Heeeere you go, chirped Sybil, returning with her blankets.
Good morning, Bosun, Michael managed.
Morning, Daddy!
But as she put one knee on the berth mattress, not even close to his body, he groaned.
Gently, I said.
She crawled around to my side of the berth and slowly drew her quilt up over her father’s shoulders. Somehow the smiling face of Dora the Explorer was more than I could take. I raked my hands through my hair and looked away from them both.
We sat tensely, waiting for more instruction. Michael did not move.
I left the head out for air, Sybil informed me.
Smart thinking, I said.
We watched his form. His large, still body in the dawn light.
Then I went above to run the engine.
He wasn’t going to have to tell me twice.
* * *
—
In the morning sun, the children and I ate our Colombian Corn Pops. Taking avid little bites in the fresh breeze. Banana slices. Orderly. The sails tight and clean. Everything as it should be. The children’s spoons clinked in the shatterproof bowls.
All right, kids, I said. We are going to experiment.
Hoorah, said Sybil.
Go, bo, said George.
We are going to run the engine in gear, I said. This means the propeller will be pushing us along. Or, as Doodle calls it, the chopper.
’Opper, said George.
Sorry, the ’Opper, I said. Sybil, darling, will you check the wash? I’ve put her in gear.
She leaned daintily out of the cockpit.
The ’Opper is working, First Mate Mommy.
Now we shall monitor our speed, crew. See what the ’Opper adds. Sybil, can you read the numbers there? That’s the wind speed.
Ten. Now it says Nine. Still nine. Twelve.
Superb. And the boat speed, darling? There.
Five, she said.
Five knots, I said.
Five knots.
Lovely. Splendid. I gave them a shiny smile. Lovely sailing weather, wouldn’t you say?
Sybil covered her laughter. You sound like Daddy, Mommy.
George frowned. Dada shleep, he said.
Sybil patted him on the head. Don’t you worry. Daddy’ll be OK.
Yes, I said, feeling a wave of fatigue. In fact, there’s cause for celebration, crew. I tapped the GPS, clamped to the steering pedestal. We are, it looks to me, halfway to Jamaica.
Let me see, said Sybil.
We stared at the GPS screen, where the boat appeared as a tiny red arrow, following its linear course.
Oooh we are. Good job, Mommy.
Thank you, Sybil. Thank you for your help. I’m constantly amazed by you. You’re such a good sailor. A natural.
She smiled, throwing a triumphal fish eye her brother’s way. He gazed back, plump in his safety vest and fat baby legs, swinging his bare feet.
Now, I said, let’s turn off the motor and compare.
We watched as the knot meter rose to 5.7. The difference of one knot at best. Only magical intervention would get us to Kingston as fast as I wanted to get there.
I could not speed time.
We’d just have to stay the course. We’d just have to keep sailing.
The fatigue came again, strong as an undertow.
Crew, I said. First Mate needs to lie down.
* * *
—
The children were stretched out on their bellies in Sybil’s bunk. Gazing into the DVD player at the Scandinavian princesses to whom they both felt deeply connected, not just because of their pretty singing and their yo-yo eyes, but because the children had watched the movie so many times that they often chanted along with it. Frozen had become scriptural. Nothing would tear them away for the next two hours.
I’m going to take a nap, I told them. I’ll be right here.
I lay down, right on the settee, flat on my back. I’d be close to the companionway. I could hear, God forbid, any