The Great Wide Sea by M.H. Herlong

the Berrys. There’s not much there. Just one island after another strung out in a slow curve for twenty-five miles from Chub Cay in the south to Great Stirrup Cay in the north. Almost nobody lives there. Just birds and lizards and conch and lobster. The Berrys are lonely and beautiful.
    It was there that we had the golden day. In my memory, this day is the brightest. A day with sunshine sparkling around our eyes. With glitter in the sand and with water dancing blue and clear all around the edges. The perfect day.
    The day before, we had taken our longest sail since crossing the Bank. The last two hours were in rolling seas. We wedged ourselves in the cockpit to keep in one place, but Gerry was too short. Finally I just held him in my lap. We stared over the rails and waited for it to be over.
    At last we were abreast of the turn and could clearly see the rock we were supposed to beware of. Dylan was shouting degrees through the companionway and Dad was barking back, “Double-check that course, Dylan. That can’t be right.” Then Dad turned on the engine to be sure it was ready when we got set to anchor, but it didn’t start. So he started yelling at me and I started yelling at him. Dylan was quiet and Gerry was rolling around in the cockpit. It was really fun.
    Then we turned Chrysalis ’s bow into Little Harbour.
    In an instant, the rolling stopped. All those waves were blocked now by a long, low island beside us. And in the middle was a calm green pool of ocean, the edges licking gently against a circle of little islands surrounding us.
    We were quiet. We glided in under jib alone. Dad didn’t yell. I scrambled to the bow and laid out the anchor chain. Dylan stood on alert beside the jib halyard. Quietly Dad said, “Dylan,” and Dylan released the halyard. The jib tumbled in billows onto the deck. He gathered it neatly inside the lifelines. We were quiet again for a minute.
    â€œBen,” Dad said, and I let the anchor go. The chain rattled out of the anchor locker and I counted the markers going by—ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet—
    Dad said nothing.
    I saw the anchor sink into the sandy bottom. I snagged it tight. Chrysalis swung gently on her chain and slowly turned her bow into the wind. The quiet rolled over us like liquid. We sat there just looking out at the little circle of islands and feeling the gentle leftovers of breeze. It was peaceful; it was perfect; it was ours alone.
    The next day we slept late—even Dad—and woke up only when we heard a voice calling, “Hello! Hello! Ahoy Chrysalis .” I heard Dad knocking against the hull as he woke up. He was at the companionway before I had pushed off my covers. By the time I sat up, he and Dylan were already on deck. I heard voices.
    â€œDe worse dat could happen,” a Bahamian man said, and I was on deck too.
    He stood in his dinghy, rowed by a single paddle astern, and held on to Chrysalis ’s gunwale. Beside us now, in our perfect anchorage, was a Bahamian fishing boat. On the deck several fishermen lounged and watched their mate.
    â€œDe worse dat could happen, mon,” he said again. “We have forgotten to bring de sugar for de tea.”
    And Dad laughed. He threw back his head and laughed. “Sugar!” he said. “I thought someone was dying. Ben, go get these guys some sugar. Lots of sugar.”
    Dylan and I looked at each other. He had said “dying.” He had laughed.
    I came back up with an unopened three-pound bag of sugar. Behind me came Gerry, wiping his eyes with Blankie.
    â€œTanks, mon,” said the Bahamian. He looked at us. “Dese all yours, mon?”
    â€œEvery one,” Dad said.
    â€œYou lucky,” the fisherman said. “We catch some lobster, we’ll bring you some.”
    â€œSure,” Dad said. “Sure.”
    The fisherman rowed away, standing in his boat, pushing the stern paddle from right to left and cradling the