Red Sea

by Diane Tullson

  One sail instead of two, and no engine—at this rate of speed, Mac and Emma will already be in the Suez. My throat aches with the futility of the plan. I tip my head back and close my eyes. The boom thumps against its restraints with each light breath of wind, but I can’t be bothered to secure it. “I need to steer the boat, use the wind I have, don’t let any spill from the sail.” The sun feels warm on my face. “I’ll do all that, sure.” Below, I can hear Mom murmuring in her sleep. With the wind, the boat motion is less like being in a washing machine. Thump, bump, bump. I need to move the mainsheet block so the boom doesn’t thump. Thump, bump, bump. It’s not the boom. My eyes fly open. It’s coming from the very back of the boat. I get up and move to the stern rail. Below me, on the swim platform, a locker door that holds our lifeboat canister is swinging open. The lifeboat canister is no longer in there, taken by the pirates, no doubt. The locker is always latched, but it isn’t now, and that’s what has been making the noise.

  Okay, I’m certifiable now. I need to go and latch the locker door. I don’t want a wave to take the door off, and I sure don’t want water in that locker acting as an anchor. But I’m afraid to go even as close to the water as the swim platform.

  Every scary movie I’ve ever seen replays itself in slow motion in my mind. Duncan used to rent old classics like the one about the blind lady who went around loosening all the light bulbs so at night, the bad guy would be in the dark and she’d have the advantage.

  Not much advantage, really, more like half a chance. She was just an old lady.

  Then there was that Nicole Kidman movie where she and her husband are on a sailboat and the weirdo takes her hostage. I thought that movie was pretty funny, the way the bad guy, after they thought he was dead, climbed back onto the boat.

  This is stupid. Just go and latch the locker door. He’s not going to reach a cold bony hand over the swim platform and wrap it around your ankle and pull you into the water, under the water, down deep into black water, to the place of the dead.

  The wind has increased substantially. The boat is carving a path through the water. Gingerly, I take a step down to the swim platform. Then another. I need to pee. The movement of the boat is greater here, like being at the end of the teeter-totter when it bumps on the ground. I’m suddenly aware that I’m not tethered.

  Green water sloshes over the swim platform, dousing my feet.

  Oh, here’s a good one. Jaws: how the shark took out the entire back end of the boat. Those big teeth strung with human entrails.

  I crouch down and slam the locker latch in place, ripping skin off my knuckles, then stumble on the steps back into the cockpit, peeling another strip of skin off my shin. I’m breathing as if I’d run four times around the track. Back in the cockpit, only then, I look into the water.

  There’s nothing. I knew there wouldn’t be. Right.

  THIRTEEN

  “WE’VE GOT SOME WIND NOW, MOM. We can sail.” I don’t tell her that I didn’t get the prop cleared, that I was too afraid. I tuck a bottle of water into her berth, just in case she wakes up with miraculous strength and will to live. “And here’s a pack of saltines, a little crumbly, I’m afraid.”

  I step in behind the wheel, loosen the nut and adjust our heading. Then I tighten the headsail. The boat heels as we pick up speed. If the wind comes up any more, I’ll have to furl part of the genoa. A gust could knock us down.

  I open a granola bar, pocketing the wrapper, nibbling the crunchy oatmeal in small bites. I have another in the pocket of my sweatshirt, but I make myself wait for it.

  It’s not easy steering the boat. With no land in sight, all I have to go by is the compass bearing. I try to make small movements with the wheel so that the boat doesn’t yaw. Mom hates it when we yaw.

  I hope she’s all right. I hope she doesn’t wake up and think she’s alone. I’ll have to get down below to check on her before it gets dark. Dark. I force panic back down my throat. What am I going to do tonight? I’ll have to stay out here to sail the boat, but I know I won’t be able to stay alert all night.

  Emma could. She sailed single-handed once across the Atlantic. She said she slept in the daytime mostly, when freighters were more likely to see her and not run her down. She set her alarm so that she woke up several times an hour.

  Of course, she had an autopilot that steered the boat for her. And she didn’t have a mother on board with a festering, gunshot leg.

  In the pirate movies, the ship’s doctor was always sawing off infected limbs. I picture my saw-tooth knife, my mother’s leg.

  Mac could do it, maybe, cut off someone’s leg, but Emma couldn’t. Emma once, at the market, bought a fresh chicken, really fresh, because they plucked it for her but left its innards. She made Mac clean it. He grossed us all out by extracting the gut in a long gray strand.

  The granola bar threatens to make a break for it.

  I stand at the wheel all that afternoon, pretending that my legs aren’t tired, pretending that the granola bar was enough to eat. Finally, I let myself go below for a break.

  First, I prepare for the long night. I clean Mom’s leg wounds using the anti-bacterial wipes I found earlier and cover them loosely with gauze. She’s out again, which makes it easier to work on her leg. When she’s conscious and I shift her in her bed, she cries out and often slips away, from the pain, I guess. But I have to move her so that she’s not always lying on the same spot. I wash her with cool water and change her T-shirt. It’s about all I can do and the effort seems pathetic. I pull the quilt around her shoulders. I dig out my foulies to wear in the cockpit: warm socks, boots, pants and jacket, along with a fleece cap and gloves. I may not need everything, but there’s nothing worse than being cold. I glance over at Mom. Okay, there are worse things than being cold. I boil a pot of potatoes, cutting them up small so they cook fast, throw in some shredded cabbage and mash everything with milk. I put a bottle of hot sauce in my pocket because I can eat almost anything if it has enough hot sauce. I fill water bottles, pee again, then take everything to the cockpit.

  The evening has already cooled. I set us back on course, then spoon out the potatoes. It’s not even close to delicious, but it’s food. I sprinkle my bowl with peppery sauce, place the bottle in the cup-holder on the wheel post, and settle against the stern rail to eat.

  On the sea, the setting sun plummets from the sky, leaving a blaze of red in its wake, then blackness. The compass is dotted with luminescence, like Mom’s watch, so that I can steer. I put the fleece cap on to ward off the night air. Even with all my gear, I shiver.

  I try not to check Mom’s watch. Time can creep so slowly at night and it feels awful to think an hour has passed when it’s only been ten minutes. So I play a game with myself. When I want to check the time, I make myself mentally sing the lyrics of three songs, then I count to three hundred sixty. Sometimes I try to recite the alphabet backward.

  Before, when it was Duncan, Mom and me, the most we’d be out here was three hours. The worst watch was midnight until three because the night was long on either side. Duncan usually did this one. That way, Mom could finish her watch as the sun came up. That’s what happened when the pirates found us. When I had left her alone on her watch.

  Tonight I’ll do every watch. And tomorrow night, and the one after that. If that’s what it takes.

  The moon rises out of thin strands of cloud, startling me with its redness. With no power, we’re traveling without lights. Normally all boats carry lights, in set colors and configurations to indicate the direction and size of the boat. That’s how you know what you’re seeing in the darkness, and if it’s going to mow you under. For an eternal moment the moon is an enormous freighter on the edge of night and it makes my heart stop, first to think it would run us over, then to think it might rescue us. But it won’t do either because it is just the moon.

  Emma said her mother called full moons bomber moons from the war, meaning the bombers could easily see their targets. I never asked her, but I wish I di
d: was a full moon a bad thing, because the bombers could see the ground, or a good thing, because the bombs would fall where they were supposed to, on military bases and landing fields, not on apartment buildings and hospitals?

  The moon lends some light to the cockpit, for which I’m grateful. It allows me to see the compass, which, strangely, I find I need to check less frequently. My legs anticipate the cross swells. I can close my eyes and feel the wind over my neck and cheek, hear it popping and fluttering in the genoa, sense our direction as surely as watching the compass needle.

  It makes me less afraid, knowing that I can “see” the wind.

  I let myself sleep ten minutes each half hour, tightening the wheel to hold our general direction, setting the alarm on Mom’s watch to wake me. I sleep curled on the floor of the cockpit, up against the companionway so that if Mom wakes up, I’ll hear her. I tether myself to both wheel post and companionway.

  The alarm beeps in my ear like a gong, hauling me from sleep, to my leaden feet, to the sail and the wheel and the compass. I don’t sit down, because I’ll fall asleep. I stand. I practice ballet moves from when I was six and Dad took me to the community center for lessons on Saturday mornings, then brought me home and watched cartoons with me. Ballet moves are from my first life, life with Mom and Dad together. Ty is from my second life, Duncan’s life. And this now is number three. I remember plot lines from books I read and capsulate them into book jackets. Then I pretend I’m the reviewer and assign stars for how good they are. The Nicole Kidman movie, if it ever was a book, gets negative two stars. When the watch beeps again, it means I can tighten the wheel and crawl off to sleep.

  Thin blades of light pry under my eyelids, then a quick dance of light and dark that doesn’t fit. I scramble to my feet. The genoa is flogging. “What have you done? You’ve changed our heading!” The wheel is still tight, the compass indicating that the wind has decreased with the dawn and changed direction. I sheet in the headsail but there is far less wind. I peel off my cap and jacket and throw them on the cockpit floor. My watch alarm goes off, and I jab at the button to silence it. Night slime coats my tongue and teeth. My shoulder is sore from where I was sleeping. I am capital B bitchy, and we’re going nowhere fast.

  “Nice work!” I yell at the wind. I estimate our boat speed at two knots, maybe two point five. If the current is with us, we’ll be lucky to make five knots. That means by midday, we’ll only be off-course by about fifty miles. Without a radio, we’re invisible at five miles, less with the seas. They are never going to find us. I slump onto the cockpit bench.

  Last night’s potato bowl has crusted up nicely. Even so, my stomach growls. I say, “Some bacon and eggs, then? Or maybe a fluffy omelet? Pancakes to go with? Syrup? How about a GPS? Some proper medical supplies. A radio?” I peel off the rest of my foulies. My stink rises out of the layers of clothing.

  FOURTEEN

  BELOW, MOM’S FOREHEAD FEELS WARMER than yesterday. I go through the routine of caring for her, telling myself that it’s not a charade, that she’s strong enough to fight the infection, that people did it all the time before the invention of antibiotics. I leave her loosely covered and open the small porthole over her berth so she gets fresh air.

  Her voice startles me, then scares me with its intensity. “Duncan,” she says. “I need to see Duncan.” Her eyes are wide, bright. She’s looking at me, then her eyes close, and I think she’s gone back under, but no, it looks like she’s closing them against pain.

  I make my voice cheerful. “Hey, Mom, you’re just in time for breakfast. I can make you some broth, or how about applesauce?”

  “Get Duncan.”

  “Let’s start with some water. You need some water.” I bustle around filling a water bottle, hoping on one hand that she’ll stay awake long enough to drink, on the other hand, hoping she’ll fall away before she asks again for Duncan. “Maybe you could handle some Tylenol if I broke it up a bit?”

  Her eyes are on me now, watching my every movement, wild eyes. I bring her the water. “Try a sip.”

  She does, her eyes never leaving mine. “Now a bit of the Tylenol. It’ll help with the pain and ...” I stop before mentioning the fever. She already knows she feels like hell. But when I go to place the medicine in her mouth, she moves her head away from my hand.

  “Duncan.” It’s a command. Her eyes are so clear, so intense right now that I have to look away. Big mistake. She becomes agitated, tries to lift her head, cries out in pain, then again, “Duncan!”

  It makes me angry, her calling for him, and then I’m ashamed that I’m angry. I look her straight in the eye and the lie is out of my mouth with an ease that surprises me. “He’s in the cockpit.” Technically, he is, or parts of him, anyway. “We have to hand-steer because we don’t want to run down the batteries, so he can’t come in right now. We took turns steering in the night. He told me stories about the book he’s reading, you know, the one about the woman pilot in Africa? I made him breakfast, and for lunch he’s going to make fried rice. I like the way he makes it with hot peppers. We’ll save you some for when you’re feeling better. If it’s not too rough this afternoon, he’s going to work with me on that novel study. Maybe I’ll use the book he’s reading, although it isn’t a novel, but the teacher won’t care. She’ll just be happy that I send it in, right? Ha ha.”

  Mom’s eyes are closed. I know she’s not sleeping, I can tell from her breathing. I see tears balling up at the edges of her eyes.

  I’m too loud, and even to me my words sound fake. “You must be tired. You rest, and I’ll check on you in a little while.”

  My mother always knows when I’m lying. It was a mistake to try. I grab what I need, my toothbrush, a clean T-shirt, hat, chart, the last of the granola bars and more water, then head back out into the cockpit. I’d like some tea, but what I want more is to get away from my mother’s eyes.

  I need to tell her about Duncan. She needs to know. But she’s so weak right now. And if she knew that it was only me that was sailing the boat, she’d give up. Who could blame her?

  FIFTEEN

  I FOLD OPEN THE CHART and try to figure out where we might be by now. “Distance equals speed multiplied by time. Speed I can estimate, time I know. So distance is a whopping thirty-five miles from the last X.” I mark the chart. I follow my finger toward the magic place, Duncan’s original plot line, still hours and hours away. I shake off a sense of him watching over my shoulder.

  At midday I get a pouch of tuna and a bruised apple. I eat the tuna first, then all of the apple, even the brown spots and the core, then I open the foil tuna package and lick out all the seams and creases.

  I hope they’re enjoying the corned beef, the bastards. Or maybe they’ve sold all our stuff and are wolfing down a twenty-dollar brunch at a white-cloth café. Wherever they came from, I wouldn’t know. Except for a few words, I didn’t recognize their language, and it seemed that they spoke more than one. In Djibouti, people from all over crammed the seaport: Somalia, Ethiopia, Yemen and the residual French population from when it was a French colony. On the main streets, the ones with wrought iron railings and American hotels, I heard French being spoken, and English, of course. English is spoken wherever there’s a buck to be made from travelers. But on the back streets of the city among the poor, and there were so many of them, everyone spoke a different dialect. Whatever money there is in decaying Djibouti, the poor see none of it.

  The pirates might have been from Djibouti or any of the Red Sea countries: Somalia, Yemen, Eritrea, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, Egypt. It’s not like they flew their nation’s flag on the stern of their boats. The boats were almost certainly fishing boats. Maybe, like Duncan said that night before we left, we turned up with them in the same square of sea, a floating buffet of unspeakable wealth. Ty ripped off Cokes from the 7-Eleven all the time. Said 7-Eleven was a “friggin’ empire” and could afford it. “It’s just a Coke.”

  Maybe they didn’t intend to hurt us, they were just after our stuff.
Maybe. They had their faces covered as they fired the warning shots; they didn’t want to be identified. So they knew they were acting as criminals. What difference does it make that they have a day job? What kind of man blows the head off another, just to get his stuff?

  The summer I was twelve I worked with Jesse’s church group on a housing project on the lower eastside, in a neighborhood where no one was from where we were, geographically or socially or any way at all. Jesse signed up because she liked the pastor’s son, and I signed up because she did. We spent two weeks pulling nails out of old lumber so it could be re-used. At the end of the first day, even though we had gloves, our palms were pebbled with blisters. We had water and juice and packed lunches, money for chips and Coke; we had everything we needed.

  A little kid from the neighborhood used to hang around us while we were working, maybe five years old. His older sister kept an eye on him occasionally from the balcony of their apartment, like that would stop him from falling into a construction hole or wandering into the path of a cement truck. One day, Jesse gave him her Coke, and he vanished, reappearing on his balcony with his older sister and a horde of siblings, all clamoring for the Coke. The older sister took a good long swallow, then another, watching us all the time. Then she handed it to another kid. By the time it got back to the little boy Jesse had given it to, there would have been a few drops left. He didn’t get mad though; he looked happy enough to get the small amount that was left.