Float Plan(2)
I’ve never been sailing without Ben. I don’t always get the terminology correct—it’s a line, Anna, not a rope—and I’ll be lucky if I make it to the end of the river. But I am less afraid of what might become of me while sailing alone in the Caribbean than of what might become of me if I stay.
My boss calls as I’m untying the dock lines, no doubt wondering if I’m coming in, but I don’t answer. He’ll figure it out in a day or two.
I radio the drawbridge at Andrews Avenue for an opening, and slowly putter away from the dock, the engine chugging and choking after being silent for months. The current pulls me downriver as I guide the sailboat between the open bridge spans. Once I’m through, I’m passed by a large sportfishing boat. A guy wearing an aqua-colored fishing shirt waves to me from the back deck. He’s no more than a couple of years older than I am, and good-looking in an outdoorsy, sun-bleached way. I wave back.
I motor past high-rise condos, sleek white mega-yachts, and a gridwork of canals lined with homes so large, my mother’s house would barely fill the first floor. She’s never been one to dream of mansions, but four people occupying a two-bedroom house is at least one too many. Mom says she loves having all her girls under one roof, but moving back home was not something I ever imagined. My life was supposed to be with Ben.
When I reach the drawbridge at Third Avenue, the tender tells me I’ll have to wait because he just let a large sportfishing boat through. Ben always handled the boat when we had to wait, so I turn tight, timid circles—afraid of crashing into another waiting sailboat—until the cars stop and the bridge decks begin to lift.
At Port Everglades, cruise ships line the piers, their decks stacked like layers on a wedding cake. Cargo ships steam out through the cut into the Atlantic, destined for ports all over the world. The Alberg feels small and insignificant as I navigate between them, and I consider continuing safely south on the ICW instead of braving the open ocean. But the route in Ben’s chart book would have me sail to Biscayne Bay before making the crossing to Bimini. So that is what I prepare to do.
I’ve tried to anticipate everything I might need at arm’s length on the passage. I take quick stock as I slather on a fresh coat of sunscreen. Water. Snacks. Ben’s raggedy straw cowboy hat that I clamp down on my head to shade my face. Cans of Coke. Handheld VHF. Ditch bag in the closest cockpit locker, along with my life jacket and harness. Cell phone.
I’ll be out of range soon, so I finally call my mother. “I wanted to let you know that I’m taking Ben’s boat and going to sea for a while.”
“Going to sea?” She snorts a little through her nose. “Anna, honey, what on earth are you talking about? It’s Thanksgiving. The turkey is already in the oven.”
“Today is the day that Ben and I were going to set out on our trip around the world,” I explain. “I—I can’t stay in Fort Lauderdale anymore. It hurts too much.”
She’s silent for such a long time that I think the call must have dropped.
“Mom?”
“This ist crazy, Anna. Crazy.” My mom has lived in the United States longer than Rachel and I have been alive, but German words frequently slip into her speech, particularly when she’s stressed. “You should not be going to sea in a boat you have no business trying to sail. You need to come home und get some help.”
This isn’t the first time we’ve had a conversation about me seeking professional help, but I don’t need a therapist to tell me that I’m the only one who gets to decide how long my grief should last, that it’s not my job to make other people less uncomfortable around me. I am not ready to get on with my life. I am not in the market for a new soul mate. And I’m really fucking tired of sharing a bedroom with my sister and a two-year-old.
“I’ll check in when I get to the Bahamas.” Behind me, a bright blue cargo freighter loaded high with shipping containers closes the distance between us. “I have to go, Mom, but I’m okay. Really. I’ll call you from Bimini. Ich liebe dich.”
I slip the phone into the pocket of my shorts, feeling it vibrate with an incoming call as I hug the edge of the channel near the breakwater. Mom is probably calling back to talk some sense into me, and I suspect my phone will silently blow up until I lose the signal. But I can’t worry about that when there’s an enormous ship bearing down on me.
The freighter rumbles past, gulls wheeling and squabbling over the fish churned up in its wake. Sport fishers speed past. Other sailboats. The high-rise skyline of Fort Lauderdale recedes, and the sapphire Atlantic stretches off toward the horizon. The sea is languid, and the air is light.
It’s a perfect day for running away from home.
Half a mile offshore, I turn the boat into the wind and put the engine in neutral. The mainsail raises easily enough, fluttering as it catches the breeze, but I’m not entirely sure the sail is all the way up the mast. Even after the jib is unfurled and the sails are trimmed, I don’t know if I’ve done everything correctly. But the boat is moving in the proper direction. It’s not on a collision course with any other vessel. Nothing is broken. I consider it a victory as I shut off the engine and settle back against a cushion for the six-hour sail to Miami.
These waters aren’t completely unfamiliar. Ben and I once sailed to Miami and anchored for the night in the old marine stadium basin. Another time we spent the weekend at Biscayne National Park. Sailing to the Bahamas was going to be our first test to see if we could survive long-term living on a thirty-seven-foot boat. It seemed big until I went aboard the first time and saw that it was like a floating tiny house. Could Ben and I have managed living on top of each other? Would our relationship have lasted? The never-knowing is lodged in my heart like a stone, a constant dull ache that throbs during moments like these, when I wonder what our future might have been.