Day #1 - Apple Pie

Day #1 – Apple Pie

The real version of last night
My imagined version of my arrival differed slightly from the real thing. When I got to the boat, no lights were on. I heaved my bags over the side. It was dead silent. I stood on the dock thinking that I would need to call and wake the captain if someone didn’t appear when a blonde girl with a friendly face climbed out of the engine room. “Are you the new cook?” she asked.

The real version of last night
My imagined version of my arrival differed slightly from the real thing. When I got to the boat, no lights were on. I heaved my bags over the side. It was dead silent. I stood on the dock thinking that I would need to call and wake the captain if someone didn’t appear when a blonde girl with a friendly face climbed out of the engine room. “Are you the new cook?” she asked.

She helped me with my bags, showed me to my bunk, and proceeded to give me what she called the “two-and-a-half-cent-tour.” I met two deckhands along the way, who I will affectionately dub Bly and Rigby. Bly is thin as a rail. He has a ponytail’s worth of hair with small wisps popping around his face, which give him an angelic look. Rigby has two looks: a smart, suave sailor look when his raggy, half-dreaded hair is tucked inside his hat, and a disgruntled, disordered look, when it’s not. When I met him last night, it was the latter Rigby I was introduced to.

Before saying good-night, my tour guide (I’ll call her Eve), showed me the galley. She could sense my anticipation. Even in the dark, I could tell I would like it immensely.

Day #1 draws to a close.
It’s been a great day. Though there have been awkward moments, the crew generally seems to gel with a refreshing ease and sincerity.

It feels different from the Neverland. Of course, I am also different this time, too. I feel less trepidation. I’m more confident. I am more myself.

We did not go sailing today because the boat got a little bruised coming into the harbor. In a way this is a good thing, putting less stress on my duties. Among the other things putting less stress on me is the fact that the old cook (who I will grant the name of Mark) is still here and he made all of the meals today.

I like him, too. But he’s different from me. He isn’t really into food; he said so. He just knows how to cook.

Dinner tonight was decent, but to my tastes under-seasoned and under-salted. His dessert was my favorite of what he made: apple pie in a homemade crust, which looked like it had been lovingly folded around the apples like a swaddled babe. The top was flecked with cinnamon sugar.

He doesn’t really want me in the galley with him; he said this, too (“this space isn’t big enough for two”), but I wheedled my way in and sat on the steps leading to the deck. I asked him a dozen questions and he told me a million useful things, about how the stove works, techniques he uses while cooking on a starboard or port tack, just where things are stored and how long the pots keep their heat.

Then I left him in peace. I went and sat on a bench in the cold sun of this bright but blustery Savannah day, and planned my meals for the week.