Furious

by Jeffrey James Higgins

  My skin chilled, despite the warm air. “Won’t the cabin flood and sink us?” My voice sounded raspy.

  “It’s airtight. If we secure it, we may take on a little seawater, but we have pumps and we’ll be fine. That’s not the danger.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound dangerous at all,” I said.

  “The real danger from capsizing is damaging the mast. Dragging a ninety-foot mast through swirling currents causes tremendous pressure. It’s not difficult to snap it off.”

  “You’re scaring me again. How many ways are there to die out here?”

  “Don’t worry, this is an enormous yacht. We would only try that maneuver in hurricane-force winds. I’ll stay on deck and steer us through the peaks. I can also turn into the wind and heave to, which means I backwind the genoa to counteract the main and keep us close to a standstill. I’ve done it before.”

  “You’ve sailed through a monsoon?”

  “I’ve been in the Atlantic during some good blows. None of them as bad as this will be, but I’ve been in strong enough storms to know what I’m doing.”

  “Pirates and monsoons. You planned an interesting trip.”

  “Thanks.” Brad rubbed his temples and grimaced.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’ve never had migraines before this. I took four aspirin, but it’s still brutal.”

  I stared at the clouds in the distance. They looked menacing, as if they possessed evil intent. I bit my nail and shuddered.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The sea air—humid, salty, tangible—infused everything, as if the ocean wrapped us in its arms. Wispy clouds accumulated overhead. Cumulus masses, heavy with moisture, approached our stern, and monstrous cumulonimbus clouds filled the eastern horizon. The intensifying wind drove the swells high around us and the coming storm propelled the yacht across the surface at thirteen knots.

  “The storm looks bad. I decided to heave to the yacht,” Brad said.

  “What do we do?”

  “I’ll lower the sails halfway, backwind the genoa, and use the sea anchor to slow us down and keep from being broadsided. I’ll stay on deck and steer.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “I’ll wear a life vest and keep my safety harness on. We could hunker down inside, but I know you’re scared. Don’t worry. I’ll get us through this.”

  “The size of this storm is amazing. It spans the entire horizon.”

  “Monsoons dominate life in this part of the world.”

  Brad and I donned yellow raincoats, foul weather pants, rubber boots, and safety harnesses. I felt cartoonish, like a child playing dress up, and I would have laughed, if not for my trembling. Brad wanted me to stay below when it hit, which was fine with me, but I also wanted to be ready in case he needed me. I hoped he would not.

  The storm had seemed so far away, but it had moved in fast and was on top of us within two hours. The sky darkened, and the clouds fused into a thick gray blanket. The firmament lowered like it wanted to merge with the briny deep. The heavens opened and rain stung my face and hands. Lightning flashed in the distance, then closer, then all around us. Thick bolts of electricity exploded inside the black cloudscape, stabbing the ocean. Thunder boomed across the surface, loud and terrifying. How could the lightning miss our mast, the highest point for hundreds of miles?

  “What happens if we’re struck by lightning?”

  “The chance of getting hit is less than one-tenth of one percent.”

  “Those are the odds of losing a baby to SUIDS, so you can understand why that doesn’t soothe me.”

  Brad nodded. “The odds do increase when we’re the only boat in sight.”

  “What if a thunderbolt hits us?”

  “Lightning strikes the highest point. We have a lightning rod on top of the mast, which should direct the energy into the water, but a strike could ring our bell a bit.”

  “What’s the worst case?”

  “It could jump from the mast and hit us, stopping our hearts or creating other serious trauma. It could fry all of our electronics. Worst case, it could blow a hole in our hull.”

  I glared at Brad. Was he kidding me with this? The weather was not his fault, but he had not explained the dangers we would face. He had pitched this trip as a getaway from our troubles, but it seemed more perilous with each passing day.

  “Is there anything we can do?” I asked.

  “Go below and stay away from metal surfaces. Unplug all the electronics but keep the AIS alert system on. The storm will reduce visibility to a few yards and if there are any tankers nearby, I want them to see our radar signature.”

  “What if a thunderbolt destroys our radar?”

  “We won’t get hit by lightning.”

  I hurried downstairs and unplugged what I could, but they had built most of the electronics into the bulkheads and I could not disconnect them. The sea raged and our yacht bounced, yawing from side to side like a metronome. I swung from handhold to handhold, propelling myself through the cabin, checking everything. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it back down.

  I climbed on deck and connected my safety strap to the lifeline, my shaking fingers fumbling with the latch. Brad struggled with the wheel, turning us to port, then to starboard, always keeping our bow perpendicular to the waves. Whitecaps foamed atop the surges and we rode down them into deep troughs before climbing the following waves. Our yacht had become a carnival ride and my stomach flipped with every descent. The swells grew—giant hills rolling across the surface—and the rain came harder, pounding in my ears like an oncoming train.

  “Hold on to something. I’m coming about to face the storm.”

  “I’m scared.”

  Brad nodded. He waited for the yacht to break over the next crest. Our bow dipped, and we increased speed as we skidded down the far side of the wave. When we hit the trough, Brad spun the wheel to port, and we came about. For a moment the swell we had just crossed caught us broadside, but our momentum spun us around and we rose to the crest as tons of saltwater passed beneath our hull. We rode down the other side, facing into the wind.

  Brad turned until we were close-hauled, at a forty-five-degree angle to the wind and waves. He furled the mainsail until it was deep-reefed, and the yacht slowed. He reefed the genoa too, backwinded it, and canted the wheel to port to let the contrasting forces cancel each other. The genoa backfilled, arresting our forward momentum, and we hove to. Waves splashed over the bow.

  Brad set the wheel and pulled a sea anchor from a bag. It was a submarine parachute and would keep our bow facing the wind. He took a knee and rubbed his forehead, as if he was in pain.

  “Take the helm, but don’t turn the wheel unless we drift. Keep us pointed into the waves.”

  “You’re much sicker today,” I said, but the wind carried my words away.

  Brad stopped as if he would say something else, then shrugged and shuffled along the starboard gunwale. He carried the sea anchor in his left hand, using his right to clip his safety strap onto the lifelines. He had to unclip every five feet when the clasp hit a stanchion and then secure to the next section of line. The deck pitched and yawed as the bow plowed through the oncoming waves. Water splashed high over the sides, soaking him. He fell to his knees but staggered to his feet and pressed forward.

  I could not take my eyes off him.

  It took him almost five minutes to reach the bow where he hooked onto a lifeline near the bow sprit and spread his feet for balance. I could barely see him through sheets of driving rain. The bow pierced the crest of a wave and the yacht hovered for a moment, before canting forward and taking a fro
thy, avalanchine slide into the trough. My stomach turned, as if I was skydiving. The bow crashed into the next whitecap and Brad disappeared behind a cloud of frothy sea. My heart raced.

  The mist cleared as we climbed the next liquid mountain. Brad stood there, facing the raging storm.

  At the peak, he spun his body like an Olympian in the hammer toss and threw the sea anchor over the bow. It hit the surface and expanded. The yacht jerked as the sea anchor dragged against the force of the sea and we slowed. Brad gave me a thumbs up and made his way back to me.

  “The anchor will keep our bow pointed in the right direction. Get below and batten the hatches and secure the compartments. I want to stay on deck in case anything happens. I’ve got the helm.”

  Brad sounded commanding and strong. He took charge and knew what to do. I had never seen him with this kind of confidence at home, or even in the hospital, but here, he was in his element. Had he been born two centuries too late? I worried about leaving him on deck, because if anything happened to him, I would be lost. I could never survive on the ocean alone. I squeezed his arm and retreated below, pulling the hatch closed behind me.

  Rainwater poured off my rain suit onto the deck, and I shrugged it off. I walked around the chart table, salon, and galley, making sure I had unplugged every device. I confirmed the AIS broadcast our identification and position, and I flicked on the radar screen. We were alone.

  The cabin deck continued to pitch, but with our speed reduced, the movement was less violent, and I used handholds to drag myself into the starboard berth. I sat on the bed and squinted through the porthole at Brad behind the helm then I laid back and held the sides of the mattress to keep from sliding. I tried not to cry.

  If he meant for this trip to relax me, sailing through a deadly environment seemed an odd choice, but I had to admit, facing mortal danger had taken my mind off Emma. The fundamental striving for survival quitted my inner critic, silenced my meaningless worry, and focused my faculties. Sailing had literally and figuratively put me back in charge of my life. It made me conscious of my choices, forced me to act instead of wandering around in a daze.

  I grabbed onto the bed frame, locking my fingers around it as if my hands were vices, and flexed the muscles in my arms to steady myself. My heart pounded in my ears from exertion and fear. Our precarious position reminded me that life was fragile, that I was alive, and that I wanted to stay that way.

  Faced with death, I knew I wanted to live.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I stood at the helm with my fingers wrapped around the wheel. The sky had cleared after the storm passed, but a powerful northeast wind continued to blow, and the yacht heeled hard to port. What if a rogue wave hit us? I shivered. Being on the ocean was like rock climbing without a rope. If anything went wrong, we had limited options and no one to save us. Facing genuine danger made the everyday irritants at home seem trivial.

  Brad had been at the helm all night, valiantly steering us through cresting waves and gale-force winds. His sickness had weakened him, but somehow, he had persevered. The monsoon had pushed us over seventy-five miles further south than we had planned, but he plotted a fresh course toward the Maldives and set the autopilot before retiring. His health had worsened since Bali. He had only been asleep in the stateroom for an hour, so it would be cruel to rouse him.

  We sailed on a beam reach, and the harder the wind raged, the more nervous I became. If we heeled too much, Brad had told me to either let out the sails or turn away from the wind. I knew I should make some sort of correction, but I worried about messing with the sails. One mistake and I could capsize us. I decided to turn southwest. I flipped to the autopilot on the control screen, switched it off, and rotated the wheel a few degrees. The yacht responded, and the compass spun as we veered to port.

  Wind gusted over the transom and our deck leveled, but we slowed too much. The sail leech luffed, and the canvas flapped like bedsheets on a clothesline, and I worried about making an accidental jibe. I let the boom out and the sails filled again. Our speed increased as we ran away from the wind. I smiled, proud of my adjustments, and pictured my father watching me handle the tiller between buoys in Boston Harbor.

  I manned the helm for hours, all by myself, my confidence growing. Brad slept all morning, and I checked on him after lunch. He looked unconscious, drooling on the pillow and snoring. He needed his rest, so I tiptoed out of the cabin.

  At about four o’clock, he emerged from below, his hair tussled, and the shape of his pillow imprinted on his cheek.

  “How long was I out?” he asked, his voice hoarse and groggy.

  “Nine hours.”

  “Wow. I must have been drained. I can’t seem to shake this flu. My entire body hurts.”

  “I’m concerned about you.”

  “Any problems sailing?”

  “None. The wind intensified, and we were heeling too much, so I turned away from it and righted the boat.”

  “You changed course?” he asked.

  “A little, to prevent us from capsizing.”

  Brad leaned over the instruments, bumping me with his body. I glared at him as he read the map.

  “We’re forty degrees off course,” he said, his voice sharp and full of criticism.

  “You told me to steer away from the wind to reduce our heel.”

  “When did you change course?”

  “This morning.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know . . . around seven o’clock.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dagny,” Brad said, his eyes searching the horizon. “You’ve been sailing forty degrees off course for eight hours.”

  “Don’t yell at me.”

  “We’re making twelve knots, which means you sailed over a hundred miles in the wrong direction.”

  “I was scared we’d capsize.”

  “We weren’t going to capsize.”

  “This is supposed to be a vacation, and you said we weren’t in a hurry, so what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, we’re too close to the equator.”

  I put my hands on my hips. He was challenging my decision, second guessing the actions I took while he slept. My confidence wavered.

  “And?”

  “The currents and the winds reverse at the equator. Things become unpredictable,” he said.

  “I didn’t know. I was afraid.”

  Brad glowered, and the veins in his forehead bulged. He turned the yacht to starboard, trimmed the sails, and set the autopilot.

  I was wrong and did not have a reason to be angry, but I resented him for leaving me in charge, and then criticizing my choices.

  “I’m sorry, but you know I haven’t sailed in decades. At least I kept us afloat and didn’t run into anything, and that’s as much as I should be required to do.”

  “Just don’t change course without checking with me.”

  “If you’re awake.”

  Brad stared straight ahead, ready to explode.

  I cringed, but his anger remained hidden behind his mask. I descended into the salon, feeling his stare burn into my back. I plopped down on the couch and closed my eyes. Two more weeks to the Maldives.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Brad’s muscles rippled under his tee shirt as he held the wheel.

  The storm had pushed us south, and my mistake had driven us farther off course. Now, we floated on the equator where the wind had disappeared. The ocean flattened like a parking lot, and we swayed on the surface as the current pushed us away from Malé. With no breeze, the relentless sun beat down on us and transformed the deck into a gridd
le.

  I sipped coffee and ate our last banana, the end of our fresh fruit. I savored the final bite, brown and mushy. I threw the peel off the stern, and my eyes followed it as it flew through the air and landed in our foamy wake.

  A large, gray dorsal fin broke the surface thirty feet behind us, and I jumped when my brain registered what my eyes had seen.

  “What the hell is that?” I screamed.

  Brad flinched and spilled his coffee. He jerked his head around. “That’s a shark.”

  “No kidding. Why the hell is it following us?” I asked.

  My fingernail found its way into my mouth.

  “Maybe it’s waiting for something to fall overboard or maybe it’s just curious. Propeller sounds and electrical fields attract sharks.”

  “Electric fields?”

  “All the electronics onboard emit some energy. Even the human body gives off bioelectric fields. I’ve heard stories about sharks attacking small electric engines.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Only if you’re in the water. Relax, you’re safe. A shark can’t hurt you here.”

  “Didn’t a great white eat the boat in the movie, Jaws?”

  “That’s happened for real. Sometimes sharks attack boats, usually after they’re hooked on fishing lines or when people harass them, but we’re on a yacht. Even Jaws couldn’t sink us.”

  The dorsal fin turned to port and dipped below the surface. I jumped to my feet, ran to the side, and leaned over the gunwale. A black shadow, at least twenty feet long, swam alongside us. It stayed five or six feet below the surface and its image blurred in the refracted light. The tail moved in lazy strokes, outpacing us.

  Brad put his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped.

  “Don’t get close to the edge. Sharks can launch themselves out of the water.”

  I gawked at him like he was nuts. “What kind is it?”