we left Portobelo. I read a half dozen of his emails, then my eyes crossed & I told myself I’d take care of it at our next port.
I wrote to Mom & Therese too. I apologized for being long out of touch. I told them about how everyone is doing, w/ special emphasis on the successes of the kids. I didn’t mention marital strain—they wouldn’t be surprised.
“The world is beautiful,” I wrote. “Freedom is possible. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
* * *
—
Maybe that was all we needed, some other people to talk to, some space between us.
They were so attractive, these tall people on their strange boat. They stood waiting for us outside their wheelhouse, the wind pressing the fabric of their clothes against their bodies. Ahoy! we shouted.
The little girl strained over the lifelines. Hoi! she cried.
Immediately there was a rapport among us I have never felt anywhere but among sailors. I settled with beautiful Amira in the closed cockpit, relishing the ice with which she filled my tumbler, and the heavy slabs of pineapple on a chipped plate. Nearby, the girls squealed. Fleur’s voice was high and plaintive, difficult to hear. She spoke in a Dutch-American patois that somehow Sybil understood. Her older sister, Nova, spoke English with Continental clarity. She moved among the grown-ups with her hands clasped behind her like a scholar. What book? she asked, while the adults conversed. Who died? What happened?
I went into labor in the Philippines, Amira was explaining to me. I gave birth in a lovely hospital in Manila for a couple hundred dollars. We set sail a week later. Fleur’s known nothing but life on the boat. She is a mer-child. Nova, however, can still remember our apartment in Rotterdam.
You’ve been everywhere? I asked.
Everywhere? Amira laughed. Nee. But a lot of places.
Which place did you like the best?
Amira sighed. Jesus. I don’t know. I loved New Zealand. We stayed there for several years. While Tomas worked as a sailmaker. The children even went to school there for a time. Have you ever been?
We’ve only been sailing four months, I said. Clinging to the coast of Panama. We’re not real sailors.
Of course you are!
Michael’s the sailor. I’m the tagalong.
Amira looked solemn, so I tried to qualify. Well, I can fish, I said, blushing. And recite poetry. I’m sorry to babble! I haven’t spoken with another person like this for months. Plus, you’ve got this very steady, disarming gaze. Your children are lovely. They don’t miss life on land?
I don’t know. Nova! Amira called to the girl, who stood nearby on deck. Do you miss life on land?
Nee, she said. Makes me dizzy.
Amira laughed. I think there’s no going back, she said. For better or for worse.
Has it brought you closer?
Thoughtfully, Amira smoothed the wrap around her legs.
The children are best friends, she said. They go off in the rowboat for hours together. There is no need to compete for our attention. They have it.
But what about you and Tomas? Sorry. Is that too personal a question?
She was quiet for several moments.
We were very ambitious when we first started out, she said. Marching around the world. Not stopping to linger. Within our first month at sea, Tomas wanted to make a long passage to the Marquesas despite predictions of foul weather. I did not assert myself. Needless to say, we spent days being tossed around like a toy. The children were sick, Tomas was sick. For some reason only I did not get seasick. There was an ingress somewhere. We took on water. I was the only one who could pump. This is true loneliness, I thought. And then I realized that the loneliness was not new at all. That, in fact, I had been lonely for a long time.
Because?
Because my husband and I did not know each other. We did not know how to help each other or work together. And yet our fates were bound. By a