Marline Williams
Summer 1960
I’ve seen quicker-moving lines at the California DMV than the one on the pier this afternoon. The sun’s burning through the harbor canopy, my cotton sundress, and my cartwheel straw hat. Wonderful. More freckles.
These skiffs hold about twenty, I calculate, and move backward to ensure I get the one I’m waiting for. His. “No, please, go ahead,” I tell the googly-eyed honeymooners and the family of five.
My Congo launch finally pulls up to the quay, swaying and bumping. My heart does the same when the bronzed captain helps me aboard. His hair’s more silver this year, but those—honestly, brawny’s the word—arms holding me steady are still strong. And still no wedding ring on his tanned left hand.
Hard to believe my own ring’s been gone since 1953. Seven years now. Hard to believe I’ve been taking these river trips for five of those years. Harder to believe I’ve kept my secret this long.
I scurry to the last bench, fanning my hot face with a folded map. The glistening riverbanks exude lush green scents; exotic birds scream like they’re auditioning for a Tarzan movie. The boat’s rocking settles me. I pull out my sketchpad. Somehow, the palmetto leaf I’m drawing becomes the captain’s profile.
A crackle from the squawk-box microphone sizzles up my spine. Why am I nervous? To him, I’m just another sightseer. Well-hidden among the other tourists. Invisible.
Well, not exactly invisible. The other passengers’ curiosity about the only single woman on the boat is so thick, you can cut it with a machete. I can almost hear them, Why’s this old lady here alone? Where are her grandkids?
“I’m Skipper Jim.” That cheerful, husky voice makes me feel about fifteen years old, even though I’m on the sunset side of fifty. “Welcome to the Disneyland Adventureland Jungle River Cruise. Is this anybody’s first time? How ‘bout that? Mine, too. Any lifeguards on board? Not that we’ll need them.”
I laugh with the others, though I’ve heard this opener a dozen times. He spins his spiel like he does the steering wheel, with showmanship.
“We’re approaching treacherous waters,” Jim warns dramatically as our cruiser rounds a bend. “Uh-oh, I don’t like the looks of that big hippo. He’s about to charge!”
He fires his fake pistol, and little tots wearing Mickey ears shriek and cringe against their mommies. “Don’t worry, folks. I scared him into dropping the charges.” A chorus of groans makes him chuckle.
Jim. Nice name. It fits him. I sneak another look, pretending to sketch a bamboo tree.
Did he just wink at me?
“Folks, I see we have a lovely lady artist on the Congo Queen today. If I remember correctly, this is her fifth year cruising with us,” he announces.
Everyone turns to me. So much for being invisible.
“Because she’s always fascinated by foliage, I’m going to point out the river’s rarest specimens and tell her—and all of you—everything I know about them.” Straight-faced, he points silently at a few plants.
I shield my too-loud laugh and blushing cheeks with my hat brim. I love how this man gets a kick out of every horrible quip. It’s refreshing to find someone my age—our age—who knows how to have fun. Genuinely young at heart.
Everyone cheers when we arrive back at the tourist-packed landing. Not me. If I had a diary instead of a sketchbook, I’d write “my heart sinks.” Awful puns must be contagious.
Well, Cora, do something about it. Say something! Don’t just smile and drift away again, hoping, wishing …
“You added some new jokes, Skipper.” Brilliant, Cora.
“Since we’ve been friends for so long, why don’t you call me Jim? Jungle Jim if you’re feeling feisty.” His mischievous smile melts me like a dropped popsicle on a sunbaked pier.
“Alright, Jungle Jim. I’m Cora.”
“Well, Congo Cora, it’s about time we had a malt or something.” He waves the next group aboard, looking flatteringly distracted. “My shift’s over at 5. Tonight’s a Disneyland Date Night. How ‘bout we meet at the Carnation Plaza Gardens for some dinner and dancing?”
One advantage of being mature is not needing to act coy. “I’d love that.”
Several hours later, and all danced out, we stroll with the other couples, swinging hands like teenagers. I feel as sparkly as the magical Main Street lights.
“Jim, what’s the appeal of being a skipper? Apart from the uniform …” Having swapped his regulation Hawaiian shirt and clam-digger pants for a madras sports coat and chinos, my escort looks even handsomer, if possible.
“Beats watching Sea Hunt reruns in an empty apartment.” He squeezes my hand. “It’s a good break from teaching American Lit at Langston College. By September, I’ve got a great tan and lots of funny stories for the faculty lounge. And then there’s always the chance a certain cute, freckled lady artist will return …”
“Is that your next story?”
“That depends … Come on, your turn.”
“After my husband died in Korea, my sweet, very well-meaning fellow profs—I teach botany at Bryant U.—started inviting me on their family vacations. You know, out of pity. So, I invented these solo jungle excursions. They have no idea I only travel 20 minutes down Firestone Boulevard to Anaheim.”
Jim’s look says he understands all too well. “People try to help, don’t they? I lost my wife seven years ago. Another reason I love working in a happy place just 30 minutes up the Santa Ana.”
We share a quiet smile.
“Say, Cora, ever wanted to see Africa’s longest river by moonlight?”
I grin. “If I said no, I’d be in de—”
“—Nile,” Jim finishes with me, grinning back. “Beautiful and she puns? Where have you been?”
“In the same boat, apparently, just a few exits up the freeway.”
He chuckles and kisses me quick, hard, sweet. And the fireworks spangling the sky behind Sleeping Beauty’s castle light up my heart.
Connect with Marline on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Goodreads, or her website.
Spark Flash Fiction 