Of course you can, Peanut, I said, holding out one arm.
Mutineers, Michael muttered.
Standing between me and the wheel, Sybil’s head came up to my ribs. She was growing so fast. Her ginger hair thrashed. I covered her hands with my hands. When a gust blew our nose leeward, slowly we turned the wheel together, like stirring a pot, correcting course.
Remember, never reach through the wheel, I said.
I know, she said.
After a moment, Michael picked up Georgie, put him on his lap, and embraced him. Drowsy from the motion, Georgie let himself be manhandled. Michael bent his head and put his cheek on the child’s shoulder. I noticed the gesture; it was so vulnerable.
Eventually we came upon a chop. A confusion of waves.
The wheel strained in our hands.
She’s really fighting now, I said.
Michael looked up. Good, he said. This is the edge of the current.
Finally, I said.
We had sailing for a day and a half.
Michael rose, taking Georgie by the hand. The four of us stood behind the wheel together.
Look, everybody, he said. Look, Doodle. You can see the actual line where the current ends.
On the other side of the confusion, the sea became smooth, a plane of navy-blue water.
We felt the boat wrench herself free, like a girl from a grip on her arm. She was no longer straining below the waterline, no longer in inner conflict with her own rudder. After that, she seemed to proceed with more dignity. Even though we sailed with the wind coming toward us, we went forward. That was the strange and simple genius of a sailboat, and why sailing hadn’t changed in a thousand years—even a modest little sailboat could bend the wind.
Can you feel that? Michael said with a sigh. How much smoother this is?
I nodded.
It should be like this all the way to Kingston, he said.
The boat still had more pitch than I would have liked. And we occasionally got a faceful of seawater. The motion made it tiring to stand, even to sit. Better to just give in, I knew. We’d go to bed early.
I was thinking all this when Michael said, God. I’m feeling a little off.
I didn’t even trouble to look at him. Hmn, I said. A little off?
Tired, he said. I guess all the excitement has finally worn me out. I think I might go below and take a nap. What do you say, Juliet?
It troubled me. Michael—nap?
It was four in the afternoon.
* * *
—
I looked in on him at five. On his back, legs spread, one arm flung over his eyes, he took up the whole berth. I said to myself, Well, he hasn’t napped in twenty years, so this will be a long one. People were always commenting on his high energy level. He was so fit, but other than an occasional spasm of jogging, he never worked out, and people wanted to know how he did it. Alison used to say, What’s his secret? What is the secret Michael Partlow Diet? OK, I said. You can’t tell anybody. It’s eating entire bags of Funyuns in front of the TV. Alison and I both struggled with our weight. Meaning, we lamented not being skinnier while doing nothing about it. We didn’t really care. It was just a sport. We would have felt betrayed if one or the other of us had actually gone through with actual weight loss. Now, in bed, in the dusk, Michael’s sleeping body still looked impressive, unstoppable. I closed the door to the aft berth.
I turned around to see both children staring at me openly.
They sensed it too. Daddy’s asleep?
Let’s all go up and watch the sunset, I suggested.
The seas that evening were tranquil, almost indolent. Long, slow swells gave the boat a cradle-like pitch. A blanket of stratus clouds had passed overhead and hung in the east. The sun, red as a poppy, planed