Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston Mystery

FEELING SAFELY smug, I pretended to scan the sea, as if the waters required my attention, the breeze on my face, my jaw set. With an affected tip of my head, I turned toward her.

“My name is Boston. Rony Boston. Spelled R-O-N-Y but pronounced as the more traditional R-O-N-N-I-E. I am not the least bit knowledgeable about the time for dinner, but I will happily be your escort and conversation companion, providing you agree to sit to the left of my position at the head of the table where I am quite sure we will be afforded the highest possibility of intimate quiet.”

I was very satisfied. I had displayed a definite air of confidence, cleverly just shy of arrogance, but still a playful opening. It occurred to me (now in retrospect) that my ex-wife would have found me absurd. When this stranger before me smiled, I was encouraged. She responded in a manner I would come to learn was typical.  Without a word, she touched my arm, and then floated away.

At dinner, we met Mr. Emin Gungor, our Turkish guide. Barely five and a half feet tall,

brash, confident, and I thought quite annoying. He wore a smile which seemed permanent, as if he would be similarly pleased while he burned at the stake. He rose while we munched appetizers of humus and some kind of brined grape leaves stuffed with meat, snapped us to attention with a tap on his glass of red wine, and welcomed us aboard. He spoke the name of the boat while we sat slack jawed in ignorance. It is a harsh language, I thought.

Gungor went on: Your vessel is named En Hızlı Yaratık. In Turkish, that means the fastest creature. Well, you will soon see this is not a fast creature. Rather, it’s a slow boat to wherever it’s headed, including China. If you are hoping for a romantic interlude, this is exactly what you need. It is comfortable and absolutely seaworthy. If the sea is calm.

I glanced around the table hoping to find some smirk of appreciation for his stab at humor, but this group either was too timid or too aloof to laugh. As I rounded the table with my eyes, it seemed odd that so bland a group would be sequestered aboard a boat on the Aegean Sea. There was none among us of particular interest. An older couple both attired oddly, as if they thought they might encounter a rodeo here in Turkey. Two single men, perhaps gay. A middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses suggesting a professorial occupation. A woman, perhaps his wife, pleasantly nondescript. Two attractive women maybe in their early forties who smiled copiously and nattered constantly. One rough-looking fellow with noticeable detachment. Only two of us seemed the least bit interesting: A gorgeous woman and a grieving divorcee, me.

And I qualify as interesting on dubious grounds, a man sent away by an Ex- who tired of him. For me, divorce was more than separation; it was rejection. And once rejection can no longer be dismissed as an aberration, the mechanisms of defense pile up like stones in a medieval church. I knew the process, or at least had gone to sea to reckon more realistically with it. Welcome rejection. Hola self-doubt. Ciao insecurity. Hello, darkness, my old friend, as Rhymin’ Simon said.

Gungor the guide outlined our itinerary for the next day after explaining that for this night we would be anchored at sea. He reassured us; the seas would be calm, and the full moon would be rising shortly after sunset. It will be very beautiful, he promised. But he still advised on the position of the life vests and the location of the rescue boats the crew would lower in the event of an emergency. For now, he said, we should introduce ourselves and then enjoy our first full meal.

 Sea bream, grilled eggplant, couscous, cucumber, tomato and farro salad, and of course tea. Wine, too, my friends. We are well supplied.

Hear, hear, someone said, as Gungor suggested a toast, and like majorettes in a marching band, we raised our glasses as we attempted to pronounce a new word: sağlığına. When he pronounced it a second time, I couldn’t help but laugh at my quiet joke: It sounded to me like saloon-a, more a barroom salute than a romantic toast aboard an exotic boat on the Aegean.

Turkish word for good health! Gungor said.

Saloon-a I said.