SULLY
“Mr. Jones, please come out of the cabinet.”
My co-captain and I have been living on Endless Summer
for almost nine months now. I missed my boat almost as much as I missed my friends and family the seven long years I spent in Los Angeles, so when I returned to work on a movie shooting in my hometown this past spring, I pocketed the per diem the show gave me for housing and lived on the sailboat I’d brought back from the dead as a teenager.
“You didn’t seem to mind trading an apartment for the salt life when we were in Wallington,” I remind him.
Granted, things have been different for the past few weeks. We left the marina behind, traveling up the intra- coastal waterway to the Chesapeake Bay. Spending my days sailing and nights anchored in quiet coves has been a dream of mine for years, and despite the drama around my exit from town, the reality has exceeded my expectations. The scenery couldn’t be prettier, the weather has been mild for August, and the fishing has been awesome. The past twenty-four hours alone were practically ideal.
Yesterday, after a sweet sail down one river and up the next, we anchored in this little inlet, and I dropped a crab pot in the water before going to bed. By midday today, I’d trapped so many I was able to trade with a family onshore for zucchini and tomatoes.
Meaning, I ate like a king for practically nothing.
Unfortunately, Mr. Jones is less enthusiastic about our current circumstances. I’d venture to say he is not on board with spending a couple months away from civilization.
“Maybe we can rent a slip for a night or two so you could feel solid ground under your feet.”
He just growls in response.
“Goddammit, Jonesy!”
I seriously can’t believe he’s so pissed off that he’s hiding in the woodwork. But then I remind myself that I struggle with anger issues too. People think of me as easygoing, but ever since I was little and my brother would tease me to the point that I threw a tantrum, controlling my temper is some- thing I’ve had to work for.
It helps if I ground myself in sensory experience, so as I lean over the stern to give the dinner dishes an initial rinse, I take the creek’s briny scent deep into my nostrils. After swishing the plate, I note the change in the temperature of the air on my hand as I draw it out of the brackish water. When I hear a flutter of wings, I look up to find a pair of herons flying to roost in a tree onshore. Before I know it, my frustration with Mr. Jones has floated away like the remains of my dinner.
After I finish cleaning the tiny kitchen, I set up my bed, planning to take a few moments out on deck before retiring for the night.
When I first tried to meditate with one of the tapes my friend Dani gave me this summer, it was freaking impossible. Tougher than moving across the country without a plan other than following my best friend’s lead. More difficult than telling my parents I’d flunked out of college with just a semester left to go.
But on this trip, sitting and counting my breaths just gets easier and easier. Not only have I got an entire sky full of stars to remind me that my troubles don’t really mean much in the larger scope of things, but the issues that set me on edge feel far away and unimportant.
Who cares that my parents think I’m a total failure when I’m out here living my dream?
My friends may think I’m an idiot, but my best buddy is still with me, and he’ll stop pouting soon.
“Jones?” I still, listening for movement, but get no answer. “All right then. I’ll check out the Milky Way by myself, I guess.”
After some trial and error, I’ve gotten pretty good at finding a quiet spot to overnight, where all I hear is the lap of water against the hull, the clink of hardware against the mast, and the chirps of frogs from the shore. But tonight, as I mount the stairs from the cabin to the cockpit, I’m assaulted by sound. Pounding music and the roar of an engine. Thinking it’s coming from the land on our starboard side, that’s where I look first.
It’s only when I look to port that I see the motorboat speeding across the water. I check, and my masthead light is on. Surely the person at the helm will see it. But the boat just keeps getting closer.
Instinctively, I wave my arms and shout, but my voice is drowned by the sounds of the boat, now headed directly at us. Grabbing my safety horn, I blast it a few times before scrambling down the stairs. Shrugging on a life jacket, I look around for something that might keep my little friend afloat.
“Mr. Jones! Seriously, time to come out. I don’t have a floatation device to fit a cat, so—”
Before I can finish my sentence, the hull explodes behind me.
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