The Boat Thief

by M.D. Lee

  Once when we were little, our family was headed to Portland on a long car ride to visit my cousins. I was deep into a Spider-Man comic book when suddenly my sister let out a loud yell, as if I had just punched her in the arm. But I hadn’t. Without any hesitation, never taking his eyes off the road, my dad swatted at my head while yelling at me to leave my sister alone. Luckily, his aim was high. There was nothing more than a swish of air that went past my face. But that only aggravated him more. If he’d actually looked to the back seat it would’ve only taken him a second to figure out what she’d done; he would’ve seen the smirk on her face.

  My mom, on the other hand, will probably be worried sick thinking I have run off to some state park a million miles away. I wonder, though: Will she be worried for my safety? Or just about some other crazy thing that doesn’t matter, like maybe they won’t have my favorite ice cream. She seems to miss the real problems in my life. I’ll never forget the day our class had a field trip to the Maxwell lumber company. I was late, and held up the whole class because she insisted that my lunch, which I’d already put in a paper sack, be in a proper lunch box so it wouldn’t get ruined. I had to wait patiently while she re-wrapped everything and repacked it into the box in her own special way. If I’d argued with her it would’ve made me even later because in the end, it’d still have to be done her way. I think how she might look standing by the kitchen sink. Would she be worrying about me at my park job? One part of me doesn’t want her to worry, but I think secretly: I hope she does.

  The mainsail suddenly makes a loud luffing noise, snapping me out of my thoughts. With a simple tug I give the mainsheet a trim, and then notice the little spot of sandy beach I’m aiming for is getting closer. Progress toward it is steady, but, unfortunately, the daylight’s beginning to fade. It’ll be close. Luckily the weather’s calm, with the wind dropping to a light breeze, enough to keep pushing the boat ahead yet not too much to make the job of sailing by myself a handful. Even though it’s becoming cool, there’re small beads of sweat on my brow. I also feel like someone is squeezing my lungs. Just be cool, I tell myself. All I have to do is get in there without hitting any rocks and drop anchor. That’s it.

  In sailing class, we never actually practiced dropping anchor but I’ve a good idea what needs to happen. I go through all the steps in my head. I don’t want to end up a pile of smashed planks on the rocks. Uh-oh! I never checked to see if the boat actually has an anchor. Damn! Maybe I’ll be lucky and there’s one sitting in the bow locker. But there’s no time left to check.

  At fifty yards from my target, I ease the mainsheet and let the jib flog so the momentum of the boat drops off to hardly a crawl. The luffing sails snap and chatter loudly. So far, so good. But it looks tight, and there’s going to be less room to maneuver than I thought.

  The second I glide over my spot I snap the bow into the wind, slowing the boat to a stop. Quickly, I jump forward to the bow locker where, I pray, the anchor is stowed. I lift the hatch and let out a sigh of relief. Thank God! There is, indeed, an anchor with rope attached. It’s still clean, with no leftover mud, or rust; I don’t think it’s ever been used.

  Not wasting a second, I grab it and heave it over the side. Splash! In it goes. I hope there’s enough rope and the bottom isn’t too deep. It seems to stop at what I guess is fifteen feet but, honestly, having never done this before, I wouldn’t know ten feet from thirty feet. All I know is the anchor made it to the bottom with enough left over to give the boat some swing room. As I stand on the bow watching, the anchor line slowly tightens up, holding the sailboat in place like a small dog on a leash. My long day, which actually started the night before, is over. For the moment, I’m safe.

  As I sit, still on the bow looking out into the dark, my jaw begins to quiver, and tears start to stream down my face. I don’t know why it’s happening. I’m all alone, I mean really alone. No one has any idea where I am and, for that matter, I actually don’t know where I am, either. I’m pretty sure that people want to kill me. I’m tired. The boat, which kept me safe, is now swinging only yards away from dangerous, jagged rocks and I’m so hungry that if someone handed me a piece of cold wet seaweed I’d probably eat it. Everything that has happened today is like a wet, heavy blanket suffocating me. The tears spilling uncontrollably make me feel like a blubbering fool. But the day finally is over. At the moment, I’m safe.

  Chapter 9

  Trapped

  At some point I must’ve collapsed in my bunk from the long day and lay dead asleep. It was one of those sleeps so deep I didn’t even dream. Just undisturbed darkness.

  There’s a far-off sound. Is it my mom cooking breakfast? Wait! I’m still in the sailboat, and the groaning noise is coming from the hull. Suddenly a force pulls me off the bunk, slamming me onto the cabin floor. This jolts me out of my deep sleep real fast. The unknown force is gravity. As I lay on the floor in my groggy state, trying to piece together what just happened, there’s nothing but silence that’s broken by the occasional screeching of a seagull. Bewildered, I watch helplessly as a few books from the shelf fall on me. Then it comes to me, and I have a sick feeling in my stomach; the tide has run out. The sailboat is starting to lie on its side.

  “No, no, no!” I scream, fighting gravity as I try to get myself turned around. When the tide goes out there’ll be no water to float the boat. In Maine, the tide can go out as much as thirteen feet, leaving a boat hard in the muddy bottom for hours.

  When I dropped anchor yesterday, I’d completely forgotten about tide. We talk about it a lot at the sailing club and, living in Trent Harbor, tide is a part of daily life that isn’t much different than watching the sun rise and set. But here I am, in a little sailboat that soon will be stuck on the bottom. After that, I’ll have six hours to kill until it floats again.

  With every foot of water that disappears, the boat rolls over farther. Struggling out of the almost sideways hatch and sliding across the cockpit, I can see that there’s only about two feet of water left. I know the idea of dropping the anchor near a sandy beach was right . . . but it’s just too shallow.

  Luckily, the soft, sandy bottom will gently cradle the boat, unlike rocks, which would’ve slowly gnawed through the wooden hull like a hungry animal. I’m fairly safe and there’s nothing to worry about. I’m stuck on this island with time to kill.

  For the next several hours, with the cabin now vertical, instead of horizontal, I might as well get out of here. So I pull off my shoes and jeans and drape them over my shoulders, then, in my white underwear, I hop into the knee-deep water. Man, the water is cold! After trudging to shore, I find a large rock to sit on while I pull on my pants and put my shoes back on my feet.

  This island doesn’t look like a place I want to stay any longer than I have to. The little area of sand where the boat lies has large rocks on both sides forming a corridor. Above the high tide mark is dense forest so thick that exploring it doesn’t seem possible. Out beyond the island are several other small islands that don’t look much different than the one I’m on. Way past the scattering of islands are more land formations, but it’s hard to tell what’s what. When the boat’s floating again, I think it’ll be best to keep sailing for someplace better; this just doesn’t feel right.

  Sitting in a dry spot in the sand with my pants back on, I consider the situation I’m in. Am I doing the right thing? How long will I have to stay away before it’s safe to go back? My plan is beginning to feel a little thin, so I think harder. It could be years before it’s safe to go home, but how will I really know? I halfheartedly throw a rock into the water. Will my parents believe my letter about leaving home to look for a job at a Vermont park? There’re just too many questions.

  I can’t help thinking about my parents and my sister Clair. There’s an awful sad feeling inside me making me feel miserable. Do I miss them? Do I even miss my sister who’s such a pain in the butt? Maybe this is what being homesick feels like. At summer camp I had seen other kids go through it and
thought they were just big wimps. My eyes begin to moisten, and I wipe them with the back of my sleeve. Big baby; I’m mad at myself for feeling this way. I am thirteen, which is too old to be homesick. I’m a complete mess.

  I reach into my pocket, remembering I have the jackknife Sara gave me. Pulling it out, I turn it over in my hands, examining it. A weak smile grows across my face. With a stick I write Sara’s name in the sand. It seems to make me feel better that I’m not so alone. I wonder what it would’ve been like if she had been here with me, a girl who recently I couldn’t have cared less about.

  ***

  While I’m waiting for the tide to return, I peer out at all the open water I crossed yesterday in the fog. I can only guess which way Trent Harbor might be. My home. I watch two gulls floating in the calm water.

  It’s actually a pleasant summer day, especially for Maine. Sunny with only a few clouds, and a light breeze. This is good, seeing as I’m going to be stuck here for the next six hours. I’m very thankful that it isn’t raining.

  A couple of hours pass, and all the water has run out with the tide. The sailboat is now on its side in the hard sand, and resembles a wounded animal. There’s no water to wade through now to get back to it.

  I hoist myself into the upward angled cockpit and poke my head into the little cabin. Everything’s different. The port side is now the ceiling, and the starboard side that has the bunk is now the floor. Surprisingly, most things have stayed in place. While sailboats are designed to be on their sides, they’re not supposed to be this far over. There’re only a few loose things now lying on the ground; books, and the rolled-up chart. Also on the floor is Sara’s bag of food, which, when I see it, reminds me again that I’m hungry.

  It feels like I’m always hungry now, but I know I have to be careful about eating all my food at once until I somehow come across more. Inside the bag there doesn’t seem to be as much food as I thought, only two cans of Spaghetti-Os, an apple, and a few sleeves of Saltines. There’s hardly even enough food for me to waste my time rationing. This isn’t going to get me far at all, and I’m going to need to figure out something soon. Regardless, I reach in for the apple.

  Reading the rolled-up chart is going to be easier to do if I spread it out on a large, smooth rock, rather than in the sideways mess of the little cabin. Grabbing both the chart and apple, I step out through the companionway hatch. Unfortunately, my left foot catches on something, slamming my chest hard into the cockpit seat. OOFFF! All the air’s knocked out of my lungs, and the apple flies out of my hands and over the side. “Damn! That really hurt.” Curling my knees to my chest I gasp for a breath, trying to get air back into my lungs. There are seagulls on the beach carefully watching me, and probably hoping I’ll spill more food along with the apple.

  Where did that apple go? Glancing over what’s now the side of the sailboat, there’s no apple, only a little splotch in the sand where it had hit, and a trail leading under the boat. Being a little more careful, and still trying to get my breathing back under control, I slowly step off the side and onto the damp, hard-packed sand. On one knee, I bend down to peek under the boat and there’s the damn apple . . . about three feet in. It appears to be wedged tight between the hull and the sand.

  There’s no food to spare; I need that apple.

  I can probably knock it out with a stick, but I might be able reach it. I try that first. I take my shirt off so it doesn’t get wet on the moist sand, and go flat on my stomach, reaching in as far as I can. My fingertips just touch it, so I shove my hand in a little deeper between a rock under the sand and the hull. Maybe I can get it to roll out a little further so I can grab it. I flick it, poke it, and claw at it, but the apple is just far enough out of reach that I’m not going to get it this way; I’m going to need a stick, after all.

  But when I try to pull my hand out, something jams it tight. Holy crap! My hand’s wedged snug between a jagged rock and the heavy hull of the boat. The rock must be big and buried just under the sand.

  Don’t panic, I tell myself. But I’m below the tide level. Here in Maine the tide will rise thirteen feet. If I don’t get out, I’ll drown in about six hours.

  This is bad, really bad. I tug hard again, but that only makes it worse. I take a deep breath. “Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic,” I say, over and over. I need to keep cool to think this through. I’m stuck, and it’s going to be a slow, cold death if I can’t get my hand free. The seagulls watching me are no help.

  Before I realize it, an hour has already elapsed and I’m still stuck. Nothing has changed. I’ve tried everything I can think of to free my hand. I’ve even put my shoulder into the hull, attempting to rock it, but the wooden planks of the boat, which make it a solid seaworthy vessel, also make it quite heavy. It didn’t budge an inch. Now I lie here with the side of my face in the wet sand and my eyes squeezed tight. I want to cry.

  Being stuck, time seems to speed up. The ocean has already begun its journey back up the beach, and, with every lap of wave, the water gets closer to me.

  If I drown under this boat no one will ever know what happened. Maybe someone will find the boat drifting around or, more likely, washed up on the rocks. But who knows what’ll happen to my body? Because no one’s going to find it. I sure don’t like the thought of this.

  I am only thirteen; I’m not ready to die, and not ready to die is the whole reason I’m in this predicament in the first place. The police chief and mayor were trying to catch me, but if they did, at least they’d have finished me off faster than the tide will. I tug even harder at my now very sore hand. Still stuck.

  There’s nothing I can do about it. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s not another person around for ten or twenty miles who can help.

  But here I am, waiting to die.

  How did things get so messed up, that I’m stuck in this situation? Was it all because of a dumb kiss? Probably not.

  ***

  Hours have passed and the seawater’s already reaching the other side of the boat. That was fast! I swear it’s coming in faster than I’ve ever known. It sure doesn’t seem like it’s taking six hours; it feels more like six minutes.

  I scream, “Help, help, somebody help me!” There is no sound other than seawater starting to lap against the hull. I begin to sob; I wish my dad were here.

  I miss my family more than I could ever imagine. It feels like there’s some deep dark hole in my gut filled with a pain I’ve never known before. I even miss my sister. If she were here on the beach and saw me stuck under the boat she’d probably grin. She would really enjoy this as long as my dad was right here to free me. Even though she’d never admit it, I know she really wouldn’t want to see anything happen to me.

  And if my mom were here, she would probably have a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me to eat while my dad worked to get me out from under the boat. I wish there was some way I could say goodbye to them.

  Sand sticks to my face. The wetness of the sand soaks through my jeans. I can feel my body begin to shiver a little. I’m cold. I’ve never felt so alone before.

  My heart stops. Is that what I think it is? Yes, it is. Water creeping over my hand! I’m still no closer to being free than I was hours ago. This is it―the time has come. Oddly enough, I’m not scared anymore. Just sad. I just want to get whatever is going to happen over with. I’m so tired of waiting.

  It seems as if my wish comes true. Now the water’s past my elbow on my outstretched arm, and is quickly rising toward my shoulder. Time is accelerating even faster. Soon the tide reaches my chin, and if I dip my head down a little I can taste the salty water. The tide keeps rising as it has for billions of years; it doesn’t care that I’m trapped under a sailboat.

  The water is now to the point where I have to stretch my head to just keep breathing. But I know that, soon, even doing that isn’t going to help. My hand and arm are numb, but I think I feel something different on my hand.

  I’m too
busy trying to keep my head above water to notice, but now I’m certain . . . the boat is starting to shift. It’s going to start floating. But when? Hopefully sooner rather than later because I can’t stretch my head any farther.

  I force my shoulder into the side of the hull to try and rock it, but it’s still solid. Nothing. The boat shifts a little more and there’s less pressure on my hand, but I’m still stuck. I’m not going to be able to keep my head above water any longer.

  I take a big, deep breath of air and duck under, tugging and wiggling the whole time when, suddenly, as it twists in the sand, the transom shifts and raises slightly. That’s all I need! My hand pops free, and as fast as I can, I roll out from under the boat. The second my head’s clear of the water I gasp, filling my lungs with air.

  I’m free! I’m not going to drown on some lonely island by myself!

  I run up to the dry part of the beach and plop down in the soft sand. The bright sunlight starts to warm my damp body and I notice the seagulls screeching and fighting over a crab. There’s a sparkle to the water, a sign that the air’s starting to move, and it seems to be out of a favorable direction. I can sail away from here! What a fantastic day to be alive. I shoot a fist into the air, “Wahooo!

  Chapter 10

  Home

  The sun on my body feels good while I sit on the beach as I continue to watch the rising tide slowly float the rest of the boat. It’s still going to be a while before the keel loosens itself from the sand, but I have nowhere to go, and the trees and vegetation are too thick to do any exploring. I just sit and enjoy being alive.

  I realize this is the first time I’ve gotten a really good look at the “borrowed” sailboat. When I sailed away it was pitch dark.

  The boat has a traditional sort of look. The sides are painted a bright, snappy white with a red boot stripe at the waterline. The bottom of the boat, which at this point I know all too well, is painted with a heavy anti-fouling blue. Most boats these days are built of fiberglass, but this one has wooden planks that take a little more care and skill to build. Above the deck, only about a foot and a half tall, is a small doghouse that has two bronze portholes. The trim and other parts that aren’t painted are varnished with such skill, they look like they’re still wet. As the proud, yet temporary, owner, I’d say a picked a good-looking boat to make off with.