Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,41
as arguing turned to yelling.
“How the hell could you let this happen?” Jon asked, pointing a finger at Darrel. “Don’t you have some kind of autopilot?”
“There’s an alarm system,” Darrel said. “I guess it isn’t working.”
“We’re off-course, Steph,” Breccan said, looking at me.
Darrel shook his head. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve already taken care of it. And we’re making excellent time.”
It felt like we were moving more quickly. I looked up at the mainsail. It seemed to be rocking in the waves or the wind; it seemed less steady than I’d remember it being before.
“Maybe we’ll get to that garbage patch after all,” I said.
Darrel wasn’t the only who glared at me that time.
“Hold on,” Jon said. He pointed out in front of us. “What is that?”
I couldn’t see anything.
“There’s something in the water,” Jon said.
“More whales?” Breccan asked.
“There’s nothing out there,” Darrel said as he peered out over the water.
“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Jon said.
“Don’t start lecturing me, jackass.”
“I don’t know which one of us is the bigger idiot. No, wait, I guess I am, for agreeing to go sailing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with a guy who doesn’t even know how to stay on course.”
“This isn’t helping,” I said. “Can you see anything, Breccan?”
She shook her head.
“Maybe it’s just the sun reflecting on the water or something,” I said.
“It’s there,” Jon said. “Whatever it is we’re about to run right into it.”
“Then it’s too late to steer around it,” Darrel said. “I guess we’ll just have to ram it.” He had a stupid grin on his face. I’m sure he was the only one who was finding it funny.
Jon gripped the railing hard, and Breccan soon did the same. I almost grabbed it too, but I noticed Darrel watching me and I started to feel silly.
The boat kept sailing forward.
There was no noise, no bump, no maritime disaster.
After a minute or so Jon headed down to the salon.
Breccan looked down the stairs.
“You want to go down?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “And I’ll need backup.”
“We’ll be downstairs,” I said to Darrel. “Don’t ram anything while we’re gone.”
“I can’t,” he said. “You told me you wanted to just be friends.”
I think I let out a very loud groan at that.
Breccan and I were at the table again, fidgeting and not really talking, while Jon had put himself in exile on a bunk, reading a magazine.
We all heard the sounds; a crack followed by a thump and a splash, and the feel of the boat being jerked a little to the left.
“What was that?” Breccan asked.
I didn’t have an answer.
The three of us climbed up to the cockpit.
The main mast had snapped in half. The mainsail and rigging were being pulled towards the water, where the top half of the mast was bobbing as it dragged.
It was slamming against the side of the hull, the jagged aluminum mast stabbing back at us.
“We need to cut it free,” Darrel said.
“Then what?” Jon asked. “Don’t sailboats need sails to... you know, sail?”
“It’s not like we’re going to be able to fix the mast. And we’ll be in worse shape if that thing has its way with the hull or the rudder.”
“Look at you... pretending you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Guys, please,” I said. “We’ll measure your dicks later. Let’s focus on the problem here, okay? How do we cut it loose?”
“With a knife,” Darrel said.
He already had one in his hand. He started on the rigging of the mainsail.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Can you lower the mizzen?”
“Maybe.”
“The smaller sail.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
I’d watched Darrel fidget with the sails often enough, and he’d had me do it once on our way up to Haida Gwaii. I took a breath and tried to calm myself, to remember what he’d shown me.
Loosen the hallyards... watch the tiller... did I need to watch the tiller with the mizzen?
I didn’t think I could do it on my own.
“Steph!” Breccan yelled. “Watch out!”
I saw the little mast falling, coming right for me.
And that was it.
I woke up in the salon and found Breccan on the bunk, sitting right next to me. I could see from the look on her face that I hadn’t been dreaming.
“What’s happening?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”
“I... I don’t know,” she said. “Both masts are down and Darrel’s cut away the sails. God...”
“There’s a motor, though, right?”
“It’s not working. Darrel... he thinks the rigging’s clogged up the propeller.”