Ocean of Insight by Heather Lyn Mann

Author:Heather Lyn Mann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Parallax Press
Published: 2016-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

30°22′21″N, 75°45′28″W // November 26, 2010

240 nautical miles north of Abaco, Bahamas

The salon spins in a psychedelic circle. I’ve never been too dizzy to stand before this moment. Falling, I reach for the pilot berth, wiggle my way inside, and close my eyes.

I’m on the birth control pill. In our round-the-clock schedule, I forgot two days ago to take one, so yesterday—as one does when you miss a day—I took one in the morning and one at night. Dizziness and nausea are side effects, and I just spent the past six hours throwing up. I’m way too dizzy to take my watch. Poor Dave. He must be exhausted. I drift back to sleep.

It’s noon. I’m dog-tired and dehydrated, but I’m able to stand. The sea rolls in tightly timed twelve-foot mounds. Our motion is similar to jumping on a trampoline with another person: there is a regular bouncing pattern, but occasionally a super bounce shoots us at a great height in an unpredictable direction. One-handed, I put freeze-dried chicken noodle soup into two mugs and fill them with hot water from our press pot. When I grab for a spoon, a wave sets both mugs flying. Yellow slime drips from windows, woodwork, seat cushions, and between floorboards. Noodles drape like Christmas tinsel from the companionway steps. I whimper in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Dave calls.

“Two mugs of chicken soup just bit the dust.”

“Oh—quite the mess. My cottage cheese went flying this morning. It was like something in a B-grade horror film.”

My man is wounded as well. Early this morning, he sat in the cockpit strapping on his lifejacket and tether when a super bounce shot him halfway down the companionway steps. He was lucky he didn’t fall the distance and break his neck or slam his temple on the way past the corner of the passageway. He didn’t kill himself, but he did put a deep gash over his left eye that refuses to stop bleeding. If we were back home, I’d have driven him to the hospital. But we’re a long way from home, so I tore through cupboards on the hunt for a suture kit and tried to steel myself for putting needle and thread through my husband’s flesh. We didn’t get that far, though: my surgeon-husband forgot to put a suture kit in the first aid bag. Oops. So, I went with plan B and made a butterfly from medical tape that I strapped over the slice, after smothering it first with antibiotic cream. Now, Dave’s wearing a green knitted cap to put pressure on the wad of gauze over the wound.

The chicken soup was medicine for us both.

I’m thinking we should have done what other cruising couples do: take on crew when sailing offshore. This twelve hours on, twelve hours off routine is tough stuff. If there were three people on board, we’d helm no more than eight hours a day and get more rest. And if someone had a problem and wasn’t able to take their shift, the full responsibility of managing the boat wouldn’t fall on the last man standing.

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