’s world. I’d enjoy myself some, and then remind myself why I don’t fit in with ‘normal’ company. I’m sure I’d be a great curiosity—the intelligent ape—the noble savage. And then I’d fly back to the Bahamas and curl up in a fetal position in the chain locker for a week.

Kaitlin closed her eyes and breathed slowly.

“But Kait, a connection is a connection. It isn’t necessarily a crazy fantasy, and it isn’t something I’d toss away. I’m just like you. I am hardwired to find my princess and live happily ever after—even if I already am living happily ever after.

“You’re a writer and a thinker. You get all the crazy stuff that floats out of my mouth. You hear it and spit it back to me—and it makes sense. You have your own dreams and goals and writing projects to stay engaged with—and I could support those. Most women your age have a biological clock that’s chiming like Big Ben, but maybe you don’t? I don’t know. I just think we need time—and I know we won’t get that if we go fog up the mirrors in my cabin.

“Keep your hand on the wheel of your ship and your eye on your compass and your horizon. Hold the pen and start writing. Good books take time. How often have you found yourself writing a story or a book where you watched the story unfold without having much to do with the process? Have you ever surprised yourself with the ending of your own book?”

Kaitlin sniffled. “I stressed out about that for months while I wrote my first novel. My characters did what they wanted and went to places I knew nothing about. I had to do all sorts of research to keep the story authentic. I had all these loose ends; I got all the way through the story, but didn’t know how to tie those ends together. And then I woke up at 3:00 one the morning and knew exactly how the book would end. I jumped out of bed and finished it. I claim no conscious responsibility for it. The book wrote itself.”

Strider kissed the backs of Kaitlin’s hands. “Do you think our story is any different? Do you think any good story is any different?”

Kaitlin shook her head gently.

“I know a different story of how our morning together might go had magically written itself in your mind? I hope I’m not a massive disappointment.”

“Not massive, but …”

Strider chuckled. “Believe me, I’ve been rewriting and rereading that same story for days. I just sense that you and I run a little deeper than a quick island frolic. I’m a story snob, Kait. As much as I’m a guy who lives alone in the wilderness who would desperately love to fall madly in bed with a pretty girl once in a while, I prefer a sophisticated story over a knock-knock joke any day.”

“One kiss?” asked Kaitlin.

“You drive a hard bargain, my dear. One kiss … and I’ll throw in all the hugs you can handle.”