Tales from California: Monsters at the Marina

“Nobody lives on their boat,” Elizabeth told me as we walked to the 34’ sailboat she calls home. “That’s the official story around here.” And thus, Mary and I were introduced to the unique community of a marina, a sort of floating trailer park where everyone insists with straight-faced seriousness that there is no neighborhood here— just a bunch of boats with owners occasionally showing up to take them out for a sail. 

For most of the time Mary and I were at the marina, we both sensed a presence of wildness that haunted the creaking corners of the docks, a spiritual disturbance that made us none too eager to walk the quays after nightfall. In Elizabeth’s boat, we were wrapped up in the goodwill of her and her friends, as we crammed as many as eight people into a tiny space to eat, drink, and swap stories. I was inspired to be more hospitable when we stayed with Elizabeth: she didn’t mind stuffing people into the space, feeding us delicious food, and sharing generously of her time and energy. I loved the way she smiled and laughed, and the way she accepted anyone who showed up. Her hospitality was not without downsides, though, and that is how we met Carrie.

The first time I saw Carrie, I just assumed that she was your ordinary pothead who had just had too much to drink: she stumbled into the boat one evening, so sloshed that her eyes wouldn’t focus. Her hair was bleached, her skin was dark with sunshine, her eyes ridged with black liner, her shirt attempting to display cleavage that wasn’t there. She lit up a joint without asking, waving her head side to side as if trying to shoo away a fly. When Elizabeth finally convinced her to leave, she nearly got off the boat on the wrong side, narrowly avoiding falling straight into the murky water.

However, soon we learned that she was not just a pothead: she was doing other drugs as well, living in a constant blank stupor. One night she wandered onto the boat and passed out on the couch before anyone could stop her. Sighing, Elizabeth said there was nothing to do but leave her there. The two of us moved her further onto the couch so she wouldn’t wake up with a horrible crick in her neck. She was dead weight in my hands. Elizabeth asked her friends which boat Carrie was staying on. A guest, they said. Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she said with authority, “She has to go.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

That night, I surfaced from a deep sleep to hear a primeval howl rising like a beast from the darkness. One massive shiver raced down my body as my heart lurched into my throat. The howl rose to a wail, trapping me against the bed in terror, and then it trailed off into a long, barely human-sounding expletive. Now shaken awake, I realized that Carrie was crying out in her sleep. 

Silence fell. I lay in bed, tense, hugging my sister in her sleep, feeling suddenly afraid that a monster would seize her from me.

Again, the wail. It crept from Carrie’s throat, but it didn’t sound human. It was ragged, tortured. Insane.

Without one desperate movement, I shot out of bed and flicked on the light. Mary murmured sleepily and rolled over as I stood by Carrie, staring at her face, which was twisted as if in pain.

“Hey,” I whispered, touching her forehead. “It’s okay, Carrie. It’s okay. We’re here. You’re safe.” 

Her forehead smoothed out, and her body relaxed. She mumbled something and then turned her head, sinking into deeper sleep. I felt cold all over, shaky. I returned to bed.

The last time I saw Carrie, she was sitting on the pavement outside the marina restrooms, soaking up sunlight and smoking a cigarette. She was staring into space. I walked right by her, and she didn’t see me.

If Elizabeth and her friends prevailed, Carrie is no longer at the marina. Wherever she is, whatever she is doing, I continue to pray for the lost girl who wailed in the night. That memory will give me a chill for as long as I live.

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