Rough Sailing

 Nan looked toward the west again, where the clouds seemed to be growing an even darker shade of grey. The waves had picked up too, hitting the side of the small sailboat and splashing over the coaming as it slid down into the waves.

           “Don’t you think?” she asked.

           “No, I don’t think, and I wish to hell you’d let me handle this. Unless you want to be the captain!” Harrison pushed the tiller towards her, hard into her knee, and let out the sheet. She bent down in time to keep the boom from beaning her.

           “Stop it. No. Just get us back.”      

           Harrison told her not to let the jib out, right as a strong gust took it, grabbing the line out of her hands.

           “Damn it!” He pushed the tiller again, heading into the wind as she reached into the sea to get the loose sheet. She nearly fell in when a strong wave hit the opposite side, tipping the heeling boat further. “Hold onto the bloody thing, will you? For Christ’s sake.”

           “The wind, it just took it. It’s really picking up.”

           “Now you’re a weatherman, huh? Just do what I tell you.”

           They were a good six miles out now. Farther than Harrison had intended, but it had been a fine breeze earlier, and he enjoyed Nan’s fear.  

           “We should be heading back. We must be ten miles out.”

           He rolled his eyes saying, “We are heading back and would be there if you would listen.”

           The problem was she had listened. It was going to be a brisk sail on his new boat, a fast one, and fun. Didn’t she want to learn to sail? Wasn’t that part of the attraction? He’d talked about his years on the Hotchkiss sailing team, then Tufts, then a chance at the Olympics. “Almost made it, too. Shortlisted.” Preppy charm had given way to investment banking attitude. He hadn’t sailed in years. Until, one day, late in the season, very late into the season, he decided to get this boat. So late that they were the only ones out there. She’d wanted to learn to sail., She’d taken the course over the summer. She was almost excited to go even after pointing out the red flag at the marina. And she needed to satisfy him, of course. That was more than half of it.

           Nan was right. The wind had picked up. Earlier it was scary, too, but fun as the little boat skidded out from the shore, heeling over, the boom sometimes touching the water. He laughed when she leaned way out, holding on for dear life to the windward side, trying to urge the boat lower. But he just pulled the sail in, bringing the opposite gunwale right to the waterline. She squealed, and he laughed more. “Enough Harry, enough. Please.” He paid no attention to her obvious fear, loving every bit of it.

           It was raining now, the wind stronger. Any pleasure of Harrison’s had given way to edge, that controlling fanaticism, as the waves foamed at their peaks. The swells must have been five, six, feet and the bow slipped under them as they fell into deeper troughs taking on cold seawater. “Bail! Nan. Use the bucket.”

           “Maybe you should slow down a bit. We’d roll over the waves better,” she yelled over the wind.

           “Just do it! I know what I’m doing!”

           Waves were smashing on all sides as the boat got tossed about, Nan’s bailing accomplishing little. She was soaked. They were both soaked and shivering from the cold autumn water and falling air temperature.

           Nan took a moment from bailing to look about, peering in the water, mistaking distant white caps for another boat. A wave hit the leeward side, tumbling her into the water in the bottom of the boat.

           “Wake up!” he yelled, struggling to be heard over the wind, which was whistling through the shrouds straining to hold the mast in place. “What the hell were you doing? 

           “Looking for a boat that could help! Tow us or something.”

           “I got this, goddamn it. Just bail.”

           Harrison was pulling hard on the sheets, trying to bring control the mainsail and head into the wind. He wanted to reef it, taking down the sail area, and maybe gain better control.

           “Take the tiller. Head up, damn it, up!!” he yelled, moving forward.

           “Huh? What do you mean up?” she yelled, pleading now against his nautical terms.

           “Push it away from you until we’re in the goddamn wind, you idiot!!” I want to take some sail down.

           Nan grabbed the tiller from him when they switched position and pushed it away. As the bow swung toward the wind, a big wave hit the side, nearly turning the boat over. Nan had to let go of the jib’s sheet when Harrison fell onto the line. It flapped loudly now that it was loose in the storm—it was a storm, there was no other way to describe it—and Harrison swore at her stupidity. She held the tiller and realized that the boat would move without the sail from the sheer force of the wind on the hull. With it, the wind, behind them on the transom, they might be able to simply head back to shore with the sails down. She said as much and Harrison threw the pail at her telling her to shut up. The pail missed her as it went over the side. “Grab it!!” he yelled, but she had ducked, and it was already behind them and quickly falling away.

           “Pull the tiller. We need that pail. Pull it towards you now!!”

           Nan did as she was ordered, quickly bringing the tiller to her body and holding it against her stomach when the boat’s stern turned into the wind and pushed them on. As they jibed, the wind caught the sail hard, driving the boom across the boat. Nan ducked. Harrison had been moving back, looking the other way to find the pail when the wooden boom hit him on the side of the head and continued to move over towards the starboard side taking him into the water with it.

           Nan screamed when he went in, but she dutifully held the tiller, like he told her to do, as he bobbed behind. He waved, she was sure of it, and tried to swim, as the waves broke over his head. She thought she heard him, telling her to push the tiller away, turn the boat into the wind. That might stop the boat, certainly slow it, she knew. She could do it. She looked back at him, now forty yards behind. Was he trying to swim to her? The waves kept on crashing over him as the wind on the stern and in the flopping sails pushed the little boat on.

           Nan looked at the shore, directly downwind, fighting to hold the tiller straight. She turned around to see if there were other boats out, but she was alone. She looked back again, finally losing sight of Harrison, and surfed the waves until the boat smashed into the rocky shore.

           It took some time for the police to get to their boat and search for Harrison, but they didn’t find anything that day. “We’re so sorry,” said the man in charge. “We’re still looking and alerted the other stations. It’s possible he might have come ashore, you know, what with this current. But without a life preserver, I don’t know what to say. In this storm. I’m so sorry.”

            They told her later the boat was a total loss. She almost smiled but held back.