by M.D. Lee
I promise myself that if I get out of this whole thing alive, someday I’ll somehow pay for a new paint job. But at the moment, all I can do is keep sailing the boat as best I can and be more careful.
Minutes turn into hours as I sail the boat in a nice straight line. The lights on shore grow smaller and the buildings that were lit up become harder to recognize. If my guess is right, I should be in open water now, away from any more hazards like boats on moorings, or worse―jagged rocks. I’m also pretty sure all the channel markers are well behind me, too.
My mind begins to wander, and I start to think about Sara standing there on the dock as I disappeared into the dark night. It was only about a week ago that I was trying to avoid her, and any other girl for that matter. But now I can’t stop thinking about her. What changed? Why had she helped me when she could’ve just stayed home where it was safe? I shake the thought off and remind myself not to let my guard down; my life depends on this sailboat, and this sailboat depends on me.
At this point, my plan’s pretty simple; just keep sailing in the same direction until daylight because I know I’m safe in the direction I’m heading. Once there’s a little light I’ll be able to get my bearings and figure out just where I am. Heck, once it’s light I can have a look at the chart and figure out where I want to go. There’re a lot of islands out there for one person to disappear into. Wherever it is I’m going, it’s still a long way off.
Part II
Chapter 7
Fog
Daylight begins to drill through my eyelids like laser beams. Suddenly I bolt upright, trying to shake the fuzz out of my brain as fast as I can. Damn! I must’ve fallen asleep! I pound the deck hard with my hand. Falling asleep was the wrong thing to do. It’s a miracle I’m still alive and actually still sailing in a straight line. I have no idea how that happened because the boat should have veered off course which would have woken me up when the sails started clanging.
The fog in my head just does not want to let go, but I force myself to shake it off, and take in my surroundings as fast as I can.
Looking around quickly, I realize I cannot see land in any direction! The best I can tell is that I’m still heading out to open sea. A fast glance at the compass tells me I’m still on course in the same direction as when I left Trent Harbor.
Out in the vast open ocean also means no one can see me. I got away clean! If no one knows I’m out here, I can now sail anywhere I want. But that’s also the problem.
Not being able to see land means there’s no way to pick a bearing, like a hill, a radio tower, or a city water tank. I’ve absolutely no idea where I am. In Maine there’s always an island, peninsula, or some kind of shoreline poking into the sea . . . but not this far out.
I’m confident if I alter my course just a bit to the north I should run into something I might recognize, but I better check first. Tying off the tiller so the boat steers itself, I go below deck to have a look at the chart.
Now that there’s some light and I can see everything down below, I notice how much better the inside of the tiny cabin looks. I smile. At least I hit the jackpot and made off with a decent boat. It’ll make a nice little living space for the time being.
A quick sharp pain in my stomach, followed by a loud rumble, reminds me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Before digging for the chart, I quickly grab the bag of canned food Sara has put together, and I pull out a can of Ravioli-Os. I also see she’s placed a Swiss Army Knife in the bag, along with a note attached to it. I carefully unfold the note.
Dear Fisher:
I figured you could use a jackknife, so I found an old one of my dad’s. Hope you find it useful. Please be safe and come home soon.
Always,
Sara.
That was a good idea for her to make sure I had a jackknife. She’s a good person. There’s no telling what I’m going to need it for, but I’m certain on this crazy adventure it’s going to be one of the more useful things. And sure enough, the first thing I do is carefully pull out the can-opener blade to cut the lid off the tin can of Ravioli-Os.
While I’m eating cold ravioli out of the can, which isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, I unroll the chart and begin to study it in detail. With a pencil and a straight edge, I draw a line from where I left and aim it straight at 093 degrees, east being the compass course at the moment. All I can do is assume that I’ve sailed that direction all through the night, and I’m now somewhere along the line I have just penciled in.
Hoping my instincts are right, I figure if I start to sail north I’ll come across a clump of islands where I can tuck into and drop anchor. If my wind holds, I should be able to get there before the sun goes down, but if I don’t make it before sundown I’ll have to heave-to for the night. I really do not want to heave-to.
Heaving-to is an old trick of stopping the boat and keeping it in one place without having to sail it, freeing the skipper to do other things. The boat just holds its place in the water as if parked. That works great in open water. But I’m not confident it’ll work closer to shore, with the huge tides and currents that could carry me miles away from where I stop. I don’t want to wake up stuck on a rock. I can only hope to make way to an island before sundown.
Back at the tiller, certain of where I need to go, I begin to slowly alter my course to the north where I’m sure to come across some little island that will make a decent place to hide out. Once the boat’s pointed in a new course, I trim in the sails to match the wind direction.
It’s still early morning with a fair breeze in the right direction, but now the dull daylight has expanded out across the water, and I can tell it’s not going to be a picture post card kind of a day. The sky is sort of looking like cold gray steel. With only a T-shirt on, a little shiver is working through my body. From the looks of it, there might even be rain. That will do nothing good for my mood.
But, for the moment, my mood’s actually pretty good. So far, I slipped away from town unnoticed, the sailboat’s still in one piece, and I’m beginning to enjoy sailing this boat that only a few hours ago was unknown to me. I just hope I won’t be in too much trouble when the day comes to return the sailboat to the owners. Hopefully everyone will understand I was running for my life.
***
Throughout the morning, the air becomes damp with humidity. With no other clothes but the jeans and T-shirt I’m wearing, I’m beginning to get a chill. About an hour ago, just off the bow, some land had come into view but, as the air keeps getting thicker with moisture, it’s starting to fade from the horizon. Also, my speed’s slowly dropping off because the fog’s sucking out all the wind. My guess is at this pace I won’t be near land for several more hours. It’s only a matter of time before the Maine fog will feast on me like some big gray sea ghost.
Hours later, or so it seems, the boat hasn’t moved more than a couple of yards. Visibility’s gone and so is the wind. The water’s now smooth, like an oil slick. The sails are drooping like damp laundry hanging out to dry. Heavy drops of moisture form on my eyelids, and when I run my hand through my hair it’s almost as wet as if I’d just jumped in the water. A little shiver ripples through my body, and the visibility’s now so low I can’t even see the bow.
Fog is evil, and sneaky. Throughout time it’s caused more mayhem to watermen than any storm. Most old timers speak of fog with a hint of fear in their voice. With a storm, a sailor usually knows it’s coming and can most times make for safe waters, or at least be prepared for it. With fog, however, it just creeps in like some dangerous animal tracking its unsuspecting prey. I’m thankful the sailboat has stopped moving. If it isn’t moving, it can’t hit anything.
Hours pass by with no forward movement, and it’s now late afternoon. I stare into the gray, but there’s nothing to see. The sailboat’s just sitting as if the anchor’s down. With no auxiliary motor there’s not much I can do, so I’m at the mercy of whatever wind, or no wind, comes my way.
***
Thump . . . thump . . . I’m not sure I heard it at first, so I strain my ears to listen even harder. Quiet. Then, almost undetectable, I can hear it again; faint in the distance is the low sound of a diesel engine. My heart jumps into my throat. In fog this thick it’s hard to tell what direction it’s coming from. Fog is sneaky like that. It can carry sound in unlikely directions. For all I know, I might’ve been drifting in a current that pushed me closer to shore, making the noise actually a truck rumbling down a road.
But what was a faint deep rumble only a few minutes ago has gradually become a little louder so, to hear it, I no longer need to strain my ears. That’s not good.
Soon the deep thumping becomes even more intense. There’s no doubt that the chugging’s from a diesel engine in a much larger vessel, and it’s getting closer. Much closer than I like. If it’s on a collision course with me, it’ll never even know I’m here and will plow through the side of the hull leaving nothing more than splintered planks and a few shredded ribbons of sail. And if I’m lucky enough to survive the collision, the chance of someone actually finding me floating in the water’s pretty slim. After that it wouldn’t be long before the cold Maine water finished the job.
The constant deep thumping engine keeps coming closer, like a slow-moving freight train emerging from a dark tunnel.
I need to do something. Anything. Jumping down below I rummage around for anything that’ll make noise; a big bell, a flair gun, anything! I need to let the oncoming vessel know there’s a sailboat in its path. I’m sweating even though it’s cool. As I fling open drawers, looking for anything that I can use as a signal, I notice my hands are trembling. When I find a large frying pan, I toss it on the settee and keep frantically searching other places. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I know from the roar of the bellowing engine there isn’t much time left. Then I find a hammer; that’s it! Without a second to spare, I grab the frying pan and scramble topside, landing in the cockpit.
How much louder can the engine noise possibly get without me seeing the oncoming vessel? The constant metallic thumping’s now so loud that it might be right alongside. Frantically, I start banging the hammer and pan together, making a clanging noise much louder than I ever thought possible. BANG! BANG! BANG! Nothing. The other vessel hasn’t heard it because it would’ve blasted its horn in return.
I don’t stop. BANG! BANG! BANG! As hard as I can. Then, screaming at the top of my lungs, “I’m here! I’m here!” This is life or death.
Suddenly, without warning, out of the fog, all in neat rows heading straight for the transom of my sailboat, are several mammoth sets of deadly waves. They must be the wake of the passing vessel. The cold killers on a mission to sink me look to be about ten feet high each with a steep face. When the waves strike my boat, in a flash, the transom points sharply skyward then, just as fast, drops, spraying gallons of cold water into the cockpit. The rigging and sails slap and clank hard together in noisy confusion.
Instantly dropping the frying pan and hammer, I grab the hand rail to keep from getting tossed over the side. Like some sort of wild animal trying to throw me off its back, several more times the transom rockets almost airborne, then drops, as if I’m falling off a cliff. It’s all I can do to hang on!
Almost as quickly as the waves attack―they stop. I realize the diesel engine noise’s now going farther away.
Whatever the vessel was, judging by the size of the wake it threw at me, it was large, and never knew it was aimed right at me. I could’ve easily been in a mass of broken wooden planks scattered about the frigid water. But I’m not, and I’m safe.
There’d been no time for fear. Things happened too fast. It came, it went, but now with the realization of how close I had come to being sent to the bottom, I begin shaking uncontrollably. I close my eyes tight, trying to shake it all off. I can’t afford to be scared. When I open them I look around; the fog still keeps me from seeing beyond the bow pulpit. There’s not much I can do but hope it doesn’t happen again and, while I’m waiting out the fog to lift, get control of my emotions.
The whole scene plays and replays in my head, but I can’t think of anything I could’ve done differently to keep the vessel from hitting me. The fog plays no favorites and it’s just plain dumb luck that I’m still floating.
Chapter 8
The Landing
Just over an hour has passed since I was almost run over. The gray murkiness still has its grip on me and, as far as I can tell, I haven’t moved even a foot. But who knows, with the crazy currents in the Maine waters, I could’ve been pushed all the way back to Trent Harbor.
A few spots of rain begin to splatter the wood deck. I groan. I’m already cold and damp, and know if I can’t stay dry it’s only going to turn from bad to miserable. The drops begin to get bigger and become steadier, soaking the cockpit. Everything’s a little slicker. If I’m not careful, and don’t hold onto things as I move around the boat, I could slip right off the side.
Because I’m not moving, I don’t need to steer. Also, in the heavy fog there’s nothing to see, so I hop down below. There’s no reason to sit in the rain like a confused duck.
I’m stuck down below with time to kill, so I take the opportunity to have a closer look around the small cabin. I figure it might be a good idea to take stock of what I have to work with. The cabin’s tiny so it isn’t going to take long. I pull open a few drawers and find all the usual things on a boat; a couple of rusty screwdrivers that look older than they are, some various sizes and lengths of rope, a can opener―also rusty―and a stale jar of peanuts. Then I strike gold.
Tucked away, just behind the bulkhead, is a thin cabinet door, and hanging on a hook is a bright yellow rain slicker. I quickly put it on. The arms are way too long and I probably could have a friend in it with me, but I’m happy to have it, too big or not. Now I can sail in the rain and stay reasonably warm and dry.
It’s not long before the rain really starts to pour down in buckets, but I notice that the rain seems to be knocking down the fog. The fog is starting to thin and I begin to see different shapes on the horizon that surely must be land. But there’s one other thing the rain has brought back… wind.
The wind is a gift. It starts with light cat’s-paws on the smooth water, and then turns into soft ripples. I can feel it on the damp skin of my face. “Whoooa Hooo!” I yell, giving the bulkhead a slap.
With the slicker hanging about me, I carefully climb out into the slick cockpit. When I was digging around before I found a short piece of rope which is now snug around my waist so the slicker isn’t quite so loose. When the rain pelts the stiff yellow plastic, the noise is like being under a tin roof. Ting, ting, ting. But I can live with it as long as it keeps me dry.
The sails no longer look like wet laundry and are beginning to show some shape. There’s slightly more wind pressure. A little trail of wake begins to appear behind the boat. I’m starting to creep along. But at this rate, it’s going to take days to get over toward land, yet I know this is how it always starts when more wind is about to fill in.
Sure enough, after a half hour the breeze begins to fill back in and the sailboat starts to move nicely through the water. What was gentle lapping against the hull is now the sound of rushing water. There’s more heel to the boat as the sails begin to fill with greater wind power. Once again, I am on my way.
I’m still miles away from the islands I’m trying to get to. I can barely see them just off the bow. The problem is, daylight’s going to fade pretty soon, and the idea of trying to get into an unknown area in the dark is terrifying. But there’s no way of getting around that unless I point the bow back out to sea to wait out another night. I sure don’t want to do that again. Once was enough!
When I was rummaging through the cabin earlier, I found a pair of binoculars, which are now hanging around my neck. I need to know what I’m up against.
The islands closest to me do not offer much hope. Too many rocks and big sprays of white wate
r. I keep searching. There’s one island I spot, a little farther away and just slightly to beam of me, that’s not a rocky shoreline like the others. It seems to be slightly different from the darker colors of the rocks and trees. It’s a sandy beach.
Dropping an anchor just off a sandy beach seems like the best idea, but that isn’t always the case. On the approach there can easily be many rocks hidden beneath the water. But today, I don’t have a whole lot of choices. I reason that it’s a better bet the sandy area will be safer. Also, in a tight rocky cove, if the anchor moves just a little bit, even small waves could turn the boat into scrap. The cove with the sandy beach is my target.
There’s only a couple of hours of daylight left, but at the speed I’m sailing, which is pretty good for this boat, it’ll be close. I’d rather not have to sail in there after dark, sandy beach or not.
According to the compass, 010 degrees north is my course. The breeze is just off the port beam and I’ve no reason to believe it’s going to change anytime soon. If I hold my course for the next hour or so it should be easy getting in.
I wish my pace was a little faster, but I’m thankful to at least be moving. Either way, for the first time since this mess started, I have some time on my hands to just relax and enjoy sailing the boat. I’m going to try hard to not think about everything that has happened.
But I do begin to think about my family. Will they even miss me? The only reason my older sister might miss me is because she’ll have no one to tell on. My sister, Clair, who is bigger than me, has long dark hair, usually in a ponytail, and can’t pronounce her “L’s.” She also never misses an opportunity to let my dad know when I’ve done something wrong. Sometimes she gets me in trouble even if I haven’t done something wrong.
