boat. Daddy loveded the boat. We all loveded the boat.
Yes, I can see why.
Until in Cartagena.
Hmm. You want to tell me more Sybil?
[…]
Sybil?
Yeah?
What happened in Cartagena?
March 1. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ From Snug Harbor. Toward Cartagena. 010° 06.44?N 076° 28.72?W. Time: 2:15 a.m. Course: NW. Wind: ZERO knots. NOTES AND REMARKS: We are totally becalmed. Wind gone. Vanished. I trimmed the sails tight as tight. I paced back & forth. Gave ‘Juliet’ a little slap on the hull. Come on, honey! My voice sounds like I’m talking in an empty auditorium. Out here there’s just no consciousness w/out the wind.
I sit on the bow. Legs dangling over.
Well I’ll be damned.
This brings whole new meaning to the word “doldrums.”
If there were a way to sail w/out wind, sailors would have figured it out centuries ago. Pray? Sing? Throw everything overboard? I’ve heard that in a pinch you can tie your dinghy to your boat & the outboard can tow you. I look back at ‘Oily Residue,’ bobbing astern.
Or maybe this is punishment.
Hard not to think of it that way, everything out here is so damned biblical.
For example, I got slapped by a fish last night. On deck, slammed in the back of the head with a fish. I thought Juliet threw it at me. But it was a flying fish. Juliet wasn’t even on deck.
I look toward Colombia. The sea rolls on. The lapping of the water against the hull sounds like chuckling. Somebody laughing.
Harry’s voice nags me. “She’s not yours, Michael.”
Like hell she’s not, I say out loud.
Who got us into this? Me. And that’s who’ll get us out. Just two days ago I sailed her off the anchor. Like a sailor in the Age of the Galleons. My wife standing at the bow. Barefoot, brown from the sun. Turning for a last look at the land. The late-afternoon sun catching the red in her hair…
She is mine. She is ours.
Harry can’t have her.
Christ, the lack of wind is agitating. I can’t think w/out it. My worst fear is arriving to Cartagena after dark tomorrow & having to find a mooring in the dark. Soon the sun will be up. Even if we hightail it all day, it’s still going to be close. I look back at ‘Oily Residue,’ drifting back & forth on the water. I bend down & start pulling her in, when out of nowhere comes a breeze.
The mainsail bellies. I run to adjust the trim.
Here! I shout to the wind, giving it yards of sail to fill.
TAKE IT! TAKE IT!
There is a soft, ghostly pressure.
And we’re off.
* * *
—
I see them standing at the corner. Three women, under a tree. They are so lovely as to appear arranged. Two of them are slender, the third strong and curvy. It is warm and balmy today, and the wind riffles through their loose blouses. The wind is coming from my back. A gusty NE. As they all turn to watch me approach, the wind presses against their breasts, flips open their sweaters, and sweeps their hair from their faces, revealing complicated expressions. In the month I have been back, they have not yet seen me at the bus stop.
I raise a hand. Eagerly, they respond. Vigorous, cheerful waves.
Oh, these protected villages. I used to roll my eyes. House after house is the same. Rectangles with bright doors. Yards give in to yards, except where hedges form a porous barrier. Driveways are tarred smooth. Children’s laughter is uncomplicated. As soon as they get off the bus, they shed their jackets and their shoes.
I used to dislike how it made me feel, the neighborhood. How had I ended up in the same kind of postwar suburb that was new when Anne