the storm, my fear of the sea, my fear of the tower of smoke-colored clouds. I wanted to scream, but instead of screaming I grabbed the winch handle from its pocket, fit it down into the drum, and began grinding my sad little heart out.
Imperfectly, in inches, the jib came under control. I began again, easing out the line, carefully this time. In modest increments I eased, answering with the furling line, until the jib was rolled away. Then I sat back, surprised that I had done it. Step one.
The boat plugged along through the whistling wind.
All right, I said, nodding.
And then the rain came.
OK, I’m going to tell you a story. No interruptions. OK? Once there was a little sugar bite. His name was Sol. His mom and dad went to go pick him up at school. But he wasn’t at school! He was at the airport. Oh, shoot. They went to the airport. But they first had to stop for an egg pie. Sol didn’t know what to do. He got on a plane. Garatulations, said the people. You are heading to Palm Springs! Palm Springs? Sol was worried. But then they served dinner: washed burgers, crepes, and Valentine’s Day candy. Then Sol was happy. He woke up in Palm Springs. Garatulations, now you can go on a hot-air balloon! they said. He thought, I can’t do it. I miss my mommy and daddy and I don’t know what to do. But suddenly, there was his sister. How did YOU get here? Sol asked her. She said, I got here by making the same mistake you did! Sol and his sister COULD do it. They COULD go in the hot-air balloon. TOGETHER. Also Sealie was there! The moral of the story is it’s ALWAYS OK to ask for an extra hug.
Are you asleep yet?
* * *
—
It’s raining so hard I can’t even breathe, I told him, panting. I mean, I’m breathing rain. There’s no air in between the rain.
Michael said nothing. He was still curled on his side, facing away. I dented the side of the mattress with my wet weight and my gear.
I’m just going to sit here for a moment, I said. I’m just going to take a little break.
He sighed, but again said not a word.
I’m getting your blankets wet—sorry, I said.
His feet were exposed at the end of the mattress. He looked too long for the bed. How had he ever been comfortable? Slowly, as if pedaling a bike, his feet churned, then rested.
The thing is, I said, it’s not even a bad storm. Even I can tell that. The only problem is, we’re at sea. If I were back at home, I’d just sit it out in the car. Listening to NPR. I wouldn’t even really notice. I’d wait until it slowed down and just jog to the house…
His chest rose and fell. It was too early for more Tylenol.
I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, I said.
I reached down and squeezed his calf.
Ouuuuh, he groaned, animal. Noooooo.
OK, I said. I’m sorry, Michael. Just one thing, OK? Do I secure the boom topping lift first, or—
Yes, he said. The cleat is labeled.
Thank you.
And it’s the red reefing line first.
Thank you, honey.
The boat pitched forcefully and I grabbed his shelving. I heard something go sliding off the countertop in the galley; I had not secured our dinner plates. I saw Michael’s headlamp, which he kept on a shelf by his pillow. I stretched the band over my head and clicked it on. My husband lay inert like a body in a searchlight.
I went above.
The storm had changed, thickened. The sea and sky were battling. An even fight. The sky sent the wind to beat the sea, and the sea fought back, slapping the sky with waves. Neither would relent.
Michael had added eyebolts to the boat’s deck in Cartagena—four fittings on either side of the deck, to which he could attach his tether if he needed