compass bearing. I try to make small movements with the wheel so that the boat doesnât yaw. Mom hates it when we yaw.
I hope sheâs all right. I hope she doesnât wake up and think sheâs alone. Iâll 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? Iâll have to stay out here to sail the boat, but I know I wonât 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 didnât have a mother on board with a festering, gunshot leg.
In the pirate movies, the shipâs doctor was always sawing off infected limbs. I picture my saw-tooth knife, my motherâs leg.
Mac could do it, maybe, cut off someoneâs leg, but Emma couldnât. 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 arenât 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 Momâs leg wounds using the anti-bacterial wipes I found earlier and cover them loosely with gauze. Sheâs out again, which makes it easier to work on her leg. When sheâs 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 sheâs not always lying on the same spot. I wash her with cool water and change her T-shirt. Itâs 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 thereâs 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. Itâs not even close to delicious, but itâs 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 Momâs 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 Momâs watch. Time can creep so slowly at night and it feels awful to think an hour has passed when itâs 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 weâd 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. Thatâs what happened when the pirates found us. When I had left her alone on her watch.
Tonight Iâll do every watch. And tomorrow night, and the one after that. If thatâs what it takes.
The moon rises out of
I hope sheâs all right. I hope she doesnât wake up and think sheâs alone. Iâll 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? Iâll have to stay out here to sail the boat, but I know I wonât 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 didnât have a mother on board with a festering, gunshot leg.
In the pirate movies, the shipâs doctor was always sawing off infected limbs. I picture my saw-tooth knife, my motherâs leg.
Mac could do it, maybe, cut off someoneâs leg, but Emma couldnât. 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 arenât 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 Momâs leg wounds using the anti-bacterial wipes I found earlier and cover them loosely with gauze. Sheâs out again, which makes it easier to work on her leg. When sheâs 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 sheâs not always lying on the same spot. I wash her with cool water and change her T-shirt. Itâs 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 thereâs 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. Itâs not even close to delicious, but itâs 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 Momâs 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 Momâs watch. Time can creep so slowly at night and it feels awful to think an hour has passed when itâs 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 weâd 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. Thatâs what happened when the pirates found us. When I had left her alone on her watch.
Tonight Iâll do every watch. And tomorrow night, and the one after that. If thatâs what it takes.
The moon rises out of
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