down toward the horizon line, casting its firelight across the sky. At times like that, the sky seemed cracked open, a geode. The children and I watched the show from under a blanket.
There’s a rhyme, I told them. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailors’ delight.
I was glad I had remembered that. It was a comfort.
* * *
—
He was still asleep at seven. The seas were calm enough that I’d been able to go below and make sandwiches. The wind was steady from the northeast. The sails were set to the portside quarter, and the boat was sailing herself. The children—maybe they felt that something important was transpiring too—were on their best behavior. No arguing. No loud sounds. Sybil was teaching her brother how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the saloon table. This would have been hard enough for him at anchor, but while under way he was hopeless. When he smeared some of it into his hair, she chuckled and said, Oh you little sugar bite.
We all were surprised when the aft berth door opened and Michael stood there, hair in disarray, looking miffed.
Juliet, he snapped, you’ve got to run the engine.
Before I could even respond, he disappeared back inside.
I thought it was anger I felt, but I now know it was adrenaline. I went to the door and was about to throw it open, but I didn’t. I did what I should have done earlier. I went above and I started the engine. I did not have to look at the electrical panel: I knew the voltage would be low. The engine charged the house batteries, and everything ran on it. The cabin lights, the VHF, the GPS, the autohelm, the bilge plumps, everything.
We were sailing at a clip. I went back down to the children and watched them finish their sloppy sandwiches, the noise of the engine both deafening and reassuring. By bedtime, the batteries were fully charged. I cut the engine. The children watched me closely.
And Michael was still asleep.
Come now, scoundrels, I said in my best Francis Drake. Let’s get ye to bed.
* * *
—
Why is it that the sea opens the mind? The motion of waves puts the sailor in a truth-telling trance. I sat in the cockpit in the bright darkness, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, my PFD, and my tether, and tried to trust the sea.
Michael was sick—this was clear. Likely something he’d eaten in Cartagena. We’d all had bouts, from queasy tummies to food poisoning. He would have to sleep it off. And I would stay above, beneath a sky that seemed unusually black. Unusually infinite.
The wind freshened, scooting low cloud scraps overhead, back toward where we had come. Hearing the luff of the sail, I remembered, as keenly as if I had just heard them, the percussion of moth wings against the screen door of our house on Morry Road in the summer. I remembered the Siamese cat who came to that door so often to look for me. The feel of her tail as she drew it suggestively through my fingers. I remembered a visit to a museum, a display of gemstones, and the actual physical strain of wanting to touch something that I was not allowed to touch, a pull in the chest not unlike that of a sheet tensioned on the winch.
I remembered some ordinary childhood things, and some things no childhood should contain.
Once the images scattered, there was just the sky.
Fatigue came like an undertow. It was getting hard to stay awake.
I wanted a cup of tea, so I went down and turned on the kettle and stood there watching it boil, the flame lighting the cabin sweetly, the pot tilting on the gimbals. But the memories had opened up a yawning loneliness, and I realized I was afraid. I pressed my hands over my mouth, overcome with the urge to cry. After a moment, the urge passed.
I’ll wake him up at midnight, I said aloud to myself.