Page 81 of If All Else Sails
“Are you going to do this the whole time?” he asks.
“What—be utterly charming and fun? Or pepper every conversation with sailing terms even if I’m using them incorrectly?”
“Both.”
“Probably.”
“Fine,” he says. “Now pull in the bumpers.”
And...we’re off.
The fog burns off quickly, and things are uneventful for the first hour. And according to Wyatt, uneventful on a boat is good.
We reach the Chesapeake Bay where we’ll switch from the engine to sails—just as we’ve done almost daily for the last ten days. Now, though, adrenaline and anxiety twist in my gut. Because this is it. Not practice. The real thing.
Wyatt and me on the not-so-open seas. I swallow and squeeze my hands into fists.
“Josie?”
I glance over at Wyatt. “Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Totally.”
He watches me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to confess the truth. Which is that I’m honestly trying not to freak out. I must convince him because Wyatt gives me a brisk nod and moves on.
“Take the wheel,” he orders.
Instantly, nerves flutter in my stomach.
But I fight them off by giving them the coldest of cold shoulders.Nerves? What nerves?Setting Jib down from her perch on my lap, I stride over to the wheel with all the faux confidence I can muster.
No biggie. I can steer a ship. Boat. Whatever.
I’ve steered before during our practice sails, but even so, I don’t know how many times it would take for me to feel at ease.
How many years of sailing does it take to do all this with Wyatt’s confidence?
I watch him move around the deck, tying and untying and fastening and doing all the things needed to switch from motor to sail. Some of the steps I remember; some I don’t. Mentally, I go over various boat terms like I’m giving myself a pop quiz. Mainsail, headsail (or jib), cleat, sheet.
And if, while doing so, I happen to admire Wyatt’s effortless movements around the boat, not a single person could blame me. I find my brain zipping from sailing parts to muscle groups as Wyatt’s strain against his T-shirt: trapezius, deltoids, triceps, latissimus dorsi.
If there were a combo quiz on sailing and men’s muscle groups, I’d get an A plus.
It’s also great to see him fully mobile with hardly a limp. His progress—once he decided to actually make progress—was impressive. He has an orthotic insert inside his shoe to support the arch, but you’d never know from looking that he’s a few months out from a serious injury.
“Watch the markers,” Wyatt says sharply, and I realize that while watching the sails and the man raising them, my attention drifted from my one task.
I reorient myself, glancing quickly at the screen a few feet away that shows our speed (four knots) and our direction (southeast). Then I glance out at the water, seeking out channel markers.
“Red, right, returning,” I mutter. I remember the phrase, but at the moment, it confuses me.
We’re not returning. So red shouldn’t be on my right—right? Green. I want green on my right.
“Let me.” Wyatt is suddenly beside me, his voice tight as he uses his shoulder to nudge me aside and takes the wheel.
I stand there for a long moment, feeling the sharp sting of embarrassment as Wyatt cuts the boat sharply to the left. A gull glides overhead, laughing.
