Red Sea

by Diane Tullson

  The German man is holding my hand, talking to me. I don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but I hang on his words. Emma sticks her head out of the companionway, orders more people around, glances once at me, then ducks below again. I try to get up, to go to my mother, but my knees are liquid, and the German man cluck-clucks, tells me to sit. Several men return with gangplanks and lengths of rope and proceed to lash together a stretcher. They hoist this onto the deck of Mistaya and lower it down the companionway.

  Then Mac’s hands are on my shoulders, his voice soft and solid in my ears. “Duncan?”

  I can’t form the words, so I shake my head. His hands seem very still, then he squeezes my shoulders. “You did well, girl.” He leaves me to help with the stretcher.

  Someone slips a blanket around me even though I’m sweating, because that’s what you do for people who are bashed up, I guess. The German man helps me to my feet and leads me to a laundry van, waiting at the top of the ramp. The woman is there, the one who Emma told to get the ambulance, and she climbs into the front seat with me. She’s talking to me, saying something about the van being faster than waiting for an ambulance, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Mac and the other men carry Mom on the stretcher. They’re running. They slide the stretcher in on the floor of the van; Mac jumps in and shouts something at the driver. I see the driver for the first time, his eyes wide with concern. At Mac’s command, the driver steps on the gas and we lurch into the street.

  Mom’s eyes are closed, and I watch Mac beside her on the floor of the van, grateful that he’s there, that he’s urging the driver on, that he doesn’t have all the time in the world because she’s sick, my mother, very, very sick. Sick and not dead. The woman puts her arm around me, and I put my head on her shoulder. She speaks to me like I’m a child, words without meaning, but I want to believe her. “You’re going to be okay.”

  TWENTY - THREE

  I PEEL ANOTHER ORANGE, letting the juice run down into my shirtsleeves, licking the juice from the side of my hand, eating the orange in exploding mouthfuls. Mac peels one for my mother and places small pieces on a plate beside her bed. She lifts these to her mouth and chews slowly.

  Mac is just back from Tel Aviv. He finished the delivery of the Pandanus while Emma stayed with Mom and me.

  In the hospital in Port Sudan, Mom got massive doses of antibiotics, then an air ambulance took her here to the capital, Khartoum, for surgery to cut the dead tissue out of her leg. The doctor took as little as he could. He said he used to be a military doctor, that gunshot wounds often get infected, especially if they’re not treated right away. He said Mom was lucky she was shot with an AK - 47, that an AK - 47 is actually designed to wound, not kill. I said, “How humane,” but then he explained that it’s better to wound a soldier than kill him. That way the soldier is taken out of the fighting along with other soldiers who have to carry him.

  I guess a Sudanese doctor knows something about war.

  The doctor said that Mom’s concussion was only minor but that she might have trouble remembering what happened. He figures it was her blood loss that kept her so out of it. He said she’s lucky.

  I’VE BEEN TELLING Mom the story again about that last night at sea, finding my way to Port Sudan.

  “It was Duncan’s chart that got us there. He had the course changes marked right into the harbor.”

  “That’s always the hardest part of a passage,” Mom says. “Leaving the fairway of the open sea and heading for the rocks. Duncan was like a cat, the last part of a passage.” Her smile fades. The silence around her bed grows.

  Then Mac speaks. “I thought you were delayed because of the storm, that you’d lost your mast or something. But then when we couldn’t reach you on the radio, I knew it was something more.”

  “That storm,” Emma shudders. “We never should have left port.”

  Mac says, “The storm surprised everyone, even the forecasters. We were deep in it, and Djibouti Weather was still calling for calm winds. No one could have anticipated that it would hit us that way.”

  Jimmy lost his mast in the storm and he and his wife got airlifted off the boat, abandoning it. Emma says the boat washed into a bay still trailing its rigging but otherwise, not a scratch on it. Jimmy and his wife were already long gone home.

  Just to Emma I say, “I’m glad for the storm.”

  Emma nods. She knows about Eggman.

  “Search planes couldn’t find you,” Mac says. “The storm must have blown you miles off course.” Mac chews and swallows another half-orange. “How you got so close to Masamirit on your own is mind-boggling.”

  Officially, Duncan is missing at sea and presumed dead. Mac said that on his trip to the Suez in Pandanus, a little bird landed on his boat too, a bird with yellow breast feathers. Mom wants to have a funeral for Duncan when we get home, buy a headstone, put it on an empty grave. But we’ve scattered his ashes, all of us, on the Red Sea.

  I say to Mom, “I e-mailed Dad today. He wants to come and take us home.” My throat sticks on the word us. “I meant to say, he wants to take me home. Although, I guess you could tag along.”

  “We should have quite the entourage.” Mom’s sister wants to come, and my grandfather, and about nine of Mom’s friends, including a dentist and a professional dancer. Strange but true. Mom sighs, “It’ll be good to be home.”

  Home. Our house is still leased to tenants, so we’re going to stay with Mom’s sister. She has a condo downtown that looks onto English Bay. I can take the bus to my school, or I might enroll in a new one.

  Emma and Mac will bring Mistaya through the Suez for us. They found a charter boat company in the Caribbean, that will put Mistaya in its fleet, and offered to deliver it there for us. They’ll fit it in around their other deliveries, sail through the Mediterranean to the Atlantic and cross with it in December, just after hurricane season.

  Selling Mistaya wasn’t an option, not even for Mom. She says Mistaya is part of Duncan, part of all of us, and she can’t let it go. The charter company will take care of the boat for her, and we can still sail on it a few weeks each year. I’m not sure Mom is eager to sail again. It’s maybe too soon for her.

  I say to her, “Dad doesn’t need to come. I think I can find the way.”

  Mom smiles. “You could, I know that. But let him be a father.”

  I’M PACKING MOM’S bag as she sits with her leg up, watching me. I’ve already packed mine. There wasn’t much I could take. Everything seems to match a boat life, not a back-home life, although I did take the knife Dad gave me. Into Mom’s bag I put her things, and a few of Duncan’s. I unzip his shaving kit and breathe in his familiar smell. She says, “It’s hard, this goodbye.” I glance at her, thinking she’s talking about Duncan. “I mean leaving our life on Mistaya,” she says.

  She hasn’t been back to the boat. It’s in dry dock in Port Sudan getting the holes in the hull fixed. Mac took me back for a few days to collect our things. Mac and I talked for hours, about important things, like friends talk. Real friends. He knows about loss, Mac does. And when it was time to leave the boat, I did cry. I zip up Duncan’s case and tuck it in Mom’s bag.

  She says, “You must be looking forward to seeing your friends. Jesse. Ty.”

  “No. Not Ty,” I say too quickly, too loudly.

  She’s silent for a moment, then says, “Because of the party?”

  I know what she wants. She wants me to tell her that I was totally innocent, that Ty forced me into that bedroom, into that bed, that I could press charges. I may not remember much of the party, but I wouldn’t have refused Ty. I never did, even if I wanted to. It was the price of being with Ty, a price I paid from the very start. I say to her, “I’m done with Ty. It just took me a while to see.”

  She nods. “You’re a different person now.”

  “Maybe I was a different person then. Now, I’m just me.”

  Her eyes slide downward and her eyebrows knot. I say, “You don’t have to be afraid for me. I s
urvived Ty.” She starts to say something, but I cut her off. I know that she’s thinking about the pirates. “I’m not afraid for you, either, after what happened on Mistaya. We survived that too.”

  “But if I hadn’t fired the flare gun...”

  “It might not have made a difference. If I’d been up on deck with you, maybe I could have helped.”

  “Or maybe you would have been shot too. We never should have left port. I was too anxious to go.”

  “I made us late, Mom.” Just saying it makes my guts drop. “I put us in the path of both the pirates and the storm.”

  “The storm hit everyone, Lib. And the pirates might have found us anyway.”

  “But we were alone. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry about Duncan. I’m sorry for everything.”

  She’s crying now, and I let her be. The pirates blew a hole in her life; I never used a gun, but I leveled some emotionally lethal shots, at her and at myself. Her leg will heal faster than her heart.

  DAD MET ME in Cairo even though I told him he didn’t have to. He said he’s always wanted to see the Egyptian pyramids. He showed up in full Tilley gear and brand-new safari boots. I suggested we go by camel to the pyramids but just the thought turned him green. We rode in a tour bus, air-conditioned, and sat right at the front.

  TWENTY - FOUR

  I FLIP CLOSED MY MATH textbook and toss it and my notebook into my pack. I yawn, stretch, check the kitchen clock. Eleven. I’m almost caught up on my courses and just in time for June finals. I won’t exactly make the Principal’s List, but I probably won’t have to repeat anything. I decided to go to a school close to my aunt’s condo. Technically, it’s an inner city school so it should have drugs, gangs and violence. Maybe it does. For me, going to this school was just easier.

  Jesse thinks I have the best life, living downtown. She’d like to stay with me on weekends, but I’m sleeping on the couch in my aunt’s living room, so there’s truly no room for her. I’ve gone to her place a few times, but we don’t have much to talk about anymore. It’s easier to go to Dad’s and rent a movie, something good and scary.

  Ty called me when I got back, but I said I was busy with my mom. She’s taking a photography course and works out in a physio gym for her leg. And she writes in her journal for hours. She’s taking care of herself. I could have told Ty that he was an anal orifice, but this was just easier. He wouldn’t get it, anyway.

  Mom comes into the kitchen, sets her tea mug on the counter. “There’s an e-mail from Emma. They’re finishing a delivery to Palma in a couple of weeks, then they’ll bring Mistaya into the Mediterranean.”

  “I know, Mom. Emma e-mailed me too.”

  I watch Mom as she moves around the small kitchen, putting away the kettle, wiping the counter. She limps, probably always will. She says, “The summer is slow for deliveries, everyone using their boats, so they’ll be able to take their time sailing the Mediterranean.” She glances at me, then scrubs something on the counter that I can’t see.

  I say, “And Mac wants to spend some time scuba diving in Egypt.”

  Scrub, scrub. “That’s right,” she says. “In the Red Sea.”

  She’s going to wear the counter right through. “Mom.” Her hand pauses on the sponge and she looks up at me. I say, “Are you okay?”

  She puts the sponge on the side of the sink, wipes her hands, folds the dishtowel over the bar on the oven. “What else did Emma write to you?”

  Ah. I take a breath. “She asked if I wanted to come and sail with them for the summer.” Mom crosses her arms, uncrosses them, then she jams her hands in her jeans pockets. “But I told her that I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I might have to do summer school.”

  “But you won’t have to.”

  “Because I’m thinking of getting a summer job.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since right now.” I cross my arms. “Can we drop this?”

  She crosses her arms. “You’re not going because of me.”

  “No.”

  “You think you need to take care of me.”

  Eye roll. “No.”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me. I can look after myself.”

  “I know that.”

  “So, why won’t you go?”

  “I told you.”

  Eye roll. “No. What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid. Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “I’m not.” She sighs. “Do you want to go?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  I tap my pencil on the table. She reaches over, puts her hand on mine, silences the pencil. Again she asks, “Why?”

  I feel tears coming. “I’m not sure I can. God. I’m not sure I can be so far away.” From you.

  “You’re just an airplane ticket away.” Then, quietly, “You’ve been so much farther away.” She’s studying me, like she’s taking a picture and the camera is very slow. “You should go.”

  I nod.

  She leans down, wraps her arms around me. I inhale her mother-scent. She says, “Sometimes you have to be far from home to find what makes you free.” She gives me a squeeze. “Go.”

  TWENTY - FIVE

  MISTAYA IS BACK IN THE WATER, bobbing in a slip in the marina at Port Sudan, her hull fixed and sail replaced. Emma patrols the deck, inspecting the rigging hardware. From a deck fitting, she extracts a wisp of the old mainsail and hands it to me.

  “Souvenir.”

  I take it from her and release it on the wind. “Do you think she’ll be okay on her own?”

  “Your mother? What do you think?”

  I shrug, become very busy checking a non-existent spot on the rail.

  She says, “I’ll tell you what I know of your mother. She’s brave, smart and resourceful. And she wants what is best for you. Your being here doesn’t change what you have with your mother. It’s the relationship that’s important, the connection.” She fixes me with a stare. “You’re choosing a path. That’s not the same as running away. I know the difference.”

  WE’VE HAD NEW cushions made for the boat and these fit snugly on the benches. Over the last couple of weeks I took everything out of the shelves and lockers, cleaned them, then arranged them neatly. I sanded the scratches out of the dining table, polished the woodwork until it gleamed, filled the water and fuel tanks.

  I bought a new go-bag, red, just like the last one. Now I inspect the contents: flashlights, batteries, food, water. A GPS. Antibiotics. All double-bagged. I pick up the photographs I’ve selected, three individual shots. There’s one of Mom I took at the airport. I made her sister get out of the picture. Mom’s hand is lifted part way, like she’s starting to wave, her mouth is smiling but her eyes can’t. I’ll miss her too. The picture of Duncan is one Mom took a few years ago when they were hiking in the Rockies. He looks perfectly happy, but the reason I chose the picture is the birds in the background, a flock of plain little birds, hovering on the wind like tiny sails. The third photo is me, a new one, taken on the bow of Mistaya when we put her back in the water. I look perfectly happy too.

  All the photos I bag, and bag again, then slip them into the go-bag with the other items. The last thing I put in is a sealed container of sand for Fanny the cat. We’ve rigged her a swinging sea berth, but she likes to sleep on my bed.

  Emma had me check the oil level and batteries, and I see her back there now, double-checking my work, but that’s fine with me. She’s the captain. Mac calls from the cockpit, “Are you two about ready to cast off?”

  I glance at my watch, Mom’s watch really, but she wanted me to have it, and make a note on the chart of our departure time. I strap the go-bag into place next to the companion-way, grab my hat and sunglasses and climb out into the cockpit. Emma follows me, leaps down onto the pontoon to untie our lines.

  “Take us out,” she calls to me as she throws Mac the line and climbs back on board.

  And I do.


  Diane Tullson spent over a year traveling some of the same waters as Libby does in Red Sea. While not attacked by pirates, Diane and her family lived with the knowledge that the danger was real and they were a long way from home. Diane is also the author of Saving Jasey (Orca, 2002).Diane lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. www.dianetullson.com

  Also by Diane Tullson

  Saving Jasey

  Confronting his family’s cruelty and his friend’s fear of a

  deadly disease, Gavin learns that life is often unfair.

  Thirteen-year-old Gavin’s home life is far from perfect. His older brother is a bully, his father has no time for him and his mother hasn’t been the same since she hit a pig on the highway. Gavin finds sanctuary in his friend Trist McVeigh’s seemingly perfect home. His blossoming infatuation with Trist’s older sister Jasey helps fill the emotional void. But all is not as it seems in the McVeigh home. Trist’s uncle suffers from Huntington’s disease, a devastating degenerative brain disorder that may have been the reason for the suicide of Trist’s father. Is Grandpa Jack also affected? And if so, are Trist and Jasey also in danger? Unable to deal with the threat of a potential illness, Jasey starts to self-destruct and she becomes involved with the worst kind of people. While trying to understand the dramatic changes in her personality, Gavin finds that the threat of a silent killer like Huntington’s disease is as damaging as a corrosive family life. Gavin decides to do what he can to save Jasey and, ultimately, save himself.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page