Ultimate Sports (25 page)

It was only when I got back to Pete’s house that I found the two books in my pack. Harry’s was written by hand, of course, but it wasn’t a book about birds or navigation. It was a book of short stories, all about different sorts of love, but especially their sort of love. And Barry’s was a book of music—song words with melodies and guitar chords.

I haven’t read them properly yet, because I need some
space between my dawn memory of the
Dolphin
sailing away from Pete’s yacht and the news item a month later that a yacht had been lost on remote reefs south of Tonga. They never properly identified the pieces of the yacht or found any bodies, but there was speculation that it might have been a yacht called the
Dolphin
owned by two thirty-something cousins, New Zealand citizens but believed to be British-born. They were such careful, meticulous navigators. I can’t…I’d rather believe they are still sailing round the Pacific somewhere, or beyond, westward to the Indian Ocean or the Mediterranean.

From them I learned everything I know about seamanship, about the sea, about living, about enduring, about love, and about myself. I got aboard the crew for the Whitbread race next month because, though I could not produce a written curriculum vitae to tell them my true story, I was confident enough to persuade the skipper to take me for a trial sail.

We were somewhere south of Land’s End when a fearful storm blew up in the English Channel, one that wasn’t forecast. It was nearly as bad as that terrible gale that flattened southeast England at the end of 1987. Apart from the skipper, I was the only one who wasn’t seasick, who could help get the sails down and the sea anchor, the storm jib, and lifelines rigged in the storm’s initial fury. I took continual cups of tea and dry bread to all the others who were horizontal on their bunks, and cleaned up their vomit. We had to run before the storm into the Atlantic. The skipper and I sat up three nights without sleep, sharing the helming and the cooking.

One day, after the race, we might share a life too.

So, Martin, there’s my whole story, or nearly whole story. Not bad, is it? The earlier part will earn me ten
thousand pounds, enough to buy a small yacht of my own or travel again. That earlier part must be about five thousand words, what I have recorded for Penelope’s magazine.

I decided to tell the story because I want girls to know that you can take risks when you are traveling and find you’ve trusted your instinct and it’s okay. Not every risk turns out to be a horror story about white slavery and girls ending up in Thai jails convicted of being drug couriers, despite what my mother still thinks.

But one detail I’m not telling anyone, not even you, Martin, not yet, anyway. Not for instant fame like Priscilla Presley or John Lennon’s girl Yoko Ono; not if every woman’s magazine in the world offered me thousands of dollars or Hollywood wanted the rights to make a horrible, dishonest film about a girl abducted by a couple of gays sailing round the Pacific. I’m not greedy, and I made a promise.

I’ll tell my bear instead. He sits on my bed and has heard all my ramblings so far as the sun dropped behind the birch trees and the sky turned twilight pink. The roses are still glowing white and Mother is calling me for supper.

Remember, bear, I wondered what Barry and Harry did for money?

They had a beautiful, well-appointed yacht, everything on board new and carefully chosen, the best German wines, the best Jamaican rum you can buy. There was always money in the bank, whatever port we visited. They bought me mementos I treasure: a collection of silver dolphins, some French jewelry in Tahiti—real gold; a pearl ring; an uncut sapphire, the color of Pacific waves, for a ring when I meet the man I shall marry.

Remember I said Barry sang a lot?

Remember a certain teenage pop star of the late seventies who disappeared mysteriously about five years ago… the beautiful English boy with long limbs, a beard, long tawny hair, the flower child idolized by millions of girls, and boys too… who wrote all his own songs—another Bob Dylan, they called him? He was just about to make the big time in Hollywood. He’d have been another David Bowie or Sting. There was a lot of publicity and speculation at the time—about murder, about the drug underside of the music industry. He just vanished.

Well, he showed me photos one night, and apart from Harry and a lawyer in London I’m apparently the only person in the whole world who knows the real and famous name of Barry Wildblood.

Now
there
would be a story. And I have a manuscript book of his last songs.

Educated as a journalist, Tessa Duder has been a professional writer for fifteen years. Her seventeen books have brought her six major awards, several fellowships, and travel to international conferences from her home in Auckland, New Zealand.

She is known best by teenage readers for her novel
Alex
, published in the United States as
In Lane Three, Alex Archer
. The novel, which is about a teenage girl’s efforts to make the New Zealand swim team for the 1960 Olympic Games in Rome, was a best-seller in New Zealand and was made into a feature film called
Alex
. Ms. Duder followed that success with three more novels about the competitive swimmer:
Alex in Winter, Alex in Rome
, and
Songs for Alex
. The Alex books were later published together as
The Alex Quartet
. Ms. Duder’s most recent book for teenagers is an anthology called
Nearly Seventeen
, which includes her short play “The Runaway,” about an incident in the life of Joan of Arc.

Although she played tennis, field hockey, and cricket as a teenager, Tessa Duder’s main sport, like that of the main character in her Alex books, was swimming. She was the first woman in New Zealand to compete seriously in the butterfly stroke, and in 1958, at age seventeen, she represented New Zealand in the Empire Games in Cardiff, Wales, where she won the silver medal in the 100-yard butterfly event.

Her sporting life now, more than twenty-five years later, is limited mainly to yachting and fitness workouts. She has sailed as a watch officer on both of New Zealand’s sail-training ships,
Spirit of Adventure
and
Spirit of New Zealand
. Ms. Duder reports that she has met several young female British travelers like the girl in “Sea Changes” and has been on a yacht that was the home of a gay couple who seemed to be spending their life cruising around the Pacific without worrying about money. The mysterious past of one of the characters in this story, however, is entirely her invention.

Never
develop a crush on your mixed-doubles partner.

She had a ridiculous last name, Krenzwinkle. It sounded like a cartoon character, but her first name was Jennifer and there was nothing remotely cartoonlike about her bright blue eyes or her blond hair or the way her long legs flashed beneath her white tennis dress.

The Krenzwinkles had just moved to our town during Christmas vacation, so no one in our high school knew very much about Jennifer. When she came out for the tennis squad and Coach Nutterman paired the two of us up as the varsity second mixed-doubles team, I figured I’d get a chance to know her much better. You can never tell where long tennis practices and new friendships may lead….

Anyway, I was wrong. Two weeks into our season I knew very little more about Jennifer Krenzwinkle than I did when she first walked into our honors English class in January and amazed Mr. Otto and the rest of us by asking: “Don’t you think both Hemingway and Fitzgerald’s
stylistic innovations were more important contributions to world literature than the actual novels they wrote?” I knew her name. I knew that she was my age, seventeen. I knew that she quickly became the best student in our high school. I knew that her family lived in a nice, new, middle-sized ranch-style house on Briarwood Lane. And that was all.

I probed gently. Jennifer retreated skillfully. I inquired more directly. She managed to duck or turn aside every question with a smile or a question of her own. One afternoon two weeks into the season, I asked directly: “Jen, where did your family live before you moved here?”

We had just finished half an hour of giving each other overheads to smash, and she took her white headband off and shook out her long blond hair. She looked at me, hesitated, and then gave me a tiny smile. “Think we’ll win tomorrow?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I asked you.”

“I know, but that’s what I’m answering you.”

I would have been angry at her if she hadn’t been smiling at me. There weren’t too many smiles that pretty in the whole state of New Jersey. “One reason people ask questions is to get to know somebody they’re starting to like,” I told her.

“That’s true,” she said. “What’s your middle name?”

“Eric.”

“Mine’s Amanda. What’s your sign?”

“Pisces.”

“Mine’s Virgo. What’s your favorite food?”

“Bacon cheeseburgers.”

“Mine’s fried chicken. Bye, Andrew Eric Logan. Get a good night’s sleep—I want to win tomorrow.” She turned and started off.

“Bye, Jennifer Amanda Krenzwinkle,” I called after her. “Don’t worry about my tennis game. Worry about my sanity.”

We did win, and we kept winning, but by the middle of the season I was half crazy. Everyone on the team called her the Mystery Woman. Nicknames are fun and mysteries are fine, but when you can’t sleep at night because you’re lying in bed hour after hour picturing a pair of bright blue eyes floating on the ceiling, a few hard facts would be more than welcome.

“Maybe she’s just shy,” my big sister, Beth, suggested on a weekend visit home from college. When we were living in the same house, Beth and I never got along, but things got better between us when she moved out, and I even started asking her for advice about girls. “Don’t press her. You’ll scare her off.”

“But she’s not shy,” I objected. “She seems normal and outgoing, except that she doesn’t like to talk about herself.”

“Maybe she’s hiding something.”

“She’s hiding everything.”

“Give her time.”

“It’s driving me crazy.”

“Then tell her that.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” my sister said. “If she’s really driving you crazy, let her know.”

I let her know after the Hasbrouck Heights match. We won in straight sets, and Jennifer raised her game to a new level. She had an amazing first serve for a girl, and against Hasbrouck Heights she served up one blistering ace after another.

After the match, on the bus ride home, several of our
teammates congratulated Jennifer, and old Nutterman told us he thought we were cinches to win the county championships and even had a shot at the state tournament. “There’s no chance of that,” Jennifer said.

“Why not?” Nutterman asked.

She shrugged, and he didn’t push any further—I guess maybe he thought she was just being modest. When the bus let us out at our high school and Jennifer began walking away across the parking lot, I caught up to her. “Hey, Mystery Woman, wait up.”

She turned, smiled, and waited.

“You played like a top seed at Wimbledon today.”

“Thanks. We make a good team.”

“Yeah. Nutterman’s right. We’re gonna win the county tournament. Maybe the states, too.”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

She kicked a pebble. “There won’t be any state tournament.”

“What do you mean there won’t be a state tournament? Of course there will be. It’s down at Princeton this year.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, ’nope’?”

“The state tournament is in May, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there won’t be one.”

“What does it being in May have to do with it?”

“Forget it,” she said. “Let’s talk about school. Did you start on that report for Mr. Otto yet?”

We were out of the parking lot, on Mason Street. The street was completely empty except for a black poodle on a chain in a driveway a hundred feet up ahead. I stopped
walking and Jennifer slowed and then stopped too. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Jennifer Krenzwinkle, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Why?”

I looked her right in the eye and took a deep breath. “Because I’m starting to like you. A lot.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Why not? You don’t like me?”

“I didn’t say that. Just don’t.”

“Give me a reason.”

Her palms rubbed together nervously, like she was trying to erase something between her hands. “There wouldn’t be any point to it.”

“Why? Do you have another boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Do you have some problem at home? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No,” she said, looking more and more nervous. She bit down on her lower lip and tapped her tennis racket against her knee.

“Let’s start with something simple. Why won’t there be a state tennis tournament?”

“There just won’t.”

“But there’ll be a county one?”

She looked off down the street at the black poodle, which was running in circles, causing its chain to twist around its legs. “Yes.”

“And there won’t be a state tournament because it takes place in May, whereas the county tournament takes place in April?”

She nodded.

“But if the state tournament took place in April, there would be one?”

“Yes,” she said, “there would be. Please don’t ask me any more questions.”

“You won’t even tell me where you’re from and why we can’t get to know each other better?”

She hesitated, her eyes still on the poodle. “If I answer those two questions, will you let me alone?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

She swung her eyes from the poodle to me. “I’m from southern California. And I don’t like answering questions about myself for reasons of religious freedom.”

“What does that mean?”

“You promised no more questions,” she reminded me, starting off down the block.

I immediately gave chase. “You’re right, no more questions. Could I buy you an ice-cream sundae if I only talk about tennis? We’ll discuss backhands. Jennifer, please?”

“No,” she said. “I like you a lot too, but it will be better if we just stay mixed-doubles partners.”

“Better in what sense?”

“Gotta go. Bye,” she said, then lowered her head and took off away from me down Mason Avenue in large, fast strides. I stopped and watched her go. When she passed the black poodle it made a rush for her, but its chain was too short and all twisted up, and all it could do was stand up on its hind legs and bark.

The more I thought about our conversation, the less sense it made. Finally, in desperation, I called my sister and told her all about it. “Aha,” Beth said when I was done.

“Aha what?”

“Now it’s clear.”

“What’s clear?”

“She’s from southern California. Two girls on my floor here at college are from southern California, and no one can figure them out either. It’s not part of America—it’s a whole different country, a whole different logic.”

“So what do you do? How do you deal with them?”

“We just make allowances for their craziness and go on with our own lives.”

“That’s the best advice you can give me?”

“No, the best advice I can give you is never take college calculus. I have a test tomorrow and I gotta go study. Bye.”

“Bye,” I told her. “And thanks for all the valuable insights.” I hung up the phone and sat there with my head in my hands, trying to figure out what religious freedom had to do with the state tennis tournament being in May, or not being in May.

After that I made a strong conscious effort to cool it with Jennifer and to spend my time and energy thinking about rational subjects. I wasn’t entirely successful, but the less time I spent thinking about her and trying to figure her out, the more relaxed I felt. Jennifer sensed my coolness and seemed to resent it, but she never said anything. As our conversations got shorter and our friendship got thinner, our tennis play improved noticeably.

School wound down to exam periods, and the tennis season ended in the county tournament. Jennifer and I were seeded second, behind a team from Wood-Ridge. We waltzed through our first three matches, won a close one in the semifinals, and found ourselves in the finals against the number one seed.

It was the kind of sunny April day that photographers try to capture on postcards. Bluebirds sang on tree
branches and beds of budding tulips and daffodils surrounded the courts where the county finals were held. Jennifer wasn’t at all nervous warming up for the big match. I’ll say that for her—for all her kookiness she was never nervous or off her game. She was wearing a new outfit, a short pink skirt and a pink and white top, and if it hadn’t been the county tournament I would have had a lot of trouble concentrating.

We split the first two sets, so it came down to the final one. Both teams held serve to three games each, and then Jennifer and I broke them to take the lead. The Wood-Ridge duo tried to break back on Jennifer’s serve and fought their way to deuce, but she smoked an ace to make it our advantage, and then won the game with a furious two-handed backhand put-away right on the line. The Wood-Ridge team held serve to close to four to five, but I served strongly for set and match, and Jennifer slammed home the winning point with a furious overhead smash.

The hundred or so spectators gave us a nice ovation. Without thinking, I ran to Jennifer and lifted her off the ground in a hug, and she hugged me back. After all those weeks of trying to ignore each other, the hug felt very good. I put her down and we looked at each other, and I guess we were both grinning. “Way to go, Mystery Woman,” I said.

“It was fun,” she agreed. “I love winning.”

A sports reporter from
The Record
snapped our picture, and the assistant head of the County Tennis Association gave us little gold trophy cups.

Our third singles player made it to the county final, so our whole team stayed around to watch him finish. I was still pumped up from winning, and I wanted to savor the feeling, so I watched the final match sitting high up on a
bleacher, all by myself. I was kind of surprised, midway through the match, to see Jennifer walking up the bleachers in my direction.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I sit down?”

“Plenty of space.”

She sat. There was a real strange energy between us—a jumble of resentment and fondness and triumph and confusion. “I never won anything as big as a county tournament before,” she said.

“Me neither.”

“I just want you to know that I’m glad I won it with you. I do like you.”

“I like you too, but you confused me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s hard to believe. Anyway, we’re a good tennis team. Let’s leave it at that.”

“I guess we won’t be seeing each other anymore.”

“We still have to practice every day for the state tournament,” I reminded her.

“There won’t be any state tournament.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Well, goodbye.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be mad at me.” I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I spotted a little teardrop welling up in one of her pretty blue eyes. “I told you, it’s a matter of religious freedom. And if I tried to explain it to you, you’d only laugh.”

I looked right at her, and I amazed myself with the seriousness of my voice when I said: “Look, I’ll try once and only once. My father was raised Catholic but he’s an atheist, and my mother was born Jewish but I don’t think she thinks much about religion. I wasn’t confirmed or bar mitzvahed or anything else. I’m kind of interested in religion and I’ve read a little about Buddhism and Islam
and Shintoism, but I don’t really know what I believe yet. I’m still thinking about it. I guess deep down I believe in some kind of God, or at least I want to believe, but…”