I know it down to my bones.
I make a valiant effort anyway, refusing — even in those final moments of calm — to believe I am in any real danger. But as I point my bow north, toward home, the wind builds behind me like a wild thing at my back, growling with a menace that makes me nervous. Loosed strands from my ponytail whip into my face. I ignore the annoying flutter of tendrils, keeping my focus on the helm in my hand, the firm bench-seat beneath me.
No need to worry.
It’s probably just a passing shower.
Steady gusts fill the sails to capacity and Cupid responds, picking up speed in accordance with the wind. The boat begins to heel, the opposite rail skimming the water as we fly over the rolling waves. She’s never gone this fast before — we must be clocking speeds of nearly ten knots. It would be exhilarating if it weren’t so terrifying.
Waves materialize out of nowhere, rolling swells that surge beneath the hull at a velocity that makes the rudder difficult to hold steady. The tiller shudders in my grip. My teeth clench together as I struggle to keep us on course.
Overhead, the sky grows taut with electricity, a rubber band stretched to capacity. A snap is imminent. I try very hard not to think about my mast sticking up into the sky, the only lightning rod around for miles.
Don’t panic.
It’ll pass.
Except… it’s not passing.
It’s intensifying.
The rain turns on as if by faucet — absent one minute, immeasurable the next. Fat raindrops plummet from the clouds in a thick curtain. They pelt the water’s surface like machine-gun spray; patter so hard against the wood decking, they sound more like a tropical waterfall than normal precipitation. Within seconds I’m thoroughly soaked, my paper-thin sundress plastered to my body like a second skin. I wipe a hand over my face, clearing droplets from my eyelashes as I strain to keep my line of sight fixed toward land. Despite the rapidly darkening sky, I can still pick out the distinct bend of Beverly in the distance.
In the very distant distance.
I never should’ve sailed so far out. Not alone, and definitely not without a fully charged radio. I can’t even recall the last time I plugged it in. When I reach into the storage cubby beneath my seat and retrieve it, a flutter of nervous butterflies erupt in my stomach. The power-indicator light is flashing. There’s barely any juice — maybe enough for a single transmission. I’ll have to save it for if things get really dicey.
Not yet.
I’m still okay.
I’m still in control.
I can still make it home.
My stubborn self-assurances fragment and fall away as the typhoon gains strength. Alarm bells begin to blare full-force inside me as I realize the boat is taking on water. It streams in from all sides, sloshing around my ankles with cold promise. Between the driving rain and the frothing spray off each swell, Cupid’s built-in drainage scuppers can’t keep up with the steady onslaught.
Still, the thought that I might capsize — or actually sink — seems absurd. How could I possibly sink five miles from home, in waters I’ve sailed a thousand times?
Impossible.
And yet…
The boat’s incline worsens until I’m struggling to keep my seat. The opposite rail is practically submerged, the ocean a hairsbreadth from spilling inside the cockpit. I prop my sandaled feet against the opposite seat to steady myself. They’re slippery against the rain-drenched fiberglass. My breaths are coming quickly now, sharp puffs of panic, even as I assure myself there’s no way we’ll flip. The Alerion 20 has a full-keel design, making it almost impossible to topple.
Somehow, in this moment, that knowledge does little to soothe me.
I let out the main sheet to allow some wind to spill from the sail, de-powering enough to flatten out the boat. The starboard rail recedes fractionally from the water. But no amount of trim adjustments can compensate for gale-force winds — they shove us forward at breakneck speed, relentless and ever-shifting.
My palms are clammy with fear and cold as I feel around in the storage cubby once more, groping one-handed in the dark for the fluorescent orange life-jacket stored there. A small, water-activated emergency strobe light is attached to the collar — one of those gratuitous features you roll your eyes at in the nautical equipment store, confident you’ll never use such a thing.
That confidence is shaky now.
I can’t take my other hand off the tiller long enough to fasten the lifejacket straps properly, so I simply pull it on over my drenched sundress. I know it’s meant to make me feel more secure, but it does the opposite. The thick padding settles around my shoulders, surrounds my throat like a set of hands squeezing the air from my lungs. Suffocating me.
In the back of my mind, over the din of my hyperventilation, I’m able to recognize the fact that I’m beginning to panic. With effort, I struggle to regulate my breathing.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
And again.
But no amount of deep breathing is enough to keep me calm when, mere seconds later, the first bolt of lightning flashes across the sky. The air catches in my throat as undiluted fear hijacks my nervous system. My eyes press closed involuntarily, waiting for the answering call of thunder. I flinch when it arrives.
Boom.
The radio is poised at my mouth even before the rumbles fall silent. I make sure it’s set to Channel 16, the frequency for distress, and pray there’s enough power left to send out a call. My thumb presses the side button as I relay a series of words I never thought I’d utter in a shaking voice that sounds nothing like my own.
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! This is the sailboat Cupid, out of Manchester-by-the-Sea.” I suck in a sharp breath. “We are taking on water in a storm, just south of the Misery Islands. Require immediate assistance—”
There’s a sharp beep as the radio dies in my hands. I swallow down a frustrated scream as I twist the power switch on and off several times, only to be met with a blank gray screen.
God damnit.
I have no way of knowing whether or not anyone heard my call. Whether they’ll come to my aid, even if they did hear it. The muffled drone of distant fog horns reaches my ears every few moments — a sign I am not the only one blindly navigating through this unforeseen tempest — but it’s impossible to pinpoint the origin. Those other boats could be ten meters or ten miles from me.
I’m on my own.
EIGHT
archer
Jamming my finger against my cellphone screen, I send Tomlinson’s call straight to voicemail. I’m not in the mood for another guilt trip about attending his damn barbecue this afternoon. I have a dozen traps left to haul and, from the looks of the clouds gathering on the horizon, not much time left to do it.
Funny — the marine forecast didn’t call for a storm.
The rest of my traps will have to wait until tomorrow. With a sigh, I turn the Ebenezer back toward Gloucester. The faint murmur of the maritime radio provides an almost inaudible backdrop beneath the chugging engine. I put on a little speed as the clouds darken from slate gray to roiling ebony in a remarkably short amount of time, trying to outrun the imminent weather. Off my bow, I spot a handful of speedboats racing for the harbor, throwing frothy wakes into the air behind them.