Changing Tides

The tides were changing, sending whitecaps careening across the ocean with the ferocious intensity of the little sailboat churning within them. The rain had begun to fall less than an hour before, first a steady shower, then a furious drenching, the surface of the water boiling beneath its punishment. A twelve-foot wave reached over the bow of the boat, its sharp claws slicing into the lines reaching up to the mast and throwing the young man clinging desperately to one onto the deck.

The wave threw him against the railing, the ringing impact on the metal vibrating through his head. Once the water withdrew, he flicked his dark hair out of his eyes, staggering to his feet with one steadying hand gripping the rail. Most lines held, but one. On the legs of a newborn fawn, he crossed the deck and reached for the line flailing in the wind, barely grabbing it before the boat pitched again. Eyes shut, he gripped until nautical rope burned his hands raw, spittle flying from between his clenched, bared teeth with each breath. Even if he could get his footing, he held a line whose job he couldn’t fathom. 

“Andrew, get your head back in it!” The storm almost carried away his father’s snarling voice, but he clung on to the reminder that he was not alone and pulled the line taut. Once it was secure again, he dragged himself hand over hand by the railing toward the helm, slashing salt water from his stinging eyes with the back of his soaked hand. Over and over in his head, he repeated the comforting words that this was no ship-smasher. They had nothing to fear from this storm, so long as they made pains to take care of their little vessel. Knowing when and how much to draw the sails in and out escaped him like the lunch he had lost over the side when they first set sail.

Putting all his weight into the wheel, his father singlehandedly fought the oceans’ influence on their light vessel. Their trajectory placed them only a few miles from shore, and they had been on an easy course in that direction until the storm sprung to life. The ocean had met her match in this devil of a man, though, and Andrew grinned despite it all. “Rigging is secure!” he shouted, stumbling into the sprayhood with a grunt.

“No, it ain’t!” His father fixed the full force of a seaman’s excitement onto his son, that strange light that appeared in his eyes when a challenge came before him sparking to life with frenzy. Nearly every voyage, no matter the condition of the sea, ignited that fury, as if the challenge of operating at the mercy of nature’s unforgiving dominance for this long satisfied his every desire. “If this wind gets any stronger, we’re going to have to bring her in even more! You have to adapt to the ocean! I taught you this!”

His father told him the proper way to steer a boat, particularly through a storm, as they sat in their living room on Sunday afternoons. “The sails force the control out of our hands and give it to the wind where it rightfully belongs. The water will tell you what you need to do and when.” Naturally, Andrew never received a single bit of instruction on how much wind the sails could take from the water. All it had ever given him was wet, cold clothes and anxiety.

Putting out of his mind the throbbing from the impact with the metal railing, Andrew bit his tongue and looked out over the pulpit. Straight ahead, they plowed head-first into the gray abyss stretching into the horizon, the wind driving them on at least thirty knots. No sign of the land they had caught a brief glimpse of just before the rain broadsided them, nor the birds that had come to greet them. They should have been able to see the beam from the Loggerhead Lighthouse by this point, especially with such low light. The angelic beacon never broke out of the never-ending wall of rain, Only a roiling wasteland spread out before them.

“Go below and check the radar!” The compass next to the helm had been spinning for a while. They could have been parallel to the coast, for all they knew, but his father had insisted that trying to stop their forward momentum would have ripped the boat apart. They needed to move with the waves if they wanted to salvage the boat’s working parts. Andrew had allowed that argument to sit, entirely lacking any kind of alternative.

“I can’t leave you up here alone!” The sky lit up as a lightning bolt spread through the clouds above. The old man’s outline, with his poncho billowing behind him, looked like the silhouette of an old captain bringing his crew through yet another storm. Andrew wondered if it was ever smart for a pair to come out here all by themselves, telling no authorities, because the sailors from back in the day didn’t need the Coast Guard’s “permission” to explore the open water.

“You’ll do as I say, boy!” he yelled, nearly dropping to the ground when the wheel jerked downward. “We need that heading, and I don’t think you’ll be taking this wheel anytime soon! Get down there!”

The boat lurched, throwing him into the wheel and Andrew across the deck and down the stairs into the cabin. His back slammed into the cabinets under the sink, rattling his skull. The boat tilted even more, rolling him across the floor into the cushioned seat along the wall. And to complete the punishment, the plastic cups and plates in the upper cabinets flew from their shelves and directly onto him. He threw them aside with his arm, scrambling for a hold of the seats as water rushed into the cabin. Once he sputtered out his mouthful, he screamed to the ceiling. 

After their last voyage offshore, he had said no more. He vowed he would never be persuaded to get back on this boat again. His father boasted all the skills of a former troller and the confidence to go along with thirty years on the water, but his instincts couldn’t keep up with the devastating power of the water itself. After about a year of dodging his father’s persistent attempts to pull him back onto the boat for an extended trip, the final straw that broke the camel's back landed with the words, “Hesitation only delays the inevitable. Your blood sings with the sea, as mine does, and your only path to fulfillment is behind those sails.” The hidden accusation–the cowardice behind his refusal to accept his fate–struck him like the all-familiar fist that never accepted “no.” His joy in the salty spray and whistling breeze over the calm rolling sea was replaced with duty. 

One lesson stuck with him like a barnacle. A sailor’s duty was always to their captain.

With the water sloshing around his shins, he leaned against the wall where the momentum of the boat had him pinned and trudged back toward the stairs. After fighting through the waterfall, the helm slowly crawled into view, empty and spinning wildly in several directions. Heart pounding, he looked around the deck. Then he heard the yelling.

“Andrew!”

Once more, the wind carried any sound far out across the water, dispersing it in several different directions. But the urgency, the break in the word, and the fear hit him plain as a slap across the face, and he flopped out onto the deck. He only slid a little bit when a hand grabbed his shirt, pulling him back toward the middle of the boat. 

“Boy, let me see your face!”

As far as he could tell, there wasn’t anything particularly wrong with it, but his head still spun from his trip down the stairs, and the water had numbed him mostly across. The pair of hands on his cheeks gave him no choice, though, and he froze when he saw the furrow of concern on his father’s face.

“We haven’t got the time to loiter. What’dya feel?”

“Beached.”

“Good enough. Haul up!”

The older man tucked him into the archway leading down into the cabin, then brought the sails down one last notch, sheathing them entirely. “That’s enough for one day,” he said as they ducked below, closing the hatch.

The storm took a breath, releasing the little sailboat from its tight grip. If they were in any rush to leave the water and return to shore, they were free to open the sails back up and press on until they reached their destination. Andrew waited for his father to leave, but he never did. They sat in silence for a time, listening to the whistling wind against the windows, then he began to fix them both a meal. And he talked, explaining the first time he had ever been caught in a storm like this. His grandfather had assured him that there was no true danger, that a vessel as well cared-for as theirs was stable enough to stay afloat from being bobbed around just a little, but he had been sure they would capsize, and the sails would drag him to the bottom of the sea as they sank. They had come out of that storm without a scratch.

“Miranda’s feeling a little worse for wear, I think,” he continued around their bowls of soup, looking out the window as the hull creaked with another crest. Then he looked at Andrew, the bruise forming on his cheek, and his jaw ground. “A boat’s a reflection of her crew, but mostly her captain. She could’ve weathered a bit better.”

Andrew shook his head around a spoonful. “I think she did all right.”

He never realized his father’s eyes creased when he smiled.

By the time they reached the little mooring town, the sun was setting, the dissipating clouds casting bring oranges and pinks throughout. They pulled into the dock, both men working together to tack her off and secure her up. When the boat finally settled beneath the shelter, out of the rain and wind, they examined her closely. 

“She took a beating.” The older man stood on the wooden dock, arms crossed and lips pursed.

The mainstay had taken severe damage, strained beneath the force of the wind as it dragged the boat through the water. One of the lines was snapped completely, and the railing toward the bow was bent. They hadn’t even inspected her hull for water intake. 

“We’re all right.” Andrew propped a boot on the railing, scanning over her with a frown of concentration, and he missed the warm smile beaming into the side of his head.