Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,44
Cay.
The deserted island of sand provides scant protection from the wind and waves. Queenie bravely pees in the cockpit, but I feel guilty for putting her through this and wish we’d never taken her from Provo. I try to play ball with her in the cabin, but the pain medication for her stitches wears her out, so I bring her into bed with me for the night, hoping I don’t puke all over her.
Keane gives me the first watch the next morning, but the sky is so thick with gray that there is little difference from night. Lightning crackles along the horizon as he carries Queenie down into the cabin, leaving me alone on deck. The waves are the largest I’ve ever encountered—six-foot swells we endlessly dip and climb, dip and climb. I don my harness, clip myself to the jack lines, and stare at the horizon as my stomach churns, trying to keep from throwing up. A losing battle.
Keane brings me a pair of seasickness tablets, which come up before they’ve even had a chance to go down. He brings me two more, along with a gallon of Gatorade that I sip while my fingertips shred inside his sailing gloves. The muscles in my arms grow sore as I fight to keep the boat on course. There is no pleasure for me in this kind of sailing and no lies that will trick my brain into believing otherwise. This is miserable and painful, and when Keane comes on deck for his turn at the helm, I am overjoyed my watch has ended. He, on the other hand, is cheerful. Ready to do battle with the ocean, to do this sport he loves.
With Queenie’s muzzle resting on my thigh, I sit in the warm, dry cabin and dab antibiotic gel on my blisters and wrap my fingers in gauze. After a week of real meals, a cup of noodles feels like shabby fare. My stomach is concave with hunger. After I’ve eaten, I play tug-of-war with Queenie using one of Keane’s old T-shirts tied into knots. Then I take her up into the V-berth, where we fall asleep.
* * *
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask Keane as I hand him the Captain America mug filled with coffee. It’s become his mug of choice and seeing him use it doesn’t bother me anymore. He stood a double watch—eight hours straight—while I slept. Behind Keane, a wave looms, almost as tall as him, and I have to look away to keep my stomach from lurching. Over and over we are scooped up by the waves and lifted to the crest, before we slide back down into the trough. It’s a slow, relentless roller-coaster ride.
“I’ve been enjoying myself,” he says, shouting over the wind.
“You have a very weird idea of fun,” I shout back.
“Maybe, but it’s all I’ve ever known.” He laughs to himself. “You’d be surprised how many girlfriends I’ve abandoned to appease the wind gods.”
“How many?”
“Every last one of them,” he says. “Things are grand for a while, but then I need to go sailing. It’s no fault of theirs. It’s just … it’s in my blood.”
“Your blood is ridiculous.”
“You’ll have to tell me something I don’t know.” He stands, my cue to take over the tiller. I’m nervous about doing a night watch but remind myself it’s only four hours. I can handle it. “I’m going to sleep and give the leg a bit of airing out, but if you need me, give a shout.”
The moon is obscured by clouds, the stars covered, and the night is oppressively dark. There is no moonlight bouncing off the waves, only the red and green running lights on the bow, crashing through the surf. Water washes down the sides of the deck into the cockpit and swirls down the scuppers. Just when the cockpit is drained, the boat plows into the next wave. My face is coated in sea spray, and like this morning, I have to fight the tiller to stay on course. I consider starting the engine to motor-sail for a while, but we don’t have enough gas to get all the way to San Juan. We have to save the fuel as a last resort. Despite everything, this is not.
Three-quarters through my watch, I attempt to eat a crumbled slab of mango bread. Nausea rises up almost immediately and I ease myself toward the cooler for the bottle of Gatorade. A wave broadsides the boat and throws me hard