Safe Harbor

6 - Maeve

6 - Maeve

From up close, the blue fishing boat did not look so little, the painted hull bobbing lightly against the low quay, its mast wagging at the sky. I caught a mixed smell of dead fishes, sweat and gasoline. Its owner was wrestling a heavy rope around a mooring post set in the quay, his back to us. A crate filled with meager crabs awaited nearby.

Kathleen called at him as soon as we veered from the sidewalk to the quay.

“Hey! Stan!”

The man stood up. The surprise made me almost forgot my knee. He was younger than I had expected, considering his cousin’s age group. Probably in his mid-thirties, his forearms ribbed from talking and pulling ropes or nets. The trekker in me approved of his outdoor vest with dozens of handy pockets. He squinted at me under a mop of sea-bleached hair longer than mine, his light blue eyes etched with fine lines as he puzzled out my s*x before committing a faux pas.

But he addressed the woman beside me.

“Still trying to get some hapless tourist onboard your crusade, Katie?” he asked, clearly amused.

What crusade? I thought. Then: hapless tourist? With two intact knees, I’d show this jock who’s hapless!

Kathleen brushed off the taunt.

“Bug off, big oaf! I need vinegar from your kit.”

She pointed toward the parking lot at the pier’s foot.

“And a ride in town.”

My throbbing knee informed me that the mooring post would make a fine seat. I hobbled forward and sat atop the squat post, avoiding the stinking crate and the dirty rope snaking away. Stan’s eyes fell to my rolled-up pants. I looked down, and sucked air between my teeth. I advanced a hand to the swollen skin stretched over the knee, but stopped, remembering Kathleen’s advice.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice soft with genuine concern.

“Jellyfish,” Kathleen said. “I’m guessing a Portuguese Man O’ War.”

“You mean…”

He stopped mid-sentence and unzipped one vest pocket. Some clinking later, he shoved a ring of keys in Kathleen’s hand.

“Start the car. I’ll follow.”

“Vinegar first.”

He bounded up the gangway. As I was pushing myself up to look over the edge of the odd blue hull, Kathleen whirled on me.

“Stay put!” she ordered in a stern voice. “The less you move, the better. It’s bad enough that I made you walk here.”

Loud metallic bumps echoed from the cabin’s open door. There was a storage space under the cabin, accessible by what looked like a rickety scale. Clanging and thumps attested to the man’s hurried action.

Kathleen snorted.

“You’d think that in such a tiny room, it would be easy to find anything.”

“Maybe he doesn’t carry vinegar,” I said.

“I checked his emergency kit every week.”

A minute later, Stan emerged, carrying a one-gallon jug of vinegar and a pile of Second Cup napkins.

“This OK?” he asked.

Kathleen took the jug from his hands and uncapped it. As she busied herself with the napkins, she belatedly remembered her social skills.

“Maeve, this is Stanley Marchand, my little cousin.”

The “little” cousin towered over us like an oak tree.

“Pleasetomeetya” I said, ejecting the words as fast as I could with one burning knee.

Stan took my hand in his and squeezed lightly, having puzzled off my s*x. His smile added a few more creases in his face, and showed his good, strong teeth.

He hovered anxiously as Kathleen swaddled vinegar on the swelling. Then, she fished a knife from a pocket and delicately swept the skin, sending new pain messages to my brain. The blade edge collected tiny beads, like pepper grains.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Nematocysts.”

“Huh?”

I knew about jellyfish stings, but their precise mechanics eluded me.

“Little poison pouches covered with hooks,” she explained.

“Can we rinse it with water?”

“Nope. The acidity change from salt to freshwater would cause the nematocysts to release their poison in your blood.”

In seconds, she had scraped off most of the black dots. She swiped the blade with a waddle of napkins, avoiding any direct contact with her skin. Then, she threw the soiled waddle in a plastic sandwich bag, another production from her pocket.

“I can’t do more,” she said. “Now we must get you to the clinic.”

She pulled at my arm to get me up.

As soon as I put weight on my left foot, it felt as if my femur was breaking into pieces, each sending agony up and down, zipping through my poor rotula. I suck in air, pinching my lips to stifle a cry.

Kathleen noticed me wincing.

“s**t! The poison’s spreading. She can’t walk.”

I put my right foot down; pain flared up in my left leg. Before I could take another step, Stan whipped me up in his bearish arms. The jolt sent new pain up my poisoned knee.

This time, I cried out.

“Sorry,” he said.

Then he pounded the pier’s wood toward the parking.

Kathleen was already speeding up front. Wow, was she fast! She must have been a sprinter in another life.