I sat up slowly, clearing a place in the boat rubble left by the storm. As my hand passed over the textured fiberglass, I thought how cool it was, how white, how perfect. My mind flashed to the cabin and I remembered the seepage under the sole after our first strike. I leaned into the open hatch to look. The cabin was six inches deep in seawater.
I sat back a moment and closed my eyes. I was tired. I wanted someone to give me a glass of water or to make me take a shower and put on clean clothes.
“We’d better start loading the dinghy,” I said.
Dylan turned to look at me, then stood.
Gerry didn’t move. “Where are we going?” he asked.
I looked around. It was a fair question.
Chrysalis was wedged about a hundred yards east of a small island. Eight jagged rocks broke the surface of the water around us. They rose up from the seaward edge of an underwater, coral-studded cliff that fell straight down into the ocean below her stern. Between the island and the rough semicircle of rocks lay a bed of coral just under the water’s surface. Closer to land, waves broke on a tumble of rocks fallen from the cliff. No beach softened the edge. There were only the rocks in the ocean and the rough, low cliffs that looked as if they were still crumbling day by day into the sea.
The island sloped down on the northern end to a long point that disappeared into the water. It must have continued just under the surface for several hundred yards because breakers were crashing far out from the island on that end. To the south, the island cliffs turned a sudden curve and disappeared.
All around us in a brilliant circle for hundreds and thousands of empty miles, we could see only the moving, glittering ocean and that one island with no beach to land on.
It was a fair question. Where were we going?
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we have to go somewhere.”
Chrysalis’s bow was forced slightly up so that at the forepeak a foot of her bottom paint showed above the water. The stern was forced down so that the taller waves splashed gently over the toe rail. The strain of the mast hanging over the side pulled her deeply to port. The falling mast had opened holes in the hull and left a gash in the deck just aft of the foresail winch. We couldn’t see what was wrong underneath. All we knew was that the cabin was slowly filling with water. Steadily the water’s weight and the dragging mast would pull Chrysalis toward the chasm under her stern. Someday she would slide backwards and sink completely and irrevocably to the bottom of the sea.
We didn’t want to be on Chrysalis when that happened. Life was still going on whether we liked it or not, and it was time to load the dinghy. Water, food, dry matches, can opener, blankets, dishes. The dinghy was small. We couldn’t fit much. The dinghy motor was still safely stowed in the cockpit locker. The gasoline can was still lashed to the stern. I bolted on the motor and filled the tank while Dylan and Gerry loaded the cargo. They climbed in, Dylan untied the towline, and I slowly backed away.
I headed north, figuring this island was like all the others we had seen—on the inner curve of the crescent, we would find a beach where we could land. Since the island seemed to slope to the north, that seemed the obvious direction to go.
We went slowly. The waves were still too high for an easy dinghy ride, but they were nothing after the waves of the storm. We traveled straight into them, plowing up their fronts and splashing down their backs. The gear in the bottom of the boat shifted and slid, but nobody moved. We just sat and stared at the island on our left while we slowly neared the point where it melted into the sea.
As the dinghy’s bow edged past the rise, we were all straining to see what was hidden behind the mound of land, but all we saw was another coral reef stretching toward the west and the line of the island disappearing toward the south. If there was a beach to be found, it would have to be on the western side of the island. I turned my gaze now toward the breakers on our left and concentrated on taking the dinghy past them. Another hundred yards north and we would leave them safely astern. We could turn west and skirt the northern edge of the coral reef.
A can of chili rolled over my toes just as Dylan sucked in his breath. He closed his eyes slowly and then opened them. Gerry held Blankie clutched over the bottom half of his face. His eyes relaxed. They were looking back toward the island, paying no attention at all to the breakers. I turned and looked over my shoulder.
Unrolling into view was the tip of a beach lying on the southern end of the western side of the island. As we passed the breakers and turned west, the whole of the beach slowly appeared. It was perfect—a wide, white curve of sand protected on the south and east by the island itself and on the north by the return curve of the island and the long spit of sand just under the surface. A calm, turquoise pool edged the beach, and farther out lay the darker shadows of a coral reef, protecting the western exposure but far enough below the surface for the dinghy to pass over. Behind the beach stood a band of the usual scrub bushes and trees. But on this island, the vegetation then rose up steeply, climbing a tall hill that formed the bulk of the landmass and that, in the still early morning, threw a shadow across the innermost curve of the beach.
We threaded the dinghy carefully through the coral and puttered slowly over the crystal inner water, watching our own shadow move across the sandy bottom. Then we landed gently, leaving a gouge in the flawless sand as we pulled the dinghy high above the tide line. We sat close together in the shade of a clump of sea grapes. Gerry wrapped Blankie around his shoulders. Dylan picked up a dried-up berry and tried to squeeze it. I dug my toes in the sand and watched a seagull wheeling and cawing in the sky while a tern plunged for the kill.
I closed my eyes and tried on words. Safe. Lonely. They fit pretty well. Beautiful was good. And quiet. I lay back in the sand. It was warm. It was solid. I didn’t ever want to leave.
But I had to. I stood. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s unload. Then I’ll go get more.”
On my first trip, I took off the sails, all the lines, and the tool kit. The next time I got the spinnaker pole to help hold up the tent we planned, the first-aid kit, the speargun, the fishing tackle, and everything else out of the cockpit lockers. On the third trip, I stripped the cabin of everything useful and then wedged our shoes and clothes into the gaps under the seats.
When we had unloaded all the stuff, Dylan showed me where they had laid out the cans of food and water bottles for counting. It didn’t look like much. “I should get the water from Chrysalis,” I said, and Dylan nodded.
I was tired, but I went back. It took a while to figure out what to put the water into, but eventually I found a box of trash bags. I doubled them and put about a gallon of water in each. I tied the bags tightly and propped them carefully in the dinghy so they wouldn’t roll over. On the eleventh bag, the water tank ran dry. I pulled out all the plastic tubing that ran from the tank to the sinks and shower, because Dylan had said we could use it. I found a roll of paper towels and another stash of food—five cans of fruit and an unopened loaf of bread. This time I was sure nothing important was left on the boat, and it was time to build our camp.
Dylan and Gerry had picked a spot on the edge of the beach just under the shade of the scrub trees. They had cleared away the big debris and stacked our stuff in neat piles. We worked together to build the tent. We lashed the three corners of the number one genoa to some low bushes and used the spinnaker pole to prop up the middle of the long, straight side. It made a nice big tent, closed in on three sides but open to the beach. We were a little unprotected that way, but somehow we all wanted to see out over the ocean.
Inside the tent we brushed the floor clean down to the bare sand. We used some life jackets as pillows. We stashed some of the supplies in the very back of the tent and spread the jib over the others outside. We brushed another area clean for the water, spread a blanket over the spot, and carefully placed the bags so they supported one another. Then we covered it all with another blanket weighted all the way around with sand.
Th
e last thing we did on that very first day was to put out our signal for help. Dylan and I knew what we were doing, but we didn’t explain it to Gerry. We told him we needed more shade. We rigged the spinnaker high in the trees so that it cast a large triangle of shade in the afternoon sun. From the sky, the bright blues and pinks of the sail would be moving and waving like a giant signal flag to anyone who flew over.
When night started coming, we built a fire and heated a can of chili. We each took a spoon and ate straight out of the can. When we finished, we heated another. It was the best chili we ever ate. We watched our fire burn down to nothing and then lay down inside the tent. Beside me Gerry wrapped Blankie around his neck and curled up with his mouth slightly open. Across the tent, Dylan lay still, his breath coming evenly in the dark.
The silence rolled in on me and the tent got way too small. My mind started replaying the storm, and when I heard the mainsail explode, I stood and walked out into the night. For a while I sat under the spinnaker and listened to the gentle rustle as it moved in the breeze. Then I walked down to the beach.
The wind there was strong enough to tickle the hair on my arms, but not so strong that it drowned out the sounds of the island. I could hear the hiss of the tiny nighttime waves dying on the shore and the clack and rattle of sea grape and palm leaves in the brush. The moon that had reflected off the water last night had not yet risen. The island was a black shadow behind me, and the waves an invisible mystery before me.
I lay on the sand just beyond the reach of the little waves and tried on words again, but now nothing fit. I looked up at the sky filled with stars and tried to feel wonder, but I felt nothing.
I thought that it was possible at a time like that to cry. There was a switch inside somewhere, and a person could just decide to flip it and start crying. Maybe it looked and felt like the toggle switch on the engine. Silver and smooth. One direction was on; the other direction was off. Easy to flip. You do it without looking. Up—you’re happy and strong. Down—you’re crying and weak.
I couldn’t remember having cried for years—until last night when Gerry had almost drowned. Tonight, the world was quiet and my brothers were sleeping safely. But I was alone and I was looking at tomorrow—and the next day and the next day and the next day.
My mind fingered the silver switch. To dissolve in crying, to wade out into the dark ocean, to disappear into deep space. My insides trembled. I stood and walked partway down the beach and then back again. I pressed my fingers against my eyes. I stretched my arms high toward the stars, my fingers spread across the sky.
“ ‘Rage,’ ” I said to the wind, my voice tight in my throat. “ ‘Rage against the dying of the light.’ ”
The moon tipped the summit of our island and within minutes I was standing in a pool of silver light. At my feet the curling edges of the waves glittered with the fractured shards of the moon’s reflection.
I turned and went back to the tent. Dylan was sitting up. “You couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “but I’ll be okay now.” And I was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
WE RESTED FOR almost a week, mostly sleeping. When we moved, it was to eat or drink or tie something tighter. We never left our beach. On the sixth day, we decided to go back to scour the boat for anything else we could use. Dylan hoped that with the sextant he could figure out where we were, and Gerry wanted his little cars. The wind was coming at about fifteen knots out of the north, perfect for a boat like Chrysalis, but hard in the dinghy. As we crossed the coral reef and rounded the northern point of the island, we saw Chrysalis. She was still there, but her stern had sunk noticeably deeper.
I guided the dinghy to her leeward side, carefully puttering around the fallen mast. When Dylan had snagged a cleat with the towline, we all just sat and looked at the wreck. Seagulls had left their droppings all over the deck. The movement of the loosened shrouds had left scratches, now filling with dirt and mold. The shredded mainsail was rotting in the sun.
This Chrysalis was very different from the one I still had in my mind. I remembered leaving Florida on her. I had hated her. Then I swam under her on the Great Bahama Bank and I saw her complete in the water—her dark, round underneath, her shining sides, her sail wings. In the storm, I felt her struggle—the climb up the waves, the strain on the tiller, the tremble of the rudder. She was strong and beautiful. She had carried us safely. And now we were looking at her wreck.
If Gerry had brought Blankie with him, he would have pulled it over his head. Instead, he looked away and back and away again. We had to keep going.
“Gerry, you and I will go first,” I said. “Then Dylan, we’ll bring up the gear while Gerry watches the dinghy.”
Dylan nodded. I climbed on board and gingerly lifted Gerry on after me. Our weight did not affect her set in the water. She was solid. We stepped carefully down the sloping deck into the cockpit and leaned into the companionway. Gerry sat down suddenly and I grabbed him, afraid he was falling.
“Oh, Ben,” he said. He spread his hands over his face and refused to look again.
I could see why. Toward the stern, the cabin was more than a foot deep in water. Clothespins and trash floated on the surface where an oil or diesel leak had created a sheen. In a corner of the settee, a black growth spread across the sopping cushions as they soaked up the water lapping at the top of the seats.
I rubbed Gerry’s hair. “Buck up, buddy,” I said. “I’ll get your stuff.” I slid down into the water, kicked aside a cushion floating at my knees, and slogged to Gerry’s bunk. His books were dry, though they were in a tangled heap from the tossing of the storm. A little drawstring bag underneath held his collection of clothespins, some cars, and shells. When I brought them out to Gerry, he cradled them in his arms and crawled to the dinghy, tears drying on his cheeks.
Dylan, too, was startled at the mess, the trash, the dirtiness of it. It was such an undignified way for Chrysalis to slip away. He sloshed to the V-berth and came out carrying his star books and The Chronicles of Narnia. He found the sextant still under the lid of the nav table.
I thought about what was in my berth. I didn’t want my car magazines. My diesel engine book was useless. Then I remembered Mom. Her picture was still wedged in the book, and though the book was in half an inch of water, she was dry. I slid her into my shirt pocket. She was still smooth and shiny. She was still smiling.
Then I crawled into Dad’s bunk. There was nothing there. His mattress was already soaking in the water. I was backing out when I saw his poetry collection. I had left the book on his pillow the morning the storm started. Then the storm had tossed his pillow to port, and the permanent list of the boat had kept it there. The pillow had folded itself halfway around the small, fat book. I could see the book and the edge of the note just sticking out between the pages.
I unfolded the pillow and took out the book. My hand on the book looked like Dad’s. It made me dizzy. As I sat on the edge of his bunk, pushing the pillow away, the pillowcase slipped and the corner of something inside showed. I pulled it out.
It was the apron. Mom’s apron. The one she always wore. The one she reached around behind her to tie in a bow—without looking. The one in the dark, and Dad sliding down the front of the cabinet, and Gerry crying.
I pressed it hard against my face and breathed deep.
Late at night Mom and Dad were in the kitchen and I came down for a drink. Quietly down the stairs and into the dark hall. They were standing there in the moonlight. Mom had the apron pressed to her face and she was crying. Dad wrapped his arms around her. “Shhh,” he said. “It’ll be okay. Shush, now.” She dropped her arms and pressed her face against his chest. She sobbed and choked when she breathed in. Dad rubbed her back. “Shush, now,” he said over and over. “Shush, now, baby. Shush now.” She cried, and silently I climbed the stairs again.
I rubbed the apron against my face and breathed it in. Surely her scent lay hidden in the folds. I breathed in again. Over and ove
r. Then I heard Dylan’s feet topsides. I picked up the book and stuffed the apron into my waistband.
“Are you coming?” Dylan called.
“One second.” I stood at the foot of the companionway ladder and looked around.
It was all so familiar. The little rail that held the books and flashlights on the shelf. The deep blue color of the cushions. The long scratch in the dinette table. The dull silver of the aluminum sink. The things we handled every day and never paid attention to—the handrails, the porthole locks, the light switches. And the things we had thought we couldn’t live without—Gerry’s little-kid CD player, my car magazines. They were all going to disappear. They were going to sink and rot.
I climbed back into the sunlight where Dylan and Gerry were sitting quietly in the dinghy, waiting for me. I handed Dad’s book to Dylan and started the engine. We had skirted the stern and were heading north when I saw Gerry lift his hand and wave. Then Dylan waved too.
I turned to look back. From this distance, her sides were still shining white. She was tilted at a crazy angle and her mast was broken, but she was still beautiful. We rode the waves a few moments watching, but that was all we could do. The wind was picking up and the waves were pounding us. I turned the dinghy north again, rounded the point, and headed across the shallows over the coral toward our beach. Now we were going with the waves, but the dinghy didn’t have a keel to keep it straight in the water. We were bouncing around on top of the waves like a cork. The closer we got to the beach, the more the waves became breakers. Dylan and Gerry huddled around our haul trying to keep everything dry. The books had made it through the storm and now here we were just trying to get to the beach and everything was getting soaked.
But I was more worried about beaching us. Normally when you beach a dinghy, you slide in on gentle waves, hop out quickly, and then haul the dinghy up the sand before any waves can knock it around. But these waves were too big. If we had had a choice, I would have said we couldn’t land. But we had no choice. We’d just have to do the best we could and get ready for a beating.
The Great Wide Sea Page 13
