stop singing, please. I need quiet in order to hear Mommy.
I turned and cupped my hands around my mouth. Use the GPS, Michael. I am not clairvoyant. I can’t see these things, I’m telling you. Not against a muddy bottom—
You are more reliable than the GPS, Juliet.
But the GPS doesn’t get scared, Michael.
You’re saying you can’t navigate because you have feelings?
I gave a shriek of laughter. Well, if you want to know what it’s like to have feelings, I can tell you sometime!
Don’t yell, Mommy and Daddy, Sybil said.
Stay out of it, we both said.
We looked over at the nearest boat, where several figures sat in a shaded cockpit. We were giving them a very good show.
Hi there! Michael waved.
No one answered. It was a spotless, expensive Beneteau. From the listless, fashionable figures in the cockpit, we could tell it was a chartered boat. The kind where the captain has to wear white shorts and tell stories about surviving ninety-foot waves in the merchant marines. I hated them.
I took a deep breath and stepped onto the cabin top and hugged the mast. Sybil was sitting in the cockpit next to her brother, whispering in his ear.
What are you doing, Juliet? Michael said. You’ve got to stay on the bow.
Listen, I said. We’re going to have to get awful close to that boat to get through here. They’re kind of blocking this entry. Should we go around? Go somewhere else, maybe?
Michael considered, thrusting her into neutral. Sybil peered up at us, on edge. But I already knew that he wouldn’t concede. He’d take us this way on principle.
Ack, he said. We’re here already. It’s not our fault they don’t know what they’re doing.
OK, it’s definitely a tight squeeze, but do they need to panic? The passengers of the yacht blocking our entry start throwing over their fenders and shouting, Watch out! Watch out! Someone even gets out an air horn and we get a couple deafening toots in the face as we try to thread the needle, which sets George wailing. But I know ‘Juliet.’ She’s slimmer than she looks. I watch my wife on the bow. Something about the screaming rich Americans calms her down. Looking like a conqueror, one foot on the bow pulpit, she lets us come another foot or two toward the yacht, calm as a cucumber. At the last possible moment, she waves me hard to starboard. We’re inside the reef.
* * *
—
We dropped anchor in the easternmost area of the anchorage, clearly the rolliest part, because no one else is there. But we were the least popular boat in Snug Harbor, so it was a good match. Then we had to debate which anchor to use for mud. By the time we found a good holding, we were all exhausted. Georgie was crying with hunger and Sybil was sitting below looking out of the portal like a prisoner. Michael had this thing about testing the anchor. We’d set it and check it ten times, but then he’d pull back on it under power, “just to be sure.”
Please, let’s stop, I said to him. Please. The kids haven’t eaten. There’s no wind. But no, Michael insisted on testing the anchor. He reversed. The rode went taut, but just as he shifted back into neutral, something gave.
What the hell? Michael hollered. What the hell?
Juliet produced an unfamiliar rattle, then she immediately relaxed. The engine was on, but there was no propulsion. The feeling was palpable.
Michael checked the wash. None.
He dove down the companionway and opened the engine hatch. I stood on deck looking at the sky, trying not to think, trying not to worry. We’re in Snug Harbor, I told myself. We’re snug. I unbuckled Georgie from his car seat and he climbed into my lap. Both children fell silent and watched Michael’s movements with funereal gazes. They always sensed when shit hit fan.