When Kayaks Fly 2: Another Adventure

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month, we needed to write a story using these words: leftover paint, mermaid, tide, sun, chilly.

Cathy’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022/2023.

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When Kayaks Fly 2: Another Adventure

by Cathy MacKenzie

 After experiencing that first flying escapade on my kayak, I wasn’t certain I’d ever want to kayak again, but the ocean’s beauty—and mystery—lured me back. My kayak was a mess, so a paint job was necessary. I’d touched it up previously so, luckily, I had lots of leftover paint.

I couldn’t share that horrid experience with Marie. Never owned up I’d cheated on her, either. She doesn’t know I’ve bedded that many women, but what does she think—that men are perfect? I bet she has skeletons in her overflowing closet that she never revealed to me! Anyhow, except for the occasional cheating during our marriage, the majority of the women-bedding happened long before I met her.

Despite my flaws, I lived up to those promises I’d made while high in the sky that day...

I caught Edward Mullen unawares at the Ace Bar & Grill, his favourite haunt, one Saturday night. I ensured I wasn’t being recorded, that hidden wires weren’t wrapped around his torso—or is that only in the movies? Obviously, he wasn’t pleased to see me until I told him I’d repay every penny I’d embezzled from him. Nothing had been proven in court; I’d successfully covered my tracks. For ten years after that meeting, I patted him down every time we met before I forked over the cash installments. Not much he could do, really. He was getting his money after declaring the losses to Revenue Canada. Tax-free cash after the fact. No, he’d never go to the police.

Liz Griffith? Well, she could’ve been another “bucket of fish,” as they say, but the statute of limitations had long expired on rape—not that I’d checked the legalities. Turned out, she’d never considered what transpired that frigid January afternoon as rape. She’d been cold—cold as in chilly—for the furnace in her house had conked out and her parents were angry with her for poor grades. She was happy for my warmth, and who can prevent “one thing” leading into another?  We were alone in the house, her parents at work; no siblings. She actually laughed in my face when I apologized. Didn’t even recognize me at first. Even when I told her my name, it took her a good ten minutes to place me. “‘No’ back then doesn’t mean what ‘no’ means today,” she’d said. “I was a tease back then, as were all my friends. We couldn’t come across as too easy. We had to say no even though we wanted to say yes.”

What a fuckin’ relief that was! Thirty-plus years fretting over nothing.

All went well with my promises to Marie. I bought her jewels. Not real jewels immediately, of course, ’cause all my extra cash went to pay off that fool Edward Mullen (in retrospect, a stupid move!). The first was a ring: a large ruby (her birthstone) surrounded by diamonds. Okay, the diamonds were cubic zirconia; not sure about the red gem. Definitely not a real ruby, not at $79.99. But the ring was solid white gold—okay, sterling silver, if I’m honest, but she never knew. “You cheating on me?” she’d asked when I presented her with the small store-wrapped box adorned with a bow bigger than my fist. What the fuck, I thought. Now you ask me that loaded question?

Ironically, I hadn’t lied when I said, “No, Marie. I’m not cheating on you.” Notice the “I’m not.” Notice I didn’t say, “No, Marie, I’ve never cheated on you.” That would’ve been a lie, and I’d never—ahem—lie to my lovely wife.

Our marriage went wonderfully after that first soaring-through-the-air kayak experience. How could it not? I’ve always been a horny bugger. Even got Marie more interested in sex. The various jewels helped. A win-win, right? But, always, when she said “No, dear,” or “No, I have a headache tonight,” I listened. “No” has a different connotation today than yesterday.

Back to the day after the first crazy, creepy kayak adventure, when I was again on the shore of my property, where the Atlantic Ocean flows into the lake. No tides here, though, not like the tidal bores in Truro.

Despite being early morning, around eight-thirty, the sun beat down on me while my paintbrush swish-swished across the plastic moulding of the kayak. I was making a mess. I’ve never enjoyed painting. Always hired painters to paint our house, inside or out. Touch-ups are one thing, but painting an entire boat?

I sensed a disaster waiting to happen...

But then—

Fog descended, as it’s wont to do on a whim in Nova Scotia.

And then—

Out of the fog she appeared: the most gorgeous mermaid I'd ever seen—not that I’d seen a mermaid in real life since that first soaring-through-the-sky kayak episode—more beautiful than that previous mermaid, more beautiful than Natalie Portman or Halle Barry or Scarlett Johansson. Prettier than any of the fifty-three woman I’d bedded.

Definitely prettier than Marie. (I mistakenly omitted that fact in my first tale.)

“Let me help,” the lovely mermaid said. Her voice purred, as soft as silk, as uplifting as birds chirping outside the bedroom window on a summer’s hangover morn.

“Can you paint?” Surely not, I thought, but I felt compelled to ask.

“Of course. Mermaids can do anything.”

“Then go to it!”

She did. Within minutes, she’d repainted the entire kayak. My crappy paint job disappeared, and it was as if the boat were covered in Disney twinkles—those magical, shining twinkles that appear at the start of Disney films.

I couldn’t wait to get in and push myself out to sea. Couldn’t be rude, though. “Want to come kayaking with me?” I asked. “Oh, no, gotta wait for the paint to dry,” I added.

The mermaid floated a few feet as if she were a fairy princess waving that magical Disney wand. “It’s dry. That’s the beauty of dreams and wishes, right?” She spread her dainty arms. “Magic everywhere.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, not exactly sure what I was agreeing to.

“Hop in,” she said, even though the kayak is mine and a one-seater.

I did as she requested. Who can deny a gorgeous female? Somehow, we both fit.

Off we ascended. I felt as if I were Santa in the sleigh being towed by Rudolph and his friends, but I wasn’t delivering gifts. I was receiving them! A free paint job. The gift of a beautiful broad.

But nothing untoward happened. We soared above the house. Marie was on the deck, hunched over the BBQ. What the heck? It wasn’t evening, but smoke spiralled and I breathed in the heavenly aroma of grilling meat. She better not be cooking the T-bones. Sometimes she did that. Took it upon herself to start the BBQ and cook the meat. Simply to piss me off if I didn’t show up at the appointed time for dinner—at her appointed time.

I waved, but she didn’t acknowledge. Never looked up, actually. But who would unless rain drops suddenly materialized? The kayak was quiet. No bells were rung by Rudolph or Santa or whoever rings the bells.

And then—

We were back on shore: me and my kayak.  

I lay on the sand. Flat on my back, kayak alongside. Every bone ached. My head throbbed.

I managed to stand. The kayak was empty of water. Thank goodness! Had it been full of water and seaweed again, I’m not sure what I would have done.

No sign a mermaid ever existed. No Rudolphs. Nothing but me and my trusty kayak.

But you know what? It was freshly painted. Gleaming. Glowing. Shining. Still showcasing those sparkling Disney twinkles.

I massaged my temples and combed my fingers through my hair. And felt it. A lump! Or a bump. The evidence was clear: I’d hit my head. Experienced head trauma and the accompanying delusions and illusions. At that moment, I knew the previous flying-through-the-air-kayak episode had been in my head. These two kayak episodes weren’t two but one.

One dream—or one nightmare.

I examined my fingers. No blood, which was a good sign.

Yet...

What about the kayak? The fresh coat of paint? I’m the world’s sloppiest painter. The kayak was pristine. Not a brush stroke out of whack. Looked brand new.

I sauntered up the mulched path to the house, cringing with every movement. My stomach growled. I inhaled whiffs of BBQ smoke, more pronounced with every foot on the weathered tread to the deck. Must be lunchtime. Marie barbequing hotdogs. I’d conked out for the morning. Painted the boat while “sleepwalking” after hitting my head, which would explain the “pristine job.” I was a painter in a previous life, the skill returning while in that “other” frame of mind.

Marie stood over the BBQ. She turned and smiled—smiled her sly, wicked smile. Her making-her-point, you’re-late-for-dinner smile. “I’ve started the T-bones.” Her grin morphed to a frown, and her saccharine tone changed to one mimicking concern. “I went down to the shore. I thought you were painting. Where the heck were you?”

 

~~Author’s Note: If you enjoyed “When Kayaks Fly 2: Another Adventure,” you’ll have to read “When Kayaks Fly,” which was posted four weeks earlier.~~

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/