Chapter 41
Gifts
Nine days later, exhausted from the journey through wild seas and rough weather, we drop anchor in the port of Fremantle, just outside Perth, Australia. The crew smiles and waves at the small crowd of cheering supporters holding welcome banners and posters, and at the contingent of press with cameras and microphones at the ready. But what catches every eye on the Syrenka is the brand-new fast-boat resting on a trailer on the pier.
It’s a Gemini hard-bottom inflatable — a long, sleek, black craft with powerful twin outboard motors, dual consoles, and six jockey seats. Wrapped around its middle is a giant-sized, red ribbon tied in a bow.
“Well stone the crows!” Libby says. “Somebody came through for us, big time.”
Some of the Aussie members of our crew have family and friends waiting to meet them, but the rest of us make straight for the fast-boat as soon as we disembark. My legs feel odd, and I list to starboard as I walk. It’s like the ground is swaying beneath my feet and sucking at me with double its usual gravity.
“Need an arm until you find your land legs?” Mike offers.
“I’ll manage, thanks.” I follow the gang to the new boat.
“This is military grade,” Tiny says, stroking an appreciative hand over the aluminium keel protector.
Captain Murphy laughs in glee when he spies a length of thick blue nylon rope threaded at intervals with red buoys lying in the bottom of the boat, though I don’t understand what’s so amazing about a rope. The Captain plucks a card off the wide ribbon, and I swear there’s a tear in his eye as he reads the message aloud.
“To the captain and crew of the brave Syrenka, I salute your efforts to protect our planet and its creatures. I hope this helps in your war against whalers. I only wish I could be there to shake your hands in person.”
“Who’s it from?” Tiny asks.
“It’s just signed, ‘Best Wishes, L.R.’”
“What? What?” I say. It comes out way too loud, but everyone else is exclaiming in delight and too busy checking out the fast-boat to notice that my jaw is on the floor. Could it possibly be from him?
“Awesome, man!”
“I wonder who this L.R. is.”
“We’ll be able to run rings around them in this!”
“What shall we name her?”
“It’s already got a name,” says Libby, popping up from the other side of the boat. “Come see.”
We all walk around to the other side of the inflatable to read the name written in large white script: “Romying Free.”
I grin so widely it feels like my face might crack. It is from him.
“Roaming Free?” says Tiny. “It’s a good name, but they’ve spelled it wrong.”
“Perhaps it’s a pun, named it after someone special.” Libby fixes me with a suspicious stare. “Anything you want to tell us, Romy?”
I’m saved from answering when a man in the uniform of a courier company approaches our group and says he has a package for Ms Romy Morgan of the Syrenka crew.
I claim the parcel, find a quiet spot away from the crew, tear open the wrapping, and peep inside the box. Lying on the top of the contents are two envelopes — letters from my folks and Zeb. I’ll read them later. Under a layer of pale pink tissue paper stamped bio-degradable, is a pair of comfortable, sturdy, undeniably inelegant technical deck-shoes — boots, really — in my size. The laces of one are threaded through a note in Logan’s handwriting: “I can’t recommend the right shoes highly enough.” Ha!
I unroll the soft bundle packed beneath the shoes to find two sets of high-tech thermal underwear and thick socks, with another note: “So you don’t need anyone else to keep you warm.” Then there’s a bottle of homeopathic Arnica (“for bruising,” according to the label), lying alongside slabs of dairy-free vegan chocolate (“sweets for my sugar”).
My heart swells and tears well in my eyes. The gifts are so thoughtful — he must have followed our blogs, researched life for crew on the ocean, carefully read my email, and contacted my parents and Zeb. Anyone could have sent a bunch of roses or a bottle of champagne. This gift is an act of consideration and care.
Lying at the bottom of the package is a small box and a sealed letter.
I open the box to see my platinum chain and charm bracelet nestle inside. Attached to the delicate links of the bracelet is a new charm — a pig. I laugh through the now-overflowing tears, and immediately put the necklace and bracelet on. They aren’t best suited to life as a galley slave on the Syrenka, but they feel so right resting against my skin, like a soft touch from him, that I don’t care about the practicalities.
Finally, I open his letter.
Dear Romy,
I was so glad to get your email.
I’m sorrier than I can say at how things ended. Sorry as a one-legged cat eyeing a canary in a tree. Sorry as a fish without fins. Sorry as a man with a heart cracked plum down the middle - which is what I am.
I’ve woken up since you left, Romy. As you know, I’ve refused to do any more Beasts. (When I told Cilla, she threw one of those damned lizards at me and the thing nearly took my eye out.) And Equus opens on the first of February. I feel excited, terrified, way out of my depth, but alive!
I’m looking at ways of putting something back into the world, “leaving it a better place” you called it. I used to think there was only one way of being in this business, but as my momma says, “There’s always more than one way to skin a cat” — even a one-legged one. And I’m going to find a way of doing this, living this, without selling my soul.
I wish you were here, so I could show you what you taught me, how you inspired me. You made me see what matters. I’m heartbroken that the only one that mattered, was the one that got away.
I miss you! I want to scream it into the night, up to the stars.
But you are where you need to be, and I hope you’re loving it.
Love you, always,
Logan
I feel warm for the first time in a month, and it has nothing to do with the blazing Australian sun. I connect my phone to the port’s free wi-fi and start typing my reply.
Dear Logan,
Thank you!
When we set sail again next week, I’ll be steady on my feet, warm in my long johns, sweet as chocolate, and wearing a little hog. The crew is over the moon about the fast-boat — you have no idea how much your donations mean to us all.
I pause, unsure what to say next. I, too, want to scream out to the heavens. “Take me back! I still love you!” — that’s what I want to say. And I want the winds to carry the words around the world and blow them into his heart. But though his letter is full of his regrets over the past, there’s no mention of a future for us.
And yet, it says he loves me “always.” And haven’t I been wondering about how things could have been different if I’d spoken up and put up more of a fight? I decide to write that down.
I also have regrets. I’m not sorry I came out here, but I am sorry I ran away — does that make sense? I wish I’d fought harder for us. Because despite what happened, I don’t regret us — it’s still the happiest I’ve ever been.
This time, I sign it
Love, always,
Romy
And I hit Send before I can second-guess myself.