Dbayeh Marina Sunset | غروب مرفأ ضبيه
"She owns the last wooden boat repair shop at Dbayeh Marina. He's the sailing instructor whose vessel needs work only she can do. On the water, they discover they're both in need of repair. 'Inti btisalhi ili' (أنتِ بتصلحيلي)."
Dbayeh Marina Sunset
غروب مرفأ ضبيه
Wood remembers water.
Every plank holds stories of voyages, storms, survival. I've repaired boats since my father's death, keeping tradition alive.
Then the instructor brings his broken vessel.
I'm Rosine.
Fifty-three, callused hands, body shaped by heavy lifting. The marina respects me; the yacht owners don't. Their loss.
Karim Hajj sails youth who can't afford lessons.
"They said you're the only one who works with wood."
"Fiberglass is easier. Cheaper."
"My boat deserves better." He runs his hand along the damaged hull. "She's sixty years old."
"Then she deserves respect."
He's fifty-five.
Former corporate sailor, now teaching underprivileged kids. His boat is his classroom, his mission, his identity.
"What happened?"
"Storm. My fault—pushed too hard."
"Everyone pushes too hard eventually."
The repair takes weeks.
He's there every day, watching, learning, helping where I let him. His respect surprises me.
"Why do you care so much?"
"Because she saved me when I was young. Now I save others with her."
"That's either beautiful or codependent."
"Maybe both."
His laugh is unexpected.
We share lunch on the dock. His sandwiches are bad; mine are worse. We eat them anyway.
"You don't have to be here every day—"
"I want to be." He's honest. "This is the first time I've stopped moving in years."
"Why stop?"
"Because you're interesting. And I forgot what that felt like."
"I'm a boat repair woman—"
"You're an artist." He gestures at my work. "You see what's broken and know how to fix it."
"Just boats."
"Is that all?"
The kiss happens at sunset.
Marina lights flickering on, his boat finally whole. His mouth on mine is question and answer.
"Karim—"
"Tell me this isn't just gratitude."
"It's not. It's more."
We make love on his repaired vessel.
Below deck, gentle rocking, wood I fixed surrounding us. He undresses me slowly.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "Inti—"
"Too much. For a boat—"
"Inti btisalhi ili." You repair me.
He worships me like salvage.
Finding every valuable piece. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Karim—"
"Let me restore you. The way you restored her."
His tongue between my thighs.
Boat rocking gently, sunset through portholes. I grip wooden rails I crafted.
"Ya Allah—"
"Beautiful. You're so beautiful."
When he enters me, I feel seaworthy.
We move with water rhythm—rock and swell, tide and current. His body and mine.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is launching.
We cry out together—something repaired finally hitting water. Then we lie tangled below deck.
Two years later
I sail with him sometimes.
Teaching kids, fixing boats, living a life I'd stopped imagining. The marina still respects me. Now I respect myself.
"Worth the repair?" he asks.
"Best work I've ever done."
Alhamdulillah.
For boats that need fixing.
For instructors who value craft.
For repair women who learn to be repaired.
The End.