Page 61 of Is This for Real?
“I’ve taken photographs of you.”
“That doesn’t count,” he says.
If we were dating, I’d give him a frame with the picture Zelda took of us—the one where I’m looking at him with all my heart.
“Well, now I know what to get you for Christmas. I’ll draw a picture of you.” I stand to go back to the boat.
We get back into the boat and sail around the islands, then head toward shore, with me steering. The tiller suddenly feels looser in my hand, like it’s not responding to my shifts in direction.
I push the tiller up. Nothing.
I push the tiller down. Again, the boat doesn't change direction.
The tiller isn’t attached to the rudder.
“Luff the sail,” I yell. I slide down the stern toward the tiller. The screw connecting the tiller to the rudder is gone. The rudder is locked into place on the boat, but the tiller is not attached, so we can’t steer. Rory has luffed the sail, so the boat is facing into the wind and not moving.
There’s nothing to fix it with in the Sunfish—no spare parts.
We look at each other in dismay.
“We could paddle,” Rory says. He does go surfing with Jake.
That’s definitely not going to be fun. We’re in the middle of the bay, only halfway to shore. And I’m not even sure it will work.
My arms and back are still sore from carrying my suitcase for two miles. And we’re cleaning the whole top floor of the house tomorrow. I look at him bleakly. I did seek to summon a fairy godmother of disasters, but this is going too far.
The boat jerks. Our daggerboard has hit sand. Rory lifts it up quickly, as our rudder pops up.
“Or ask a motorboat for help?” I ask. But no motorboats are around on this gray day.
“Okay, let’s paddle.” We take down the sail and lay it on the boat in between us. Then we lie down next to each other. We’re shoulder to shoulder, and our hands are touching as we each grip the boat handle to hold on while we paddle with the other hand. Rory is stronger than me, so the boat turns to his side.
“This is not working.” He sits up. “Let’s take turns paddling. I’ll go first.”
I sit back in the cockpit while he goes out on the bow and paddles with both arms as if the boat was a surfboard. We inch forward.
We need another solution. Think, think. My bathing suit top has wire in it, but I don’t think it’s flexible enough to use to attach the rudder to the tiller. Plus, I can't actually strip in the middle of the bay. I’ve got elastic in my bikini bottom and then I have my wetsuit on. That’s it. I push back some stray hair that’s escaped from my ponytail. “Or I could try to use my hair elastic as the screw to reattach it. Like a piece of string.”
Rory gives me this look—like I’ve just impressed the heck out of him. I feel this warm burst of pride. I hope it works.
He paddles us several feet to a shallow part of the bay where we can stand. We both jump out. He holds the boat still while I thread my hair elastic through the holes formerly occupied by the screw. And then tie it into a knot. It just might hold long enough. We raise the sail. He pulls the boat toward deeper water. I pop the rudder back down and clamber back into the cockpit.
He jumps back in. The boat picks up speed, and we are back on our way, sailing toward the sandy shore.
“It’s working,” I say. “It’s responding to me, enough anyway.”
I sail us right onto the shore. We hit land hard and jump out. He high-fives me.
“I can’t believe you thought of that,” he says.
“Desperation. My muscles still hurt from carrying our bags and cleaning. I really didn’t want to paddle to shore.”
We load the boat into a carrier and wheel it up to the house, then lift it and slide it in its storage space under the house. I take a picture of the rudder and tiller. I’ll stop by the marine store in Manhattan—in the spring—and see if they carry the missing screw part.
“Don’t you need to write?” he asks.
“I do. Do you mind?”
