“Close your mouth,” West murmurs out of one corner of his lips, and it is literally the only circumstance under which I can imagine being grateful for that reprimand.
Finally, it’s time to board. Clipboard Lady and Paolo lead us over to the life jackets hanging along one wall and help us each find the right size; then we follow Paolo out to the boat, which sits a little below the level of the dock. We’re instructed to step into the area behind the captain’s seat, where there’s some padded bench seating for guests and a door that leads down to a galley. The front of the boat is a flat expanse of polished wooden planks that look ideal for lying down and sunbathing.
I couldn’t be more excited as we all step aboard and settle into our seats. Victor and McKinsley are on the back bench facing forward, Graham and Marge on the far side chatting with them, which leaves the bench behind Paolo to West and me, just as I hoped would happen. As Paolo takes the helm and starts up the boat’s engines, Clipboard Lady—now sans clipboard—swiftly and mesmerizingly unwinds the ropes tyingthe vessel to the dock. Once it’s free, Paolo gives her a jaunty wave and steers us out into the open water. We stay at a low idling speed while we meander out of the marina, and Paolo informs us that there are cold beverages and snacks down in the galley whenever we want them, as well as a small bathroom.
I’m working up to starting a conversation with him, opening with some dazzling subject like, I don’t know, what kind of boat this is. But the words on the tip of my tongue die when we leave the no-wake zone. Paolo revs the engine and its rumble gets ten times louder while we pick up speed.
Graham and Victor shout back and forth to be heard while they discuss their own experiences with boats like this one, as coincidentally, they’ve both spent a lot of time on the Great Lakes. The bits of mind-numbing boat conversation I overhear remind me how few shits I give about boats. I scan my brain for a new entry point.
When I’ve thought of it, I use my loudest outside voice to begin, “So, Paolo…”
His shoulders jump and he turns to look at me over one. “Sì, is everything okay, Ms. Jacobs?”
“Oh yeah, I’m good!” I aim to sound as breezy as one can while yelling at the top of one’s lungs. To make conversation even more difficult, he has to keep his gaze mainly on the water ahead of us. Less than ideal, but I guess I appreciate his commitment to keeping us alive.
“I was just wondering,” I press on, “are you from around here?”
If Paolo agrees that this is a strange time to have a conversation with one of his passengers, he doesn’t show it. His eyes stay fixed ahead with his face turned just enough that his words carry back to me. “Yes, I grew up in Naples, actually. My family has boats there as well—it’s where the business started. I opened the Sorrento operations, ohhh, ten or so years ago, but I still commute from the big city.”
So far this aligns with what I expected. “Did you always want to be a boat captain?” I ask. “To join the family business?”
His head tips to one side as he considers. “As far back as I can remember, yes. My nonno—my grandfather—was a fisherman before he started the tour business. My father began working there as soon as he was old enough and still does to this day, though we all wish he would retire.” I see the edge of his rueful smile. “There was a time when I felt this pressure, seeing all my peers go off to university, and I tried to give that a go myself. But it didn’t take long for me to realize I wasn’t meant for the classroom. Being on the water—it’s in my blood, I think.”
I peer around the boat as he speaks, realizing for the first time that it’s actually quite beautiful. It has a caramel-colored wooden deck, seats and steering wheel in a soft ivory material that looks a lot like leather but I imagine is something more waterproof, and shiny gold metallic railings and cleats along the perimeter. Then I look farther, to the sea all around us, which has somehow become an even more vibrant aqua since we left the marina.
Could I have all of this in my blood, too? The Bianchis’seafarer DNA in my very makeup? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Not exactly a feeling of clarity, ofyes, this is right, but a sense of wonder at thewhat ifof it all.
I hurry to slide in my next question before the moment has passed, not letting myself get lost in my own wondering.
“So, what about the next generation of Bianchis?” I begin. “Do you have kids who you expect to join you in this business?”
Paolo doesn’t turn his face toward me this time, though his hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. Is that a nervous response?
“No, I don’t,” he says, voice a little stilted for the first time. “We’ll see what my nieces and nephews choose for themselves when they’re older. But none of my own, no.”
I try to read his tone, though it’s hard with the wind whipping around us, the continued roar of the engines, and the lack of any clue what his face is doing. Is there sadness there? Contentment? Or maybe regret, like he’d had the opportunity to have a family but missed it?
What would he think if he found out that he might not have missed it after all?
“No wife, then, or husband? No…romantic partner?”
I promptly feel a pinch on my thigh, causing me to let out a quiet yelp that no one seems to hear except the pincher in question. West leans in until I can feel his breath on my neck, and I will not be examining why that sends a shiver rolling through me.
“Now you sound like you’re trying to hit on him,” he whispers sharply. “Dial back the twenty questions.”
In retaliation for the stinging spot on my leg, I reach up and flick him on the nose. I don’t care if he is kind of right.
Oblivious to all of this, Paolo glances my way again, letting out a soft laugh as his brow furrows and he gets what might be his first real look at me since we were on land.
“You’re very curious, aren’t you?” he says with clear skepticism.
I hold up my hands, leaning back into the seat and rushing to say, “Sorry—my cousin always gets on me about being too nosy with people I’ve just met. Bad habit.”
Some of the tension in Paolo’s face eases, his friendly smile taking over. “I understand,” he says. “I have a bit of that in me, too. Getting to meet new people all day, every day, from all walks of life—it’s sort of an occupational hazard. My father and grandfather are the same.” He clears his throat before adding, “But no, no partner. I don’t think settling down is in the cards for me.”
He turns back around, then seems to think of one more thing. “And hey, stay curious, kid. It’s a good quality to have.”
Normally, I’d bristle at an older man calling mekid; I’m hyperaware of looking young and feel like I always have to defend my (Basically) Real Adult status. But something about it works for Paolo. Or maybe I’m just already projecting my fatherly hopes and dreams onto him.
