Stay seated, Sybil, I say. Michael, you’ve got her whipped into a frenzy.
Michael unwrapped the halyard from the mast cleat and in two long strides placed a couple of wraps on the winch beside me, giving me a lecherous wink.
You’re really losing it, Partlow, I said.
He began to hoist the sail.
I need another wrap or two on the winch, darling, he called over his shoulder. Thank you! See, you knew exactly what I meant, Juliet.
To my right, Georgie was strapped into his car seat, talking to himself over the sound of the engine. Sybil, studying her father, was bouncing lightly on the cockpit cushion to my left. The very act of raising sail felt like a novelty to us all after so long at anchor.
Go, Daddy! she shrieked. Daddy’s so strong.
Juliet, downwind, please. OK. Downwind.
Sorry, I said, squinting. The telltales are right in the sun.
Don’t use the telltales or anything, he said. Use your own instincts.
Sorry. Sorry, I said.
He climbed back to the cockpit, grabbing a winch handle.
Stop apologizing, he said, grinding away. I thought you were a feminist.
I ignored him. Should I turn off the engine now? I asked.
What do you think? he said. You’ve got to know this stuff, Juliet.
I don’t need to know this stuff, I said. You’re here.
What if I weren’t here?
I stared at him; the idea offended me.
We’re in the middle of the ocean, I said. Where else would you be?
Look, cried Sybil.
The mainsail was filling. We all stopped to watch it curl open like a huge orchid, until, taut and bellied, it was still. Juliet responded. At the helm, I felt vigorously lifted, beautifully manhandled, like a child on a carousel horse.
I turned off the engine. It was always better to hear the silence of sailing. The silence gave way to wind. Wind, wind, wind. And the gurgle of gentle seas against the hull. Michael cleated the halyard and stood there looking forward, hands on hips, his tank top flapping. I remained at the helm, where, of all places, I was comfortable. Sybil stared backward at Salar, our island, which was quickly far astern. After a while, she took out her princess coloring book and lay on her belly on the cockpit floor with her markers.
We fell silent, nosing into blue water. North, the view opened up. Nothing broke the seam of sea and sky. We confronted a categorical flatness by which we understood the huge distances that surrounded us, even when we had forgotten they were there.
What a boat. When she sails, she sails. She breathes to life. She grips the wind. Then you can feel her dig in. You can feel her shovel the sea aside. Like she’s a steam train parting the snow, two tall columns of spume on either side.
A sailor wants to be worthy of his boat.
* * *
—
Watching the surface of the sea is mesmeric. Time stretches. The surface is thrown into shadow or bedazzled by sun. The wind textures the water, rendering it visible. As a gust approaches, you can see it roughen the surface, a stampede of hastening ghosts, footprints skipping over the swells and disappearing just before the cool force of absence blows through you.
I’m going to catch a fish today, I told them.
They ignored me. Michael was reading his Twelve Bolt Bible and George was asleep and Sybil was writing a letter to the president.
A nice juicy bonito, I said. Or tuna. Rub it all over with some salt. Garlic. Lots of lemon juice.
We don’t have any lemons, Michael said.
Stop talking about food, Mommy, said Sybil.
I sighed. To my disbelief, I was becoming a decent fisherwoman. My ability to catch the occasional fish under way was a cause for celebration aboard. Not least of which because Michael and the children liked to watch me wrestle the thing onto the floor