She thought about bailing and rolled her eyes. There probably wasn’t even a bailer on board. “With my luck?” She shook her head and imagined the old bleach bottle sitting in the barn next to the oar and the sail ties.
When the wind tried to grab a loose foot on the sail, she stomped it down. Pulling the jacket over her wet shirt, she wiped a sleeve across her face, took hold of the tiller, and squared her shoulders.
Fine, she didn’t have sails. Fine, there was way too much wind and too much rain. But she wasn’t out of the game yet. “Right, Alice? You’re still with me in this, aren’t you?”
Another wave slapped the starboard quarter, sending spray into the cockpit. Sam tucked her hair behind her ears and held on.
“Okay, Alice old girl.” She patted the stern area near her perch. “Can you help me out here?”
She did not want to imagine potential disaster. She didn’t want to think what could happen if the current shot them straight toward the widest part of Pamlico Sound, toward Hatteras, toward the ocean. Jack had told her stories of boats tackling the sound in a storm and losing, and those were big boats. Little Alice rocketed along with no motor, no oar, no sails, and only one scared woman clutching the tiller for dear life. And clutch was exactly what she had to do if she wanted to control the rudder and try to point the bow into the back of the wave and not let Alice take any of them beam on. If a big enough wave grabbed the boat’s side, it could tip them right over. And keep them there.
She never, ever took Alice out when a storm threatened, but it hadn’t looked like anything other than a beautiful afternoon with a few clouds hovering on the horizon. And then, all full of herself, she’d told Teo and Tootie to have a grand time and not worry about her. “See you later,” she’d said.
“Ciao.”
It might not even be raining wherever Teo and Tootie were. She glanced over her shoulder to check on the size of the storm, but couldn’t see beyond the near bank.
Considering the drive from New Bern to Morehead and then here—plus Tootie’s errand time, plus traffic and maybe even coping with rush hour around Cherry Point—they could be gone for hours. Sam pictured them laughing, certain that she was having a gay old time on the water. Because, even if they also had to cope with rain, they might not have wind. And, even if they had wind, they might think the storm local. And, even if they knew it rained down here, they’d tell themselves that Sam would have sailed Alice right on back to the dock and tucked her safely in her slip. They’d toast Sam’s health, imagining her up at the house, sipping something hot and warming up dinner. They might phone, but when she didn’t answer, they’d just shake their head and laugh at Sam for not carrying her cell.
Had she ever talked to Tootie about boating disasters? No. She’d made it all seem glorious and fun. And she’d portrayed herself as a woman with experience. Someone who could handle herself and her boat. She’d puffed herself up, and she’d felt good doing it. Now look at her.
What a fool! An arrogant, in-too-much-of-a-hurry fool.
Her only hope lay in Teo’s horrible sailing experience. Maybe he’d see the wind and be frightened for her. Maybe the dark sky would get him moving.
44
Samantha
One breath can tatter demon hoards,
And we’ve but a few to scatter.
Sam glanced away from the waves long enough to scan the horizon. Rain and heavy clouds obscured any sun, but it looked as if full darkness would soon descend because of these wretchedly short days. She had no idea how far they’d drifted, but the river had widened quite a bit, which meant she was definitely in the sound.
She had to get off the water. If Alice had sails up, she’d tack until she reached the populated side of the river. The drift of the current carried her forward, and the wind-waves pushed Alice at a good clip toward an unlit shore. It was time to take advantage of whatever force worked and let the waves move the boat wherever they would take her, because any shoreline beat the alternative. From what she could see, there were only trees, a field or two, then marsh grass, which would be a soft landing but hard to walk through. The best Sam could do was hope for a decent landing spot before it got any darker.
“Come on, girl, you can do it.” She hoped Alice believed her.
Up went another prayer. This was her foxhole, all right.
It took all her strength to battle the push of the waves on the rudder and point at an angle toward the bank. She hoped to land near a field and follow it to a road of some kind, though she had very little control of the landing spot. Keeping her eyes on the bank, she scanned the landscape. An uprooted tree loomed, its arms menacing. Sam pushed the tiller hard to port, but Alice’s bow continued to aim for that tree as if the tree were a magnet slurping up slivers of iron.
“Not that way!” Sam’s yell competed with a grunt as she leaned over and fought the force of the waves. “Over there. Just a little more to the right. Come on, Alice, you can do it. Work with me here.”
Her trajectory lined up with one of the biggest limbs on the tree, big enough to poke a good-sized hole in Alice’s side. It didn’t seem to matter how hard Sam pushed on the stupid tiller. The boat wanted to commit suicide.
Bad analogy, Sam.
“Whoa!” She cried out at the last minute, squeezing her eyes shut and ducking her head. But she didn’t let go of that tiller. Her breathing might have stopped, and her shoulders might have hunched up into her neck, but she pressed on the tiller as hard as her poor muscles would let her. And she groaned, unable to form words.
It was over in a moment. Instead of the impact she’d expected, she heard only a few scraping sounds against the hull and felt only the scratch of small branches against her arms and hands. She had barely opened her eyes to look around when the centerboard crunched into sand, stopping them dead and knocking Sam forward into the cockpit. As she fell, she flung her right arm forward to brace herself. This time, she spat out a curse with no apologies.
Carefully, she tested her arm. It wasn’t broken, though it sure had whacked the centerboard well. At least her head hadn’t hit anything.
And at least they’d landed.
The wind turned the boat beam to, and the waves smacked against Alice’s side. Each time the hull slammed down, the centerboard hit, jolting everything within reach, including Sam’s bones. She grabbed the nearest cleat for a handhold, stood, and yanked up on the line that raised the board, praising the boat as she drifted toward shore. Bending down to drag out the anchor, she found its line bunched and tangled.
Of course, she did.
She untangled the line. With no space to secure the anchor rode to the already cluttered Samson posts, she tied it to the base of the mast and slipped over the side. Mistake. The freezing river splashed past her thighs and felt like stabbing ice picks.
Stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t she just tossed the anchor? Sure, Alice might have pounded against the bank, but she wouldn’t have risked freezing to death. Her mind must be dulled. Or she was getting old. In all her years of sailing, she’d never compounded so many life-threatening mistakes.
Her boat shoes slurped up water with each step as she towed Alice toward shore. She set the anchor as high up the bank as the line would reach, then looked in vain for a path through the woods—which she was not investigating in the dark—or for a way to walk in either direction to search for cleared land. Fallen trees blocked the left side, and, on the right, the woods met the river where the water had eroded an undercut in the bank.
With her face to the sky and rain hitting it square on, she called, “I’m here. What’s next?”
Shivering, she couldn’t think. She was drenched, freezing, lost, hungry, and without any land-based shelter from the rain except in those gloomy, wet woods behind her. Not that they’d exactly keep the rain out unless she dug a hole. She could cover herself with leaves. Didn’t Boy Scouts do that or something like it?
But she wasn’t a Boy—or Girl—Scout. She’d never had the slightest intere
st in camping, and she didn’t want to start practicing wilderness techniques now. What she wanted was someone to hold her, to make the cold go away, to make the hunger go away. To make the day go away.
Okay, she didn’t actually mean that. She’d take daylight over this encroaching darkness anytime. She jumped up and down, trying to force some warmth back into her limbs, but the rain and wind were not helping. Woods or boat? Which was it going to be? The boat was wet and cold, but she could hide under the sail. The woods were wet and cold, but she could shelter, a little bit, under the trees.
As if from the bowels of those same dark woods, something screeched in a long, high note. In seconds, she was back in the water, high-tailing it out of there just as a second scream pierced the air. She was not going to wait for some cougar to sniff her out and make himself warm by eating her.
She was trying not to get depressed here. Really. She was.
She hooked a leg over the side of the boat, but waves caught the hull broadside and bounced it so much that all she could do was hop around like a one-legged jackass and yelp as she collapsed backward into the water.
She came up spluttering and began to blow the freezing water out of her nose. She grabbed a stern line with shaking hands and dragged it to one of the large branches they’d just missed on the way in. The taut line kept Alice’s bow pointed inland so the waves slid more easily under her transom. The boat still bounced, but not as forcefully.
Now so cold she couldn’t stop shivering, Sam clambered back in the cockpit and hunted for the bailer, just in case one was on board. Her hands shook violently as she pushed away a soaked life jacket and found it.
Thank goodness. One right thing.
Scoop, toss, scoop, toss. Her teeth chattered. Tears filled her eyes, and her nose clogged.
Hadn’t she said just that afternoon that she wanted to be independent, to learn how to stand on her own emotionally?
“I think I’ve...I’ve changed my mind. Y...you hear?”
Finally, when she’d bailed as much as she could, she took the two boat cushions and crawled under the cold, heavy, dripping mainsail. She had to stay low to keep the wind from whipping the sail out of the boat, but she managed to place the cushions under her and to cover herself.
And the rain continued to fall, splat, patter, splat, patter against the wood, against the Dacron sail.
Please, please let someone come.
She pushed dripping hair out of her face and rubbed her arms, avoiding the bruise. Alice rocked and rolled, jamming Sam’s knees against the side of the hull. She repositioned to brace herself, shifting the cushions to protect her bones.
That wasn’t any good, because now her shoulder and hip felt the beat of wood on water. Her head rested on bunched sail, which crackled with every movement as only new Dacron could.
Had Teo left Morehead? Had he missed her yet? Was he worried? How many hours could she survive like this?
She huddled under cover, but the wet still dripped on her from the sail, and her dunking had soaked what the rain hadn’t. Her toes wouldn’t even wiggle. And the shivering wouldn’t stop.
She’d already decided Teo wouldn’t worry if she didn’t answer the phone. He’d just think her out of range or busy. And when he did get back and did worry and did think to send someone, it could be hours from now. She might never warm up.
The Indian summer day was a thing of the past. What would night bring? If the storm lowered the air temperature to freezing when her body temperature was already precariously low, and all she had for protection were sopping clothes and a soaked mainsail… How long did it take for hypothermia to set in? How long before the numbness climbed up past her toes and fingers and slipped into her blood? Before her interior thermostat just quit, and she went to sleep forever? She could actually die right here, and all they’d find would be her stiff body.
Because, even if they looked, how would anyone find Alice in the dark, this many miles from home? On the wrong side of the sound. Her dark blue hull invisible against the black woods.
In between shivers and chattering teeth, Sam tried to calm herself. She tried to picture a rescue boat zipping over the water, straight toward her, Teo at the bow, directing them.
Teo? Teo, who’d never been on this river, who barely knew the front from the back end of a boat? The image almost brought a smile, but it turned to a cackle, which nearly choked her as tears dripped across her already wet face.
Stop it. Get a grip.
She was a big girl. She could manage. She hated the self-pity she made friends with for too long. Wasn’t this whole trip about coping? Dealing with issues?
She rubbed harder on her upper arms and tried to think of a song that would cheer her, but her mind blanked. Night had fallen completely now, making her cocoon pitch black. They might postpone any search until morning. Considering the storm. The waves, the rain, the wind. No one would want to go out in this. She didn’t want to be out in it either.
She wouldn’t think about that. She didn’t want to imagine dying out here like this. Not yet. Not with so much left unresolved.
She’d just turn her mind to other things. Happier things.
She pictured Venice, the canal below the window. The smell of the water tinged with salt, the buildings with age. Old stone. Old lives. Old memories.
And Teo so gentle, so loving and patient. If only she could feel those sensuous lips playing over hers, warming her blood. She moaned at the thought.
He’d take her in his arms, his hands would rub her back, his breath would heat her flesh.
Did she love him as she’d begun to think?
Not a good question right now.
She wished...she wished for so many things. Mostly, she wished for warmth. And Teo’s arms.
That was almost worse, imagining things so far from what she had or was likely to have anytime soon. So far from what she might ever have.
No, no. No more negative thoughts. Curling into herself, she lay with her arm pressed to the cockpit floor, trying to stop her muscles from convulsing. Shivering was supposed to be the body’s way of warming itself, but it hurt. And she was growing so tired.
A rough edge, rougher than the surrounding non-skid, pricked the skin of her hand, and she rubbed fingers across it.
There it was again. That bullet hole.
She couldn’t get away from it. Not from the blood, nor from the image of that dark spot shadowed on the white. She tried to breathe deeply, but she felt as if she were suffocating. She lifted the edge of the sail and took a long, slow breath, in and then out again. In and then out.
Please, oh, please.
Here she was. Lying right on top of where India had died. She touched the hole.
Poor, poor India. If only. But India couldn’t offer forgiveness. She was dead.
I wish...I wish.
What? What did she wish for? She could never undo the harm. Or the death.
Her fault.
So sorry. So, so sorry.
She didn’t know how much time passed as she wept. At some point, her thoughts evolved into a different kind of plea. And though hiccups finally stopped the flood, she lay curled in the dark, seeing years of choices that had brought her to this moment. Years of acting the victim. Years of blaming her past, her present, her father, her husband. Years when she’d filtered perfect love—like a sunscreen held up to dampen the light—and basked in the little slivers she’d let through. Thinking, that’s all there was. Thinking, that’s all she deserved.
Realizing, finally, that the fist in which she’d clutched her tiny portion had been the fist that had opened her to the mess with Jack.
Her stomach hurt from hiccupping. And her heart hurt from peering behind the screen.
Okay. She was a mess. Fine.
Could she ever get past here?
As she asked that, she felt a gentle whispering that enveloped her. Not words. More like the soughing of wind through a pine woods.
The whispering inside grew louder.
And a thought tickled her brain, slithered in there and grabbed her: she could let go of it all.
She squinched her eyes shut. She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask about India. Or to wonder about the plan for Jack. But was it really so simple? She begged for it to be so. And as she begged, she again wept.
These tears were different, cleansing. For the first time in years, she felt her heart begin to ease. The hiccups stopped. And she lay waiting, hearing the whisper.
Until the shivers grabbed her teeth and clacked them against each other almost in time to the beat of rain against the sail. It hurt so badly as her jaw tensed more with each clack and her body shook, clutching at her muscles, tightening them, loosing momentarily, tightening again in shudders that took so much energy. She wanted to sleep. She wanted it to quit.
But it didn’t.
If only she had a flashlight. No, a spotlight. Something big to signal any boat coming to the rescue. Because, surely, one would come. Sometime. Before it was too late.
Surely.
She felt so exhausted. So weak. Maybe she could just rest her eyes, rest her mind for a little while.
But, no, if she slept, she wouldn’t know when rescue came. Or when the weather got too cold to bear. That’s how folk froze to death. They just got so cold, they went to sleep. Instead, she went back to praying, asking again for calm. She knew she was helpless to change anything.
Nothing new there.
Why did she keep doing that? Focusing on the negative?
She’d just been touched, hadn’t she? That had to count for something.
A picture flashed into her mind of a cat’s cradle woven around her old self. As she watched, it morphed and finally unraveled.
So, how did she keep it that way? How did she keep herself from being cobwebbed by her past?
She heard again Teo’s voice. “Trust,” he’d said. “Trust,” he whispered now.
Finally, a motor roared more loudly than the storm.
She wasn’t dead. Oh, goodness, she wasn’t dead.
Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4) Page 31
