Life #6. Diana Wagman
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pushed at the wall of her chest, reached toward him. She put her arms around him. Never come back. Never.
“I’m working here,” he said, but then he turned and hugged her. His hair was damp. He had showered in the boat’s tiny bathroom—head—the shower the size of her high school locker, and he smelled almost like himself again, the awful chemical scent had faded. Her head fit just like always in the hollow of his shoulder. She lifted her face and he kissed her. A real kiss. His hands tried to find her body under all the layers.
“Bermuda. Bermuda. Bermuda,” he breathed. “It’s about fucking time.”
She opened her eyes and saw Doug staring down at them through the hatch. He blushed and turned away as Joren pushed past him down the ladder and into the cabin.
“Break it over you two. We have much work.”
“What can I do?” Fiona asked.
“A real breakfast. Donuts are not enough.”
“Fried egg and bacon sandwiches.” She knew they were Luc’s favorite and she knew how to cook them. “Easy.”
“Yes. Easy as the cake. Right?”
Luc caught her eye and they laughed.
“We leave at nine!” Nathan bellowed from above.
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Luc called back. “Oh wait.” He turned to Joren. “You’re the captain. Our Flying Dutchman.”
“No, no. You know this story?” Joren shook his head. “Not so good.”
Fiona nodded. “Doomed to sail the seas for eternity.”
“I get off in Bermuda.” Joren found the box of stuff he was looking for and headed back up. “Come, Luc. We can use you.”
Luc followed and Fiona turned to the little stove. Her little stove. She was in charge. This galley was hers. They were going. She was sailing. She got out the eggs and bacon from the tiny fridge under the counter. This is my ship, she thought, I live here now. She spread her legs to absorb the sway. Her stomach was not great, but she was sure it would get better, she would get used to it—the roll, heave, pitch—all those other sailor words. She caught the new potholder on fire, but put it out before anyone saw. She burned her thumb, but not badly. Cooking on the little stove would get easier. She could do it. Grilled cheese sandwiches, cans of soup, maybe even hamburgers. She cracked the eggs into the bacon grease and put slices of bread on the blue and white china plates she had bought.
Doug came down. He tried not to look at her, but she saw his eyes sliding in her direction. “N…nothing like…b… bacon.” He sighed.
“Almost done,” she said. “Are you excited?”
“Y…y… yes.” He turned to her and tried to smile, but his cheeks wouldn’t move. His muddy brown eyes were frightened and his hands were shaking.
“We’ll be fine.” It felt good to be the brave one. “After what you’ve been through, this is nothing.”
“635 miles.” He didn’t stutter. “With unpredictable weather. A week or more.”
“A week?” She shook her head. She didn’t think they had enough food for a whole week. “Nathan said three or four days.”
“Have you read Moby Dick?” To keep from stuttering, he spoke so slowly it made her a little crazy. “I’ve been… thinking of Captain Ahab.”
“Will we see whales?”
“No… not that.” He rubbed his fingers over his scar, back and forth, back and forth.
“I haven’t read much. Not the important things. But I want to. I do. I will read it.”
He stopped rubbing his scar. With his other hand he pushed a strand of hair off her face. “You’re so young,” he said.
“Hey. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“I know, I know. That’s… not wh…wh…what I meant. Lots of t…time to read.”
He lowered his voice. “I saw Na…Na…Nathan throw something overboard. Black p…p…plastic.”
His eyes were so small, his forehead so wrinkled. She patted his arm. “He throws everything overboard. It’s gross.”
“It’s just, that that p…p…. N…never mind.” He got his stocking cap from his bag.
“Are you cold?”
“Wind irritates my scar.” He shrugged. “So d…does the hat.”
“Think how good the sun will feel in Bermuda.”
“Fiona,” he said. “You don’t have to go.”
Why was everyone saying that?
The boat lurched and Doug fell against the counter. She put out a hand to catch him and awkwardly grabbed his neck. His skin was rough, sandpaper under her fingertips, grown up and foreign.
She said, “Maybe you’re the one who should stay home.”
“Eggs.”
She turned just in time to pull the pan off the burner. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
All five of us were on deck when we motored out of the harbor. It was after eleven but the two-hour delay had given the clouds a chance to lift. The November sun was shining the best it could. Nathan sang and Luc joined in, “Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main!” I waved goodbye to the wharf. Ours was the only sailboat going out. The others were tied up at the docks, their sails rolled and stored, their cushions taken home, everything battened down and tightened up for winter. I waved to the Harbormaster who had come out on the widow’s walk to watch us go. He didn’t wave back. Everyone in town thought we were crazy for going, but I looked at Joren calmly rolling a cigarette as he sat behind the helm and Luc talking happily with Nathan and I thought, this is it—my adventurous life is beginning. Luc and I would stay with the boat in Bermuda, be island sailors and live in our bathing suits. My thighs would not embarrass me, my too white skin would turn brown. Did you hear about Fiona? I could hear my high school friends ask each other. We thought she was a loser, but she lives on a sailboat in the South Seas. I wasn’t sure Bermuda was in the South Seas, but it sounded good.
I felt a drop of rain. Then another. And another. Dark clouds rolled across the sky. Joren turned the engine off. The mainsail flapped and shook as he steered us directly into the wind.
“This is no-go,” Nathan said. “Come on, Captain.”
Joren looked confused.
“We’ll end up in irons!” Someplace Nathan obviously didn’t want to be. He pushed Joren out of the way and turned the wheel right—starboard. The boat creaked as it slowly made the turn, but then the wind caught the sail and suddenly we were going.
“This is it!” Nathan hollered. “Reaching. Yes!” He turned to Joren. “Even an imbecile can sail a boat with wind like this.”
We hurtled through the water. The rain came down. The boat leaned away from the wind. I grabbed the cockpit railing. The speed was okay, the leaning was not. Doug’s teeth were clamped together. The knuckles of Joren’s remaining fingers were white around a metal cleat. Only Luc, and Nathan—of course—were having fun.
I wanted to say wait. Slow down. I managed, “Why are we leaning?”
Nathan yelled over his shoulder. “Heeling. The wind. This is how we move.”
“Why don’t we fall over?” This could not go on for the whole trip. My strong thighs were already tired and my feet hurt from my toes gripping inside my sneakers.
Nathan