A WAVE UPON THE SAND
Chapter 01
Penelope
or
Musings of a sea captain in denial
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"I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air." Bram Stoker.
"He was the wind to her sail, the anchor to her ship, the shore to her sea; she would follow him to any horizon, and he would do the same for her, regardless of what uncharted waters might lie ahead." Giselle Beaumont.
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Sound of Music", "Die Trapp Familie", "Die Trapp Familie in Amerika" or any of the works in which I based my stories. I write them for fun only, as an exercise in creative writing.This is a work of fiction,based upon the movie characters. Names and events related to the real story are used only to fill in some blanks, no offense is intended.
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Among Naval Commanders, one stands apart…
In Vienna's Museum of Military History, there is a gallery dedicated to portraits of Austro-Hungarian Navy officers, magnificently showcased and bearing the hallmarks of their distinguished service. These portraits pay homage to the bravery and valor of these naval commanders, many of which were personally decorated by Emperor Franz Joseph II. Among the array of those officers, only a select few are depicted wearing the prestigious Maria-Theresien Cross, the highest honor of all.
One portrait, in particular, commands attention — that of Captain Georg von Trapp. His classic good looks and noble bearing set him apart from the other naval commanders. This is not a portrait that an occasional visitor to the Museum would simply walk by, ignore, or see and forget. No, quite the contrary, there is something compelling about it that makes every person stop and look at it more closely.
The noticeable scar below his lower lip is impossible not to notice. It is the only flaw in the otherwise perfect face of the dashing sea captain. One might think this was a battle scar, probably acquired during an event that earned him the medal he proudly wore around his neck. But that wasn't the case. Few people knew the true story behind that scar.
It was, after all, all Penelope's fault.
He was seventeen years old at the time, and he wanted Penelope more than anything he'd ever wanted before in his life. And he was determined to have her. And he would have her. He was strong-willed, he was determined, like generations of von Trapps before him.
The problem was that his father was against his intentions towards the lady in question.
"You are too young, Georg. Wait a few years, you are not worthy of her yet," had been his father's words to him. "You must learn to conquer her."
So, his father issued him a challenge — to sail from Venice to Trieste in record time. Eight hours, when the average time was nine to ten, depending on the wind speed and direction. The Ritter August Johannes von Trapp knew as well as his young son that it would be an impossible task, one that could be done only by the most accomplished sea captains, like himself. But his willful seventeen-year-old son? Never.
In the end, the elder von Trapp had to swallow his own words. Georg accomplished the feat easily with nearly two hours to spare.
Two hours.
He left Venice early in the morning, arrived triumphantly in Trieste precisely at noon, as the bells peeled furiously around the city - Georg always had an uncanny sense of timing. Augustus was livid, standing motionless as others around him applauded and cheered for his son. He would never imagine the boy would make it. But deep inside, yes, he felt a profound sense of pride, even though his face remained impassive.
Yes, he was destined to accomplish remarkable things at sea, this boy of his. He had it in his veins, in his soul.
Georgs mother Hedwig, on the other hand, fainted as soon as she saw him on deck, from quite a distance still. If her husband had noticed anything was not completely right, he gave no indication of it, but the first thing she saw was the blood that covered the lower portion of her sons face and dripped down to his sailor suit. It was a sight not for the faint-hearted. Georg told later that the boom had hit his chin during a tricky maneuver, it was only sheer luck and quick reflexes that prevented him from falling overboard and perhaps being lost at sea forever.
Besides the commotion and a scar that he would carry for life, Georg had hardly felt any pain that day, or in the days that followed.
She was finally his.
The Penelope was a testament to the dedication and craftsmanship of Augustus Johannes Ritter von Trapp, a masterpiece of maritime engineering and design. Even though Georg had been nothing but a boy of ten when construction started and barely seventeen when it finished, his connection to the sailboat was never lost, carrying him through the great war and other tragedies that followed. Quite the contrary. Wars would reshape Europe, but the Penelope would always be there waiting for him in a Mediterranean port – a constant in his life.
Due to his poor health, his father eventually lost interest in the sailboat he had built with his own hands, while Georg continued to refine and perfect each detail over time. That is, only after he had proven to be worthy of his fathers legacy.
Winning that challenge from Venice to Trieste and being awarded the Penelope had been many things, but most importantly, a rite of passage, from boyhood to adulthood. That day, the impassive look on his father face as he approached the harbor in Trieste, covered in his own blood, was the one of the best memories he carried of his old man. It had certainly been the happiest day of the seventeen years of his life. For the first time in his life, Georg had succeeded in making his father proud, even if the old man would never admit it to a living soul.
But lets return to the lady in question (2).
Penelope was indeed a beauty.
The hull was made of the finest oak and teak, carefully selected for its durability and beauty. The deck, polished to a high shine, gleamed under the sun, while the sails, crisp and white, billowed majestically in the wind. It could carry eight to ten people comfortably, and although Georg was able to navigate it alone, as he had done easily and often, he could do with another experienced sailor helping him if he needed. She was equipped with the latest navigational instruments of the time, ensuring safe passage even through the roughest seas. In fact, Georg had crossed the Drake passage, and other dangerous waters safely with the Penelope. Below deck, the interiors were just as impressive. The cabins were small, but cozy and inviting, with mahogany woodwork, brass fittings, and plush furnishings. The galley was fully equipped, and the small but efficient quarters provided comfort for long journeys.
To him, it was much more than simply a vessel, his first love even though he was a little skeptical about the obsessive attachment seamen seemed to have with their boats. Nevertheless, when you work on something for so many years, when you see it being built from scratch, board by board, nail by nail, since you were a child; when you accomplish a task that seemed impossible at first… oh well, that could easily be explained.
And the day came when Agathe Whitehead became a part of his life…
Of course it had been his bride, with her impeccably good taste, who had made Penelope truly theirs after they were married, adding a feminine touch here and there. Happy memories that still made him smile amid all the heartache.
"Im simply marking my territory, darling," she had said playfully one day when he asked why she was so interested in decorating a boat. "Staking my claim. Making sure you remember me every time you come aboard. Youre much too attached to this girl."
Agathe had always resented the amount of time he spent on the sailboat, and during the first years of their marriage she had been fiercely jealous of Penny. Or Old Penny when she was in a particularly nasty mood. After all those years, despite the tender memories, the nickname still made him wince. He was only glad none of his Navy friends ever heard it, otherwise he would never see the end of it.
The children were all acquainted with Penelope while they were growing up. Only little Gretl never had the pleasure of sailing it, and while Marta, Brigitta and Kurt had, their memories were faint and had a kind of dreamlike quality. He sensed that when he overheard them describing the sailboat to their governess soon after the announcement of their upcoming trip.
"Guess what, we will be sailing with father again, Fräulein Maria!"
"Its been five years, since the summer before mother died."
"Father will take the Penelope to Portugal again and well meet him there."
"Well sail in the Atlantic!"
"Mother used to call her Penny…"
"Shut up, Louisa. Father hates that nickname."
"Whatever you do, Fräulein, dont call it Penny."
"Its her, not it, you silly!"
"And dont tell Uncle Max either."
"Its Penelope."
"Father and grandfather spent decades building the Penelope."
"He will have a fit."
Now he looked at Penelope, safely anchored in the moonlit beach cove he could see from the balcony of the main guest bedroom.
"I wonder what Maria will think of Penelope…" He closed his eyes for a moment. "Fräulein Maria," he corrected himself.
God help him, but he wanted her to see this sailboat of his, wanted her eyes to widen in wonderment, wanted to sail with her, to show what the feeling of flying through water was like. He wanted her to be impressed.
He had to acknowledge that the governess was one of the reasons why he was here now, finally by the sea after so many years. One year ago, he thought the very idea of his presence in this place would be madness, completely out of the question, unthinkable. Yet here he was, in a beautiful mediterranean style house that belonged to the Whiteheads, their home away from England, a summer retreat they had bought right after the war. A place where he had been many times before during the peaceful years of his marriage.
He told himself that it didnt matter that the governess had not even been near the ocean her entire life, had never sailed before. He would be only fooling himself. The truth was that he longed to witness what he knew would be a brutally honest, undoubtedly loud, boisterous reaction that would certainly come from her when she laid her eyes on the sea for the very first time. It would be something original and unexpected, and as he tried to imagine it, he was sure she would surprise him in the end. She always did. With every little thing she did. Because every new thing was an adventure for Fräulein Maria.
This ocean before him was not the somewhat gentle Mediterranean where he had first learned to sail, not too close, but not too far from their native land. It wasnt the waters of the Adriatic, where he had fought so valiantly for Austria. No, ahead was the immense vastness of the raging Atlantic. How would she feel, standing on a beach, gazing ahead, knowing that there would be nothing but sea water between her and the American continent?
"So how is that for your first view of the ocean, Maria? Here, standing on the edge of the world…"
A simple, calm beach with turquoise waters would not satisfy him, not for the purpose he had in mind. Because she wasnt like that – calm, predictable. Behind her troubled eyes, Marias soul was as complex as his.
No, he wanted to show her wild waves, white sand, and thousands of iridescent seashells. He wanted her to be surrounded by the sights, the smells, and the sounds of the sea he loved so much. He wanted fierce winds blowing in her hair so furiously she would hardly be able to hear her own thoughts. He wanted the motion of the waves to mesmerize her, hypnotize her making her feel both exhilarated and afraid – just as he did, even after spending half his life at sea.
He pictured the scene vividly: the moon casting its silver glow over the rippling waves, painting the sea with shimmering lights. Maria would stand there, her eyes wide with awe, her delicate features illuminated by the gentle luminescence of the night. He could almost see her hair catching the moonlight, glowing like a halo against the dark backdrop of the ocean.
Would she gasp in wonder, her breath stolen by the beauty of it all? Would she reach out, as if to touch the moon's reflection on the water, her fingers trembling with excitement? Would she run to the water to meet the waves, or run around the beach, trying to catch one as it kissed the sand? Or she would simply stand there in silence, her heart too full for words, her eyes glistening as she took in the majesty of the scene before her.
He longed to be there beside her, to see her reaction firsthand, to share in that magical moment. The thought of it made his heart ache with a strange, sweet pain. He wanted to be the one to show her what he thought was one of the wonders of the world, to see her face light up with the discovery of something so beautiful and vast. It was a yearning that he could not ignore, a desire that tugged at his very soul.
"Thats impossible, Georg, and you know it. Dont be ridiculous. The moment is hers and hers alone. Why would she share it with you? Shell probably be surrounded by your seven children."
He punched the balustrade so hard that his hand hurt. What was the matter with him? He hadnt brought her here to seduce her… had he?
"Shes practically a nun, you despicable wretch," he gritted, chastising himself.
No, not a nun. Not yet. A postulant. Not that it made any difference, not at all.
It was a sickness, that was the only possible explanation. An obsession. Oddly enough, one that he was not sure he wanted ever to get rid of. He made a mental to pay a visit to the famous Dr. Freud in Vienna. There had to be a cure for this. It seemed that lately every thought lead back to her. Governess, postulant, soon to be a nun. Maria. Fräulein Maria. Too damned innocent for her own good, too luminous, too young, too naïve, too full of life, too… everything!
Georg breathed the invigorating salt sea air deeply, trying to regain both his composure and his sanity. He then shook his head, walking away from the balcony and the sight of his sailboat. He must put a stop to this, he mustnt allow the little nun to intrude in his every other thought. Besides, it was a well-known fact that there were other reasons for him to be here other than Fräulein Maria.
His excuse… his reason had a name:
The Right Honourable Frances Whitehead.
Agathes mother.
Gromi…
He grimaced. Sometimes there is no avoiding the painful memories if one wishes to move forward – one of the many lessons he had learned recently.
In Agathes deathbed, the last few hours of her life, when he would not leave her side and he just lay her next to her, holding her, trying desperately to breathe some life into her... In those agonizing moments, his wife was still strong enough to ask him for promises. The only one he had refused to give her was that he would remarry – the very idea of it being much too painful at the time. But he had made her other promises, including one that he broke. No, of course, he wasnt proud of that. It burdened his conscience, especially because it concerned the children.
He vowed he would not let them forget their grandmother, that he would allow them to spend time with her, at least twice a year. Despite that, Gromi – as the children affectionally called her - hadnt seen then since the day of the funeral. Gretl had been only an eighteen-month-old toddler asleep in the arms of governess number one.
Naturally, nothing went according to his plans since that day. There had been letters, the usual birthday and Christmas presents mailed to the children every year. But each invitation for a visit, in England or the summer home in Portugal, was politely declined for the same reason he had nearly transformed his home in Aigen in a military naval base.
But Gromi never gave up – he had to admire her persistence. Agathes mother might not be the most pleasant woman he knew, but she was certainly wise, and she understood his deep grief and knew he needed time to find a semblance of normalcy again.
Such thoughts were already simmering in his mind when his mother-in-law called from London a month ago to make the usual yearly invitation for the entire family to spend a month in the Whiteheads summer home in the Portuguese coast. He couldnt bring himself to say no this time. He had said yes without thinking, impulsively. Did the image that flashed in his mind at the same moment the invitation was out, of a certain young governess frolicking in the sea have anything to do with it? Certainly not. Probably not. He hoped not.
Given the circumstances, he decided to make the best of the situation and find some enjoyment in the process.
"Ill be at sea again, that is all that matters. Ill be at sea again with the children. And her…"
For months now he had been searching for an excuse to sail again, something to cross off the list of things he hadnt done since Agathe died. He usually kept the Penelope docked in Venice, Trieste, or any other port in the Adriatic that suited him, but periodically he hired a crew to make sure that she was up and running in perfect condition. This year, by a stroke of luck, boat was waiting for him in Genoa – that would be enough to shorten the trip to Portugal by a few days. In one week, he would reach the Whitehead summer home by sea. Alone. He planned to do a lot of sailing with the children after they joined him there.
And with her, of course.
No, no, not her.
Why her?
However, seven days at the high seas would be too much for his young ones. No, he decided that it would be best if all seven of them traveled by land, by train and by car until they reached the Whitehead manor. It would take them two or three days at the most.
That suited him perfectly. Georg needed to give himself a few days before the arrival of the children – and the governess. He needed that time because he knew what would be waiting for him. But nothing could have prepared him for the full impact of it.
Agathes mother had dealt with her grief in the opposite way he had dealt with his – another reason his promise to her had been impossible to keep at first. While he tried to push every little memory away, his wifes mother did the opposite. When he first entered the house in Portugal, he saw Agathe everywhere. There were photographs scattered in every other room of the house, different versions of his wife, as a child, young debutante, and mother. In all of them, she smiled.
In the living room, a large painting, commissioned by a famous portrait artist when Agathe was seventeen. It was the first thing one saw when entering the house and it was like being hit with a punch in the stomach. He knew it was just the impact of a good work of art, the shock of it – the artist had been so brilliant that he made it look like Agathe would jump from the painting and fly into his arms for a waltz. He resorted to the good old military discipline to train himself not to raise his eyes and look at it for too long. He learned to blur each photograph in the background, so he didnt have Agathes eyes following him everywhere, her smile reminding him of what he had lost. However, all that was useless. He felt the first signs of what he would recognize as a panic attack, something that he had learned to live with every day of his life in the first months after her passing.
Once he got his emotions under control, there was little that could be done except to enjoy the sea, the sand, taking the Penelope out for short excursions. But once he was back at the house at the end of the day, there was no escaping.
"I should know this would not be a good idea."
Now there he was.
Awake in the middle of the night, after only a few fitful hours of sleep, during which – judging by the noise – his children had arrived. And the governess. But two hours later the house fell silent again – they all must have been tired after the long two-day journey. He decided not to bother them, he would see them all at breakfast, dressed, clean shaven as propriety demanded him to be – even in a beach house somewhere in the Atlantic Coast.
He decided to go down to the beach for a walk to banish his dark thoughts. The probability that he would meet anyone was slim, the servants retired at least one hour ago, so he didnt bother with dressing formally. Black pants and a clean white shirt – that would have to do. He winced as he dressed, his body sore from the week-long journey and daily outings. Unused muscles ached. A good swim would ease his pains, both physical and otherwise.
He noticed someone else had the same idea when he approached the terrace overlooking the beach.
Maria.
She had her back on him, so he could watch her unnoticed for a while.
She was wearing one of her frumpy nightgowns and a colorful Portuguese shawl wrapped around her, light blue silk, richly embroidered with flowers of every color.
"Blue… why did it have to be blue?"
Yet, the color had been only a detail. The sight of that shawl struck a long-forgotten memory. He had seen it before, only once.
"What the… Where did she get that thing?" he wondered.
It had been Agathes, but she had no way of knowing that. "But she would be mortified if I told her."
When he was here for the first time all those summers ago, while they were still engaged, his bride had horrified her mother when one day she came down to dinner with that awful pagan thing wrapped around herself. Naturally, he had jumped in her defense, but Gromi was adamant and Agathe… well, she never had a rebel bone in her body, so she complied with her mothers wishes. The exquisite shawl was promptly discarded and ended up being forgotten at the bottom of some wardrobe somewhere in the house. One of the guest rooms, perhaps. He never saw it again. Until tonight.
He focused his attention on the governess again.
Her strawberry blond hair was now longer than it had been when she first arrived, and it curled gently around her nape, hinting of curls that would certainly appear if it grew any longer. He smiled at the memory of one of the good nuns of Nonnberg Abbey – was it Sister Berthe? – complaining about a certain postulant who had hair curlers under her wimple. Now, free from that infernal headdress she was obliged to wear at the Abbey, the wind softly played with each strand of her hair; the moonlight shone in each one the reddish highlights. Her arms were slightly apart from her body, she didnt have her hands clasped as she usually did most of the time – another one of her convent habits he found absurdly endearing. Her palms were open, facing the wind, as if she were trying to catch it with her hands. Though he could not see it yet, he could have sworn that her eyes were closed.
She was a fantasy come true.
He ached to be a witness to that moment. So badly. And there it was. Before his eyes.
Maria.
She was…
Beautiful.
He broke into a half smile.
But then…
"She is just the governess…" A stern voice whispered in his ear.
They were unchaperoned, there really had been no need for one. Precisely because she was just a governess. A member of the staff. Nevertheless, propriety demanded that he do one of two things. Chastising her for being here alone in the middle of the night and order her briskly to return to her quarters immediately, or simply… walk away before she noticed his presence. Anything other than that would be unacceptable.
The thing that he couldn't do would be to yell at her like she was some unruly sailor. Not tonight, at least – even though there had been times when she certainly had provoked him enough. The best course of action would be to leave her alone to enjoy her first full view of the sea under the moonlight.
That is what he should do.
Instead, he took a few more steps forward, until he was standing next to her, only a few feet away. Making use of years and years of military training, he was sleek as a cat, just as silent.
He was right, Marias eyes were closed. Her lips moved slightly, and it took merely a second for him to realize why.
She was singing.
She probably learned the song from the children, as it was in English. He knew they were teaching her some songs in their mothers language.
My clever children…
She practically whispered the song, humming when she forgot the words, her soprano voice unusually contained.
"In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave." (3)
"You dont have an ounce of religious vocation in you, Fräulein. No more than I do," was his first grim thought.
Nuns did not look like that, did they? They did not wrap colorful silk shawls around drab nightgowns and sway gently with the wind as if wanting to be carried away by it, half dancing, half murmuring, half singing love ballads. She was as graceful as ballerina, even though he new that ballet classes were certainly not a part of the curriculum at the Nonnberg Abbey. There was a sensuous quality to her as she all but savored the sea air and hummed the ridiculously romantic song that was…
Captivating.
For his life, he could not bring himself to look away.
"You just couldnt resist it, could you?"
Too late, he realized that he had said the words aloud.
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(1) This is purely out of my imagination. Unfortunately, Ive never visited the Museum of Military history in Vienna, and I have no idea if such a portrait gallery exists. Probably not, but Im just using my imagination.
(2) Boats are traditionally given female namesbecause of a historical association with goddesses and motherly figures, where the sea is seen as a nurturing force that protects and guides the vessel, similar to how a mother cares for her children;this is why boats are often referred to as "she" in maritime practice likely stems from ancient times when ships were dedicated to female deities, and naming them after goddesses was seen as a way to seek their protection at sea. (Several sources on the internet).
(3) Penelope, by Dorothy Parker. Not a song, but a poem. But I thought it would fit well in this chapter.