Red Sea

by Diane Tullson

  The red go-bag is a special waterproof vinyl bag strapped tight against the companionway. Basically, it’s what you take to the lifeboat if your boat is sinking. It’s a sacred pack of survival water, food and equipment, and we never use any of it, ever. I’m checking it now not to see that everything is there, because it is, but just to make sure the batteries are still good in the packages, that nothing has corroded or gone past its expiry date. Before each trip, either Duncan or I check the bag. Mom doesn’t like to be reminded of the possibility of disaster.

  It’s heavy. I take the bag to the dining table and carefully unpack it. I know the contents off by heart, right down to the antibiotic capsules and the playing cards. Everything is double-bagged to keep it dry. In the bottom of the bag, my hand pauses on a photograph, also double-bagged, so that the image is shrouded under the layers of plastic. The photo is of Mom, Duncan and me, standing in front of the house not long before we left. The maple tree behind us is brilliant red, and there are leaves on the lawn. Duncan has his arm on Mom’s shoulders and they’re smiling. I’m standing with them, but not touching them. I’m looking somewhere different altogether, as if there are two people taking the picture, and they’re looking at one person, me at the other. I don’t remember, maybe that was the case. It’s not a particularly happy photo, but I guess Mom didn’t have a better one to put in. It’s not like we were together often, the three of us. Or maybe Duncan put it in so that our bodies could be identified. I repack the bag, close it properly and fasten it in its place.

  Duncan pours a glass of juice, hands it to me and pours another for himself. “The weather looks good, really, just a weak low-pressure area to watch, but we should easily beat it. It’s the best forecast we’re likely to get in this sea.” He sips his juice. “So long as the forecast doesn’t change, we’ll get away in good time tomorrow.”

  I say, “I have to go into town again.” I catch a look that darts between Mom and Duncan. “To mail schoolwork.”

  “You didn’t do that today?” Mom’s eyebrows are arched. She knows the answer, but still, she seems to feel the need to say, “You were to do that today.”

  “I have to finish one assignment. No point mailing part of an assignment. The stupid teacher will lose it and I won’t get any credit.”

  “And you’d never lose it.” Mom snaps a plastic lid onto a lasagna container. “I can’t believe you didn’t mail that stuff.”

  Duncan is quiet, placating. “You won’t have time to go into town tomorrow, Lib. We’re leaving.”

  I set my glass down, hard. “How many times have you told me that we’re leaving? How many times have we dashed around like fools getting ready, only to sit around in port another week because the weather changed?”

  Duncan says nothing, but a tiny muscle in his cheek clenches and unclenches. Mom says, “Don’t try to deflect this. You didn’t get the work done that you should have. It’s that simple.”

  “I hate it when you say ‘it’s that simple.’ Nothing is ‘that simple.’ I have to go into town. I’ll be fast. Stop making such a case.”

  Mom slams down a plastic container of lasagna. “What are you really going into town for? To check your e-mail? To see if Ty has finally written you?”

  I hate her now, I can’t help it. Red-hot tears sting my eyes

  She continues, “When are you finally going to give up on that boy?”

  Duncan steps in front of my mother. “Enough, Janine.”

  “I’ve got school to do.” I toss my mother a look of pure hatred. “And I don’t need you,” I say, turning on Duncan, “to protect me from her.” I unlatch my cabin door and bang it closed behind me.

  “I DIDN’T MAKE a meringue because of the raw egg whites, even though the chance of salmonella is small; still, I wouldn’t risk it, not before a passage.” Mom’s voice is singsong happy as she climbs under the cockpit awning, brandishing a lemon pie. “But we can top it with this,” she says, waving a can of whipped cream with her other hand.

  The others ooh and aah at the treat of a pie. Everyone has brought something to share, a potluck. So far I’ve seen chicken satays, a rice dish with nuts and a green bean salad. Emma and Mac contributed a loaf of golden-crusted herb bread that they baked in our oven, since Mom was already heating our boat to a zillion degrees with her lasagna. Mom hands Mac the pie like it’s an offering.

  He takes it, inhales the scent of lemon and sugar, and sighs. “You’re an angel, Janine. An absolute angel.”

  She actually blushes. Has my mother no shame? To Emma I roll my eyes and she laughs. She says, “Can I get you two something to drink? Most everyone is just on juice and sodas tonight. Duncan?”

  Duncan finally finds his way past my mother and her pie and takes a seat in the cockpit, as far from the kitten as he can get. Fanny winds herself through all the legs in the cockpit, mewing for treats. Emma hands Duncan a glass of juice. My can of Coke is just half-gone and already it’s starting to taste warm. I slip past Emma through the companionway and down into their boat.

  Emma has candles lit on the table and counters. She does this to save battery power, but the tiny flames soften the cabin and make for a cozy, inviting atmosphere. Mom won’t have candles on Mistaya because she’s afraid they might start a fire. Emma says candlelight attracts angels. Fanny has followed me to the top of the stairs and sits watching me. I break off a bit of chicken from one of the satays and toss it to her. She snags it and gulps it down. Once a street cat, always a street cat. Tonight I have to rummage in a locker for a bottle. The first I reach is Mac’s scotch. He drinks his scotch neat, in a tiny glass. To mix it, even with ice, he says, is an abomination. I tip the bottle into my Coke can and listen to the glugs as it fills the can. I replace the bottle in the locker, throw the rest of the satay to the kitten and rejoin the others in the cockpit.

  It’s cooler now that the sun has set. The others are hunched over their laps with plates of food, the women clucking among themselves about their provisions for the passage, the men and Emma studying Emma’s chart on the cockpit table.

  Mac has probably sailed as many sea miles as Emma. They both used to crew on race boats, and they started their delivery business together. Still, Emma is the captain, and Mac seems content with his secondary role. Emma told me that the first thing she did after leaving home was to get Mac out of there too. She said her mother put up more of a fight over Mac. Of the boats gathered to sail the Red Sea tomorrow, Emma is the unspoken leader.

  Emma indicates with her finger the fine pencil line on the chart, our proposed course for the passage. She had me calculate it today, taking into account dangerous reefs in the Strait of Lamentations, aptly named from my way of thinking. Some boats take several stops along the coast but we’re sailing well offshore, the first of two passages to make the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean. Emma points to an area just off the penciled line. “There’s potential trouble here,” she says, tapping the chart. My mother glances up from her conversation with the women, her eyebrows suddenly creased. Emma sees this too and adds, “I mean the weather, from the low-pressure center. It seems to be stable, but we’ll have to watch it. The weather can change so fast in this area.”

  Everyone nods, resigned to the inexact science of forecasting the weather.

  Emma continues. “The winds will be with us for at least the first few days, as will the north-setting current, but then be prepared to motor against the wind. In either case, the seas will be short and steep. They always are, traveling north in the Red Sea. That means the passage will be choppy and wet.”

  “Like the inside of a washing machine,” I say. “We should probably stay put.”

  Mom moans. “Will we ever get to Italy?”

  Emma lobs a look my way. “It’s up to each of you, of course, but I think we’re making the right decision to go.” She looks down at the chart, her finger again indicating the weather system below us. “It’s a weak low, and if it moves faster than is forecast, or if we’re too slow and it catches
us, then we’re in for a rough ride. But it’s nothing you can’t handle.” She taps the chart along the African coast. “There are anchorages to hole up in, although threading the surrounding reefs presents a challenge, especially in weather, and you won’t find much there in terms of habitation, a few huts on the beach, maybe, not exactly a pub for gin and tonics. Some anchorages are little more than desert islands, and you won’t see a soul.” She indicates the border area between Eritrea and Sudan, “Avoid this area, just to be safe. The politics here change like the weather.” Then she taps the chart on the other side of the Red Sea, “Stay away from the Saudi Arabia coast altogether. It’s closely guarded and they don’t know your intentions. Stick to the fairway along the midline of the sea; that’s your best course. The island of Masamirit is your target,” she says, pointing to an island near the end of the penciled line. “Once you reach Masamirit, then it’s time to head into the Sudan coast.” She smiles at everyone. “I’m confident that a week or so from now, we’ll be in Port Sudan toasting a successful passage.”

  A week at sea. Call it a passage, call it torture, sailboats must be the slowest form of travel. I swallow warm Coke and scotch and yes, it may be an abomination, but it creates the desired fuzziness. Fanny jumps up onto the back of the cockpit bench, pausing to investigate my ear. The kitten is pleasantly fuzzy too.

  The men are still bent over the chart. I hear one mention rebels, which causes the others to mutter animatedly. Duncan looks up and checks my mother’s face. I can see that she’s watching the men, listening to them. Mac too looks up, then slides onto the bench beside my mother. The women fall silent.

  Mac says, “We made it to Djibouti with no problems, didn’t we? We’re through the worst of it. Yes, there are trouble areas in these countries, but we’re going to travel together, and most times we’ll be so close we’ll be able to see what each other is having for breakfast.”

  The women laugh.

  Mac continues, “Small exaggeration, I know. Some boats travel faster, some slower, and you may not always be in visual range, but at the very least, we’ll be in radio contact. We’ll keep transmissions to a minimum and at low power, but everyone will monitor the emergency station. If a boat needs help, for any reason, you know we’re close by.”

  A woman asks, “We won’t use the radio to check in twice a day? We always do that,” she says, nodding to her companions from another boat.

  Mac shakes his head. “It may be over-cautious, but sometimes radio transmissions can be tracked.”

  My mother speaks, her voice tighter than normal. “What do you mean, tracked?”

  One of the other women breaks in, “The rebels, don’t you mean?”

  “Or the military,” a man, Jimmy, adds. “It’s tough to tell one from the other. If they get your position from a radio transmission, they can hunt you down and rob you.” His chin juts with self-importance. “Call them what you like, they’re all just modern-day pirates.”

  My mother sucks in a breath, almost a gasp. “Pirates.”

  Duncan looks like he’d like to clobber Jimmy for uttering the word “pirates.” He blurts, “Mac’s right, we’re sailing in a flotilla, we’re sailing offshore. We’re taking all precautions.”

  Mac raises his hand to stop Duncan’s strident lecture. “The pirate attacks that we know about are almost without exception chance encounters—a sailboat being in the wrong place at the wrong time. These people aren’t organized criminals, just hoodlums. Some are just fishermen seizing an opportunity. They might have a gun...”

  “Fishermen have guns?” My mother has gone sheet white.

  The volume in the cockpit is increasingly high. Mac raises his voice to be heard but stays calm, in control. He says again, “They might have a gun.”

  Jimmy snorts. “They will have a gun. An AK–47 Kalashnikov or something like it made in China, but an assault rifle, for sure. An AK–47 shoots six hundred rounds a minute. It’ll cut a man in two.”

  Mac places his hand on Mom’s shoulder reassuringly. “In some of these societies, men carry guns like we carry car keys. And knives too. They are cautious men living in difficult times. It doesn’t mean they’re going to harm you.”

  Jimmy sputters, “No, they just want to shoot up your boat and rob you blind.”

  Mac speaks to quiet the growing hysteria. “Fine, they’ll all have AK–47S, according to Jimmy. I guess if one person carries a gun, it might be because everyone else does. Expect that they’ll have a gun, okay, but if they use it, they’ll fire warning shots to intimidate you, not shoot up your boat.” He gives Jimmy a look. “If you’re faced with piracy, cooperate. Radio a mayday. Don’t do anything to make the situation worse.”

  Jimmy is louder than Mac. “No one in these waters responds to a mayday. You read about that all the time in sailing magazines, how even commercial ships in this area ignore calls for help.” Jimmy’s face is red. His wife has her eyes lowered. Jimmy spouts on, “Like I’m going to invite the bastards aboard for tea. I’ll blow the sons of bitches off their boat if they threaten me or what’s mine.”

  Quietly, Mac says, “Or you could just let them have the stuff.”

  Jimmy doesn’t seem to have heard. He’s got himself puffed up, jabbing the air with his finger as he makes his points. I tip the rest of the Coke can into my mouth.

  Jimmy’s wife, I now notice, is much younger than him. A trophy wife, I wonder. Some prize he is. And imagine what he’ll be like when he lives out his days in a recliner in front of the TV. Nice life for her. Maybe, when women marry these old farts, they hope the men will die young.

  I guess my mother was a trophy too. Duncan stole her from my dad.

  Emma folds up the chart, signaling the end of the evening. To my mother, she says, “We’ll respond to a mayday, you know that. You won’t be alone out there. And if it’s any comfort, we’re bound to have strong weather. That’s sure to keep the pirates in port.”

  My mother attempts a small smile. “What would I do without you, Emma?”

  “You’ll be fine. You’re well provisioned?”

  Duncan blurts, “Provisioned? We have enough food for a month.”

  “Fuel?”

  Duncan nods. “As much as we can carry.”

  Jimmy, his wife, and the others are gathering their things, saying goodnight. One after the other climbs down onto the seawall then makes their way to their boat. Duncan too gets up, as does my mother. Mac stretches his legs out on the cockpit bench.

  Emma says, “What about books and diversions for the child?” She nods at me. “You should keep her busy navigating. She knows far more than she lets on.”

  Mom looks at me and the smile fades from her face. “Lib, are you not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine.” I’m halfway to my feet, wishing suddenly that I’d eaten something. It’s a tight squeeze around the cockpit table, and I hang on to steady myself. “I’m just tired.” Carefully, I place one foot in front of the other. Duncan reaches out his hand for me to take, but I wave it away. “I’m fine. Go on, why don’t you?” Just as I reach the spot where Mac is stretched out, I stumble. With an ungentle oomph, I plant myself right on his lap.

  I’ve surprised him, that’s clear, and I’m pleased by his reaction. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, then Emma says, laughing, “Mac, are you assaulting that child?”

  He laughs, and so do Mom and Duncan. The thing to do would be to get up, but instead, I say, “Just like an evil stepfather.”

  Silence drops like an anchor. Mac is on his feet in an instant, shoving me off him. Mom just stands there, her mouth opening and closing. Duncan has flushed so red that his eyes are watering. Emma looks from me to Duncan and back to me. “Lib, be careful.”

  I turn on her. “Excuse me? What did I do? Am I not the child? Are you saying it’s all right, what he does to me when I’m asleep?”

  Duncan is angry, I can tell by his tightly controlled words. “Lib, you are mistaken.”

  “You’re a liar.” />
  Mom holds her hands up. “We’ll discuss this back at the boat.”

  I slap her hand away. “Oh yeah, we don’t want anyone else finding out about him, do we?”

  Duncan shakes his head. “Let it go, Janine.” He steps down onto the seawall.

  Mom apologizes to Emma and Mac. Mac won’t meet my eyes. Emma gives me a long look. “Lib?”

  Duncan stands waiting, watching me, his face concerned.

  I turn away from Emma’s gaze. “Forget it. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Lib, if you need to stay with us, you can.”

  “I’m fine. I don’t know why I said that.” I catch Mac’s eye. “Mac, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry, Lib.” He squeezes my hand.

  Emma gives me a quick hug, says she’ll talk to me in the morning.

  I feel sick, and I know it’s not just from the scotch. I climb down off the boat. I try to push past Mom and Duncan, but Mom grabs my arm. I could easily break free, but I let her speak. “It was the party, Lib. You know that.”

  Now I yank my arm from her. “Nice, Mom. Thanks so much for backing me up.”

  THREE

  MOM STANDS IN THE COCKPIT of the boat, her hands on her hips, watching me. As I stroll toward the boat, Duncan emerges from the cabin, his reading glasses shoved up on his forehead, a folded chart clenched in his hand. When he sees me, his mouth forms a white chalk line. This morning, I waited in my cabin until they were occupied on the bow. They didn’t see me leave. Neither did Emma or Mac; I made sure of that.

  “You’re late,” Mom says.

  I glance along the seawall. Emma and Mac have left, the others have gone and the empty spaces where their boats used to be remind me of teeth knocked out. The sun is already leaning to the west. I know not to bother looking to sea for the other boats’ sails. They’ll have been gone for hours. I am late. Very late. I decide on amnesia. “Late for what?”