Float Plan(35)

“If we leave now, the crossing is going to be brutal,” Keane continues. “Under the best of circumstances, this is the kind of trip that can wear down your soul. In weather like this, you’ll feel as though you’ve sold it to the devil.”

“Do you have enough money to stay?” I say. “Because if I’m going to make it to Trinidad and get back home, I need to be more careful.”

“I could pay it,” he says. “But it would be dear to me, as well.”

“I’m scared of the weather.”

“Then let’s wait,” Keane says. “We’ll divide the cost and stay until we get a window.”

Queenie jumps up on the cockpit bench and turns her soulful eyes on him. He makes her give him a high five—a work in progress—before giving her a bit of lobster. He looks at me. “What do you think?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you think I can handle the crossing?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even consider. “Yes.”

“So let’s go,” I say. “We’re ready. Let’s go now.”

Like the good surrogate mother she’s become, Corrine tries to talk us out of leaving. Gordon listens to the weather forecast and quietly suggests we wait, but says that if we’re determined to go, we should sail as far as Big Sand Cay and anchor for the night.

“Take it in pieces,” he says. “It’ll be a bumpy sleep, but it will give you a chance to rest.”

Corrine gives us double-bagged loaves of mango bread. Gordon gifts us with a pair of ten-gallon jerricans filled with fuel and warns us to turn back if conditions become unmanageable. The dark green band of precipitation on the TV weather forecast doesn’t look manageable to me, but Keane doesn’t seem worried. He lashes the fuel cans to the deck and deflates the dinghy. With a knot of doubt settled heavy in my stomach, we motor away from Providenciales.

Waves rise and fall behind us, obscuring and revealing the island as it recedes. We are quiet and my stomach churns mutinously. I have never suffered from anything more than minor nausea since I first started sailing with Ben, but now I’m overtaken by seasickness and salty saliva fills my mouth. I white-knuckle the lifeline, hurling the contents of my stomach into the sea. I heave until I’m empty, and heave some more, my throat burning and my nostrils stinging. The thought of spending three more days in these conditions makes me cry.

“Are you okay?” Keane asks when I sit back down in the cockpit.

“No.” My mouth tastes sour with vomit.

“Do you want to go back?”

There is nothing on earth I would like more than to turn this boat around and return to Providenciales, but sailing was what I signed on for when I took Ben’s boat. I struck a bargain with Keane to help me, not do all the work for me. Still, it’s tempting to go back. Skip the crossing entirely. “No.”

We take turns on the tiller, giving each other breaks for food and the bathroom, and to check on Queenie. Keane rigged up a little nest for her in the alcove beneath the V-berth. We don’t talk much and nearly everything I eat comes back up, leaving me hungry and miserable for the eleven hours it takes to reach Big Sand Cay.

The deserted island of sand provides scant protection from the wind and waves. Queenie bravely pees in the cockpit, but I feel guilty for putting her through this and wish we’d never taken her from Provo. I try to play ball with her in the cabin, but the pain medication for her stitches wears her out, so I bring her into bed with me for the night, hoping I don’t puke all over her.

Keane gives me the first watch the next morning, but the sky is so thick with gray that there is little difference from night. Lightning crackles along the horizon as he carries Queenie down into the cabin, leaving me alone on deck. The waves are the largest I’ve ever encountered—six-foot swells we endlessly dip and climb, dip and climb. I don my harness, clip myself to the jack lines, and stare at the horizon as my stomach churns, trying to keep from throwing up. A losing battle.

Keane brings me a pair of seasickness tablets, which come up before they’ve even had a chance to go down. He brings me two more, along with a gallon of Gatorade that I sip while my fingertips shred inside his sailing gloves. The muscles in my arms grow sore as I fight to keep the boat on course. There is no pleasure for me in this kind of sailing and no lies that will trick my brain into believing otherwise. This is miserable and painful, and when Keane comes on deck for his turn at the helm, I am overjoyed my watch has ended. He, on the other hand, is cheerful. Ready to do battle with the ocean, to do this sport he loves.

With Queenie’s muzzle resting on my thigh, I sit in the warm, dry cabin and dab antibiotic gel on my blisters and wrap my fingers in gauze. After a week of real meals, a cup of noodles feels like shabby fare. My stomach is concave with hunger. After I’ve eaten, I play tug-of-war with Queenie using one of Keane’s old T-shirts tied into knots. Then I take her up into the V-berth, where we fall asleep.



* * *



“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask Keane as I hand him the Captain America mug filled with coffee. It’s become his mug of choice and seeing him use it doesn’t bother me anymore. He stood a double watch—eight hours straight—while I slept. Behind Keane, a wave looms, almost as tall as him, and I have to look away to keep my stomach from lurching. Over and over we are scooped up by the waves and lifted to the crest, before we slide back down into the trough. It’s a slow, relentless roller-coaster ride.