Emma nods. “Admirable, but you still haven't said what you like about him.”
She's waiting for an answer. I say, “Everyone wants to be with Ty.”
“And he's good to you?”
I look at her. “Of course he's good to me.”
She says, “When I was sixteen, when I left my mother's, I went to my boyfriend's place. He always had lots of people around him too. One night he got drunk, more drunk than usual, and shattered my cheek.”
“Nice. Sounds like a real winner.”
“Well that's the thing, isn't it? Based on what my mother dragged home, I thought he was. Took me a while to see that I could do better.”
Emma's looking at me, hard. I say, “What has this got to do with Ty? Just because the guy doesn't write me means that he's going to smash my face? Or has my mother been talking to you?”
“Your mother doesn't talk about Ty.” Emma pauses. “It's more what I see in your eyes when we talk about Ty. It's like looking in the mirror.”
Now I roll my eyes. “Right.”
Emma scoops up the kitten and sets it on my shoulder. “But if you say that Ty is good for you, then I'll believe you.”
The boat tips gently and I hear Mac's footsteps on the deck. He appears at the top of the stairs, a lidded plastic container under one arm, a net sack of lemons in his other hand. He grins at me and says, “Hey, Lib. What should I toss you, the lemons or the kitty litter?” He feigns a throw with the plastic bin, then passes me down the lemons. “All set over on
Mistaya
?”
“I guess.” Duncan let Mom name the boat.
Mistaya
. Apparently it means
little bear
. I think it means
big mistake
. Still, I'll take
Mistaya
over the name on this boat:
Pandanus
. Emma says she doesn't name them, just delivers them. I take the lemons from Mac, set them on the counter, then the plastic bin. Examining it, I say, “This looks like regular sand.”
Mac climbs down the stairs, his bare feet treading lightly on the polished wood. Mac is hardly taller than Emma and me, slim but well built, and his hair, even plastered with sweat, sticks out from his cap in blonde spikes. His grin gleams white against the tan of his face. “Not just any sand, I'll have you know. It's Sheraton beach sand, carefully screened to remove twigs or pebbles that might irritate the rich clientele. Or Princess Fanny.” He strokes the kitten's forehead. To Emma he says, “I checked for cockroach stowaways.”
Emma grimaces. “Keep the lid on, anyway.”
Mac wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. Under his arms, the shirt is marked in half-circles of wetness.
But he doesn't stink, Mac; I detect just a faint scent of salt and sun as he leans close to me to pat the kitten. At twenty-four, he's too old for me, but he's nice to look at. He catches my eye and winks. “Pre-passage bash here at sundown. I'll save you a spot by me.”
And a mind reader, apparently. I will myself not to blush as I hand him the kitten.
Emma jabs him in the ribs. “Chasing fourteen-year-old girls? Are you adding âpervert' to your criminal repertoire now?”
Mac pretends to be hurt. “I've rarely, if ever, broken the law.” He adds, “And got caught, that is.”
I never know how serious Mac is being. Most of his so-called crimes seem to be fairly regular exploits, like when he was younger, downhill-racing in shopping carts. In Australia, I've seen him surf when there were sharks. No one else was anywhere near the water, not me, that's for sure. I don't even like wading in the sea. Swimming pools are bad enough, but at least in a pool you can see the bottom. Mac is fearless. In the towns we've been to, Mac explores the darkest lanes. He says that in hot countries, the shadows are the best places. Once, he took Emma and me into a tiny place, no tables, just a packed-earth floor, so dark I stumbled over my feet. We leaned against the plank bar and shared stewed lamb from a blackened terracotta pot, dipping bits of golden flat bread into a fiery broth of garlic and cumin that made sweat break out on my forehead. The proprietor gave us cans of warm Fanta soda, sliding careful glances over Emma and me before averting his eyes.
We always cover up before going into town, even our hair. But our eyes and fair skin are fascinating. I've stopped telling Mom where I go when I'm with Mac and Emma. I've stopped telling her much at all.
Mac hands me three lemons as I climb up the stairs. “Tell your mother I'm fond of lemon pie.”
O
N
M
ISTAYA
, M
OM IS UP
to her elbows, literally, in an immense pot of lasagna noodles. She always cooks for an army before we head out on passage so that she doesn't have to go near the galley for the first few days at sea. Mom gets seasick, Duncan too, although at least he can eat. I could cook, but they wouldn't like what I prepare, and with the motion of the boat, I might make a mess or spill boiling hot liquid onto myself. It doesn't matter. I'll eat the lasagna.
Duncan pulls his head from the engine compartment, wipes his hands on a paper towel and makes a note on a clipboard. To Mom he says, “Oil level is good.” She murmurs
“uh-huh,” which is the extent of her interest in diesel engines. Duncan latches the lid to the engine compartment, then leans down to check the battery indicator. He's reminded me about nine hundred times: Always start the engine with one battery bank, let it recharge, then switch to the “house” bank to run lights, the refrigerator, and the electronics. That way you always have power to start the engine. No engine, no way to recharge the batteries. I'm not stupid, Duncan. Even on days with good wind, we always run the engine a while to recharge the batteries. And there are lots of days with no wind, or wind right on the nose, so that we run the engine just to get where we're going. Some purists sail without an engine at all. Duncan sees me and says, “Lib, can you mark off the list of spare parts as I call them out to you.” It's not a question, and he hands me the clipboard. It's like a ritual with him, all this pre-passage engine checking, like a dog turning around three times before it goes to bed. I perch on the edge of the dining bench as Duncan lifts the lid to the locker. Inside, neatly labeled, is an array of brown boxes, zipper bags and bubble-wrapped lumps of machinery. I know it's all there. So does he. But we go through the exercise all the same. I show him the list, completely checked off, and he smiles, satisfied. “Check the go-bag, then, will you.”
The red go-bag is a special waterproof vinyl bag strapped tight against the companionway. Basically, it's what you take to the lifeboat if your boat is sinking. It's a sacred pack of survival water, food and equipment, and we never use any of it, ever. I'm checking it now not to see that everything is there, because it is, but just to make sure the batteries
are still good in the packages, that nothing has corroded or gone past its expiry date. Before each trip, either Duncan or I check the bag. Mom doesn't like to be reminded of the possibility of disaster.
It's heavy. I take the bag to the dining table and carefully unpack it. I know the contents off by heart, right down to the antibiotic capsules and the playing cards. Everything is double-bagged to keep it dry. In the bottom of the bag, my hand pauses on a photograph, also double-bagged, so that the image is shrouded under the layers of plastic. The photo is of Mom, Duncan and me, standing in front of the house not long before we left. The maple tree behind us is brilliant red, and there are leaves on the lawn. Duncan has his arm on Mom's shoulders and they're smiling. I'm standing with them, but not touching them. I'm looking somewhere different altogether, as if there are two people taking the picture, and they're looking at one person, me at the other. I don't remember, maybe that was the case. It's not a particularly happy photo, but I guess Mom didn't have a better one to put in. It's not like we were together often, the three of us. Or maybe Duncan put it in so that our bodies could be identified. I repack the bag, close it properly and fasten it in its place.
Duncan pours a glass of juice, hands it to me and pours another for himself. “The weather looks good, really, just a weak low-pressure area to watch, but we should easily beat it. It's the best forecast we're likely to get in this sea.” He sips his juice. “So long as the forecast doesn't change, we'll get away in good time tomorrow.”
I say, “I have to go into town again.” I catch a look that darts between Mom and Duncan. “To mail schoolwork.”
“You didn't do that today?” Mom's eyebrows are arched. She knows the answer, but still, she seems to feel the need to say, “You were to do that today.”
“I have to finish one assignment. No point mailing part of an assignment. The stupid teacher will lose it and I won't get any credit.”
“And you'd never lose it.” Mom snaps a plastic lid onto a lasagna container. “I can't believe you didn't mail that stuff.”
Duncan is quiet, placating. “You won't have time to go into town tomorrow, Lib. We're leaving.”
I set my glass down, hard. “How many times have you told me that we're leaving? How many times have we dashed around like fools getting ready, only to sit around in port another week because the weather changed?”
Duncan says nothing, but a tiny muscle in his cheek clenches and unclenches. Mom says, “Don't try to deflect this. You didn't get the work done that you should have. It's that simple.”
“I hate it when you say âit's that simple.' Nothing is âthat simple.' I have to go into town. I'll be fast. Stop making such a case.”
Mom slams down a plastic container of lasagna. “What are you really going into town for? To check your e-mail? To see if Ty has finally written you?”
I hate her now, I can't help it. Red-hot tears sting my eyes
She continues, “When are you finally going to give up on that boy?”
Duncan steps in front of my mother. “Enough, Janine.”
“I've got school to do.” I toss my mother a look of pure hatred. “And I don't need
you,”
I say, turning on Duncan, “to protect me from
her.”
I unlatch my cabin door and bang it closed behind me.
“
I DIDN'T MAKE
a meringue because of the raw egg whites, even though the chance of salmonella is small; still, I wouldn't risk it, not before a passage.” Mom's voice is singsong happy as she climbs under the cockpit awning, brandishing a lemon pie. “But we can top it with this,” she says, waving a can of whipped cream with her other hand.
The others ooh and aah at the treat of a pie. Everyone has brought something to share, a potluck. So far I've seen chicken satays, a rice dish with nuts and a green bean salad. Emma and Mac contributed a loaf of golden-crusted herb bread that they baked in our oven, since Mom was already heating our boat to a zillion degrees with her lasagna. Mom hands Mac the pie like it's an offering.
He takes it, inhales the scent of lemon and sugar, and sighs. “You're an angel, Janine. An absolute angel.”
She actually blushes. Has my mother no shame? To Emma I roll my eyes and she laughs. She says, “Can I get you two something to drink? Most everyone is just on juice and sodas tonight. Duncan?”
Duncan finally finds his way past my mother and her pie and takes a seat in the cockpit, as far from the kitten as he can get. Fanny winds herself through all the legs in the cockpit, mewing for treats. Emma hands Duncan a glass
of juice. My can of Coke is just half-gone and already it's starting to taste warm. I slip past Emma through the companionway and down into their boat.
Emma has candles lit on the table and counters. She does this to save battery power, but the tiny flames soften the cabin and make for a cozy, inviting atmosphere. Mom won't have candles on
Mistaya
because she's afraid they might start a fire. Emma says candlelight attracts angels. Fanny has followed me to the top of the stairs and sits watching me. I break off a bit of chicken from one of the satays and toss it to her. She snags it and gulps it down. Once a street cat, always a street cat. Tonight I have to rummage in a locker for a bottle. The first I reach is Mac's scotch. He drinks his scotch neat, in a tiny glass. To mix it, even with ice, he says, is an abomination. I tip the bottle into my Coke can and listen to the glugs as it fills the can. I replace the bottle in the locker, throw the rest of the satay to the kitten and rejoin the others in the cockpit.
It's cooler now that the sun has set. The others are hunched over their laps with plates of food, the women clucking among themselves about their provisions for the passage, the men and Emma studying Emma's chart on the cockpit table.
Mac has probably sailed as many sea miles as Emma. They both used to crew on race boats, and they started their delivery business together. Still, Emma is the captain, and Mac seems content with his secondary role. Emma told me that the first thing she did after leaving home was to get Mac out of there too. She said her mother put up more of
a fight over Mac. Of the boats gathered to sail the Red Sea tomorrow, Emma is the unspoken leader.
Emma indicates with her finger the fine pencil line on the chart, our proposed course for the passage. She had me calculate it today, taking into account dangerous reefs in the Strait of Lamentations, aptly named from my way of thinking. Some boats take several stops along the coast but we're sailing well offshore, the first of two passages to make the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean. Emma points to an area just off the penciled line. “There's potential trouble here,” she says, tapping the chart. My mother glances up from her conversation with the women, her eyebrows suddenly creased. Emma sees this too and adds, “I mean the weather, from the low-pressure center. It seems to be stable, but we'll have to watch it. The weather can change so fast in this area.”