Red Sea by Diane Tullson

range of someone who might come back for me.”
    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, andI 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 theentire 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
    â€œW E’VE GOT SOME WIND NOW , M OM . 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