The Elite

The Royal Canadian Yacht Club is home to society's richest. They play tennis, they swim, they lawn bowl, they drink and they gossip. It caters to the needs of the elite, and those striving to be.

New money, Old money. Regardless. RCYC plays house to them all.

I work for them; These Ebenezer Scrooges. I help them fight for bragging rights. I help them grow their egos. Moving marks, running races. Hearing them crack lame jokes on the radio. Is this what my school is breeding me for? Will I be forced to join them?

It is a beautiful place, the Yacht Club – please, don't get me wrong. But it's intimidating.

More than anything else – it's cold.

People walk past you with their heads held high. The members reek of Purpose, and Poise. I do not belong. I can feel it. And yet I still stay.

I catch the ferry in the morning, and again in the afternoon. I listen to the horn blow, and the quartermaster lift the rope off the metal pole which holds us to shore. It is a system I know well, the grounding point of my day.

It's 3:30, and I just manage to catch the ferry off the Island. I'll be home soon, and the thought helps thaw my frigid hands.

I let my feet slide out from my flip-flops and pull my knees up to my chest. I smile some, and laugh at what my friend is saying.

A harsh nudge.

"Excuse me miss, are you on staff?" An old man asks. His white hair patchy in spots, and his skin hanging from his face.

I smile.

'No, actually. I'm just volunteering.'

"Well I'm pretty sure you have to keep you shoes on." He says. An accusing, unimpressed tone in his voice.

'Oh, sorry.' I say, trying to sound cheerful.

I lower my feet to the ground. I let them slide into my flip-flops, now cold from the lack of contact.

I cross my legs.
Stare straight ahead.

I sit quietly while the ferry docks.