to do that? Anyway, it takes about a half hour but I get the sail reefed. Then I’ve just got to trim the mainsail, which means scrambling forward to the mast on the cabin top, which at the moment is like a big tilting Slip ’N Slide, then back to tighten the mainsheet in the cockpit. As I’m on my final pass I somehow knock the winch handle & it tumbles out onto the side deck, where it’s stopped by the toerail. I scramble for it on hands and knees. But just as I lunge out of the cockpit, the boat heels again. The winch handle skids all the way down the side deck like a pinball down the chute, then plops smoothly over the transom. Sinking down plumb with suicidal heaviness. To join the blanket of winch handles that cover the ocean floor.
I curse the sea & boats & mankind & rain. I am so wet I can feel water going into my ear canals & up my anus. The boat labors on. She is unfazed. What a boat!
Michael, the boat says to me, sometimes we are sailing and sometimes we are being sailed.
I HEAR YOU, ‘JULIET’! I shout into the blinding rain.
I am not unhappy.
* * *
—
She made so many sounds under that kind of stress. You could hear her shifting, groaning, pushing back against the wind. Underwater, her pendulous keel dropped. She straightened up. It was like she was remembering who she was. Recovering her self-esteem. The boxes and bottles shifted again. My body felt just a little lighter.
The sound of waves crashing lessened and I could hear the hum of the engine. Michael was motoring into the wind. Still, the sea gnawed away at us.
Holy mother of God, I whispered, holding my head.
A hand groped for me. Such a small, strong hand. She wrapped it around my neck, pulling me closer.
It’s all right, Mommy, she said, from behind her cloth. We did good. We saved all the sea stars.
The sea is thrashing. Furious. The sea has lost her mind. Bizarre to see how something so serious & steady turns into a pit of chop. Like there’s a million sharks feeding under the surface.
I’m sure I’m not the first sailor to suspect that sinking our boat would make the sea feel better. That swallowing our tiny vessel would satisfy her for just a second.
* * *
—
Then, the wind began to diminish. Light crept in through the hatches. Even below, I could feel the barometric pressure ebbing away, leaving a strange, purged feeling. A hollowness.
The children peeked out from behind the lee cloth.
Hey, I said. We made it through our first storm, Partlows.
Sybil swiped aside the lee cloth and hit the cabin floor. She ran through the cabin and up the companionway, banging on the plastic cap.
Daddy? she shouted.
Georgie climbed into my arms.
Bo go, he said. Deh-deh go.
We picked our way through the saloon, stepping over books and plates.
Air. Sky. The surprise of a cluttered shoreline. A Cessna raced down from the sky to an unseen landing strip on a verdant island off our starboard.
Michael stepped into view. He looked exhilarated.
Can you believe it? he said. The storm blew us right to Narganá!
I stared at him. He stood in several inches of water in the cockpit, his red windbreaker gleaming, his hair mashed to the sides of his temples. He looked as if he’d been swimming with his clothes on. A raised bump shone on his forehead, starting to purple. Juliet’s cockpit was soaked. My new cushions were gone. Sybil stomped in a puddle several inches deep.
He stepped toward me, taking Georgie out of my arms.
How are you doing, buddy?
Bo, says Georgie. Bubble good up. Oodle up!
Really? he said. Did you and Bubble go up and down?
Michael looked at me guiltily. How was it down there?
Juliet steamed ahead, toward the marina at Narganá, as