Part 23
The arrival of the historic sloop, which Sterling called The Albatross, changed the entire energy of our shore. She arrived on the back of a massive flatbed trailer, wrapped in heavy canvas like a fragile antique being moved to a museum. It took Quincy and four men from the harbor an entire day just to safely winch her into the main bay of the workshop, clearing out almost every other project to make room for her immense, broken hull.
Once she was settled on the heavy wooden blocks, the true scale of the work became apparent. She smelled of ancient damp, dry rot, and a century of forgotten journeys.
Quincy spent the first two weeks doing nothing but cleaning her. He used a soft brush and a vacuum to remove decades of bird droppings, dead leaves, and crumbling wood dust, stripping her down to her bare, tragic skeleton.
It was during the third week of December that we realized Quincy couldn't do this alone. The physical demands of lifting the heavy oak timbers, steaming the long cedar planks, and managing the constant stabilization of the old hull were simply too much for one set of shoulders, no matter how strong he was.
One evening, as the wind rattled the kitchen windows and a fresh layer of snow began to fall, there was a knock at our door.
Knocks at night still had the power to make my heart skip a beat, an old echo of the years when we were running. I stood up from my sewing machine, my body stiffening. Quincy, who was reading an old textbook on naval architecture at the table, stood up calmly and walked to the door.
When he opened it, a young man was standing on the porch. He looked to be around Quincy’s age, maybe a year or two older, dressed in a faded canvas jacket that was soaked through with melting snow. He was shivering, his face pale, holding a small duffel bag in his hand.
"Are you Quincy Vance?" the boy asked, his voice trembling from the cold.
"I am," Quincy said, his body blocking the doorway slightly, protective as always.
"My name is Julian," the boy said, looking down at his worn boots. "I... I saw the big boat you brought into the yard last week. I’m staying at the boarding house in town, looking for work. I don't know much about boatbuilding, but I know how to swing an axe and I can carry heavy loads. I heard in town you needed an extra pair of hands. I don't need much pay. Just a dry place to sleep and enough to eat."
I stepped out from the kitchen, looking at the boy. My maternal instincts, forged in the fires of survival, immediately recognized something in him. He had the same look Quincy used to have when we first arrived here—the look of a creature that had been hunted, whose eyes constantly scanned the perimeter for threats. He wasn't a danger; he was a refugee.
Quincy looked at the boy’s hands. They were rough, calloused, with dirt embedded deep under the fingernails. He looked into Julian’s eyes for a long, silent moment, communicating in that wordless way men have.
"Have you eaten tonight, Julian?" I asked, stepping forward before Quincy could answer.
The boy looked at me, surprised, and swallowed hard. "No, ma'am. Not since yesterday."
"Come inside," I said, pulling the door open wider. "Quincy, take his bag. Put it by the stove."
Julian stepped into the warmth of our kitchen, his shoulders dropping two inches as the heat hit him. He looked around the cozy room, his eyes lingering on the bright, clean surfaces, the smell of fresh bread, and the total absence of violence.
That night, Julian ate three bowls of stew without saying a word, eating with the desperate, efficient hunger of someone who didn't know when his next meal would appear. Quincy sat opposite him, watching him with a calm, understanding expression.
"The work starts at five in the morning," Quincy said when Julian finally set his spoon down. "It’s cold, it’s dirty, and if you don't pay attention, you can lose a finger to the saws. You can sleep in the loft above the tool room. There’s an old cot there, and a small wood stove. If you work hard, I’ll pay you twenty dollars a day plus your board."
Julian looked up, his eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. He nodded quickly. "I’ll be ready. I won't let you down, I swear."
After Julian had gone out to the workshop loft with a stack of heavy wool blankets, I stood by the sink, washing the dishes. Quincy came up behind me, taking a kitchen towel to dry the bowls.
May you like
"He’s running from something, Quincy," I whispered, looking out the window toward the workshop.
"I know," Quincy said softly, his voice steady. "But everyone on this shore started by running from something, Eleanor. Even us. The wood doesn't care about your past. It only cares about how you treat it today."
