“How long are you going to keep making backhanded references to the four point seven five-million-dollar plane?” he asked. “Just out of curiosity.”
“Pretty much for the rest of your natural life,” she replied.
“That’s kind of what I thought,” he said with a sigh.
They ate and then, while Laura did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, Jake went and took his own shower. After toweling off, he pulled on a pair of baggy swimming trunks and a t-shirt he had bought in Bar Harbor. He then picked up the backpack he used when traveling—it was currently empty—and threw his wallet into it. Inside of his wallet was more than six hundred dollars in cash he had also picked up in Bar Harbor. Using your ATM card to make purchases had not quite made it to most of the state of Maine outside of Bangor or Portland yet. And it certainly had not made it to Rockwood, Maine.
Their dry suits were hanging on a rack on the lower deck on the aft side of the boat. This was where the two Kawasaki JS750 jet skis were secured. It took them about five minutes to completely gear up for the trip to town. They pulled on the dry suits, put water shoes on their feet, donned their life vests, and then Jake put the backpack on and tightened the straps as much as he could. He then locked up the door that allowed entry into the boat and put the key in a little pocket on the dry suit that was designed just for that purpose.
“You ready?” he asked Laura.
“Let’s do it,” she said with a smile of pleasant anticipation. The jet ski had scared her at first but now she had fallen in love with riding it. And she had gotten quite good at it as well.
The so-called “keys” for the jet skis were actually just plastic pieces that plugged into a slot and allowed the ignition circuit to complete and the engine to run. These keys were attached to lanyards that they secured to their wrists. In the event of a fall—and they had both fallen a lot when they were learning to ride—the lanyard would yank the key out of the slot and kill the engine instantly, thus preventing the watercraft from continuing on its merry way without its rider. You then just had to swim after the machine and remount it.
Jake untied the skis and they climbed aboard, settling in on their knees and then pushing away from the boat. They plugged in their keys and fired up the two-stroke engines, which sent clouds of fragrant exhaust into the air.
“Lead the way!” Laura told him. She had a terrible sense of navigation outside of cities or towns (and it was not that great inside of them either). She could probably find her way out of the cove—since there was only one way to escape and it was plainly visible—but after that, she did not even know which way they should turn to get to town.
“Try to keep up!” Jake returned playfully. He did have a superb sense of direction and navigation, even in unfamiliar places, and always effortlessly led them back to the cove without the use of a map of any kind, or even a compass, no matter where they went out on the large lake. Of course, he was greatly assisted in this impressive feat by the fact that Mount Kineo, where they were anchored, was visible from anywhere in the range of the jet skis.
Jake pulled on the throttle just enough to get moving and steered around in a circle until he was facing the exit to the cove. He then throttled up, putting on some speed. As the jet ski moved faster and became more stable in the water, he slowly stood up until he was standing tall on his own two feet. He glanced over his left shoulder and saw that Laura was keeping station with him, just behind and to the left, where his wake would not catch her. She too had assumed the standing position.
The water was mostly calm as they exited the cove and turned to the right, with no wind-driven waves at all and only a few wakes churned up by the sparse boat traffic that was motoring about here and there. The Yamahas could easily go forty-five miles per hour, maybe even fifty, but Jake did not go balls to the wall. He kept the throttle at around eighty percent or so and they cruised at around thirty-five to forty miles per hour. They cut through the water smoothly, feeling the wind in their faces, occasionally getting splashed a bit when they hit one of the rolling boat wakes. The trip took only five minutes to complete and neither of them fell off. They pulled up to the Rockwood Town Landing boat ramp, maneuvering over to the fuel dock and then shutting down.
They stepped from the jet skis onto the dock—Laura almost falling into the water but catching herself at the last second—and tied up. Jake turned his back to her and told her to get into the backpack and pull out his wallet. She did so.
He peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “You fuel us up,” he said. “I’ll hike in and grab the groceries.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
The proprietor of the fueling station was heading toward them from the direction of the little snack shack where he had been sitting in a wooden chair out in front of it. He was a grizzled man in his late fifties or early sixties. He was balding, missing a few teeth, and constantly smoked cigarettes, even when he was fueling someone up. He was the same man who had fueled them on their previous trips to the dock and he was a man of few words, speaking no more than was necessary to complete the transaction. Jake did not even know his name, as he had never offered it and he wore no form of name tag or badge.
He walked up to them now, his lit, half-smoked cigarette sticking out of his mouth. He was looking at them intently as they approached, much more intently than he had ever looked at them on previous visits.
“Good morning,” Jake greeted when he reached their position.
“Ayuh, it is,” he agreed, still staring at the two of them, as if he were trying to memorize their features. “Shapin’ up to be a real pisser of a day, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” Jake agreed. “It looks like it.” Pisser, he had learned from his time spent in Maine, was not a bad thing, but a good thing. As in, ‘that was a real pisser of a blowjob you gave me last night, hon’.
“We’d like to fill both tanks up,” Laura told him.
“No problem,” he said. “That’s what I do here.”
“Is it okay if we keep the skis tied up to the dock here long enough for me to walk up to the store and pick up a few things?” Jake asked him.
“Ayuh,” he said. “I’m not exactly drove right up at the moment. No problem at all as long as you book it.”
“Book it?” Jake asked.
“Do it fast,” he clarified.
“Oh ... right. I’ll certainly book it as much as I can.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He still had not taken his eyes off of them, and he made no move to get to work putting fuel in their tanks.
“Uh ... is everything okay?” Jake asked.
“Ayuh,” he said. “Everything is just fine with me. Was just lookin’ to see if you two really are who I think you are.”
Ahhh, so that’s what this is about, Jake thought. We’ve been recognized. “Who is it that you think we are?” he asked.
“I don’t just think, I know,” the proprietor said. “Now that I’ve had a chance to get a good look at you both.” He turned to Jake. “You’re that rock and roll musician that they say is up to devil worshiping and sniffing dope out of butt-cracks.” He then turned to Laura. “And you’re the woman who travels around with that Mexican singer they play on the radio sometimes. You just had a show down Bangor way, didn’t you?”
“We did,” she said. “But Celia Valdez is Venezuelan, not Mexican.”
The proprietor shrugged, as if to say, what’s the difference? “They say you two are married.”
“They’re not making that up,” Laura said, showing him her wedding ring, which she had felt more comfortable wearing on the jet ski than leaving unattended on the houseboat.
“Girl, that’s a wicked rock you have there,” he said. He looked back at Jake. “You’re quite the rig, aintcha?”