Adrift by Tami Oldham Ashcraft

Author:Tami Oldham Ashcraft
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-05-01T16:00:00+00:00

Eleven

Hinanos and Cigars

It was hard for me to look at the moon and care whether it was waning or waxing. If I hit land on a moonless and starless night I could care less. I just wished my landfall would be tomorrow. I was so tired of looking at nothing beyond the carpet of ocean and the curtain of sky.

My day-to-day schedule had come to focus entirely around my three daily sun sights. At night, if I had good wind, I’d steer Hazana as long as I could stay awake. Then I’d lash the wheel and sleep in the cockpit until the morning sun forced me, sweating profusely, from my sleeping bag.

My first chore upon rising was to look three hundred sixty degrees around the horizon. Nothing was there, ever, but water and sky.

My second chore took me forward to check the jury rig, to see if any lines were chafing. I made sure the luff of the sail was tight. The rig had become my companion, always there, pulling the boat inch by inch toward the solid ground I longed for.

If there was no wind, I’d lash the wheel and force myself to go below. I made notes in the logbook like, “Paranoia! Becalmed. Still in the same spot as yesterday. God, I miss Richard. When is this streak of the devil going to end?”

I didn’t want to think of the devil—Satan. This was enough hell for me. But my imagination started taking over. I warily looked around and started shaking. I hugged myself, trying to stop the involuntary rattle. The devil was here, near, coming to get me. . . .

You’re making your own hell, exploded The Voice.

“I didn’t make this!”

Control your mind—you’re your own heaven and hell! Think positive. Move. Take care of yourself.

I wanted to plug my ears, but I liked what The Voice had to say better than what my mind said in thought. I went to wipe sweat from my brow and winced as the salt on my hand singed the wound on my forehead. It ignited me. I stood up and went into the head to clean and dress my wounds. I didn’t like this job, but when the bandage became grimy and unsanitary, I had no choice; I was terrified of infection.

Down below, debris still littered the bilge. The floorboards were thrown about the cabin. I found it easier to move around by stepping on the floor framing and parts of the bilge than to try to figure out which floorboard went where. The scattered beans were sprouting and the oatmeal grew moldier by the day. Occasionally, a rusted can burst and started to stink, then I’d toss it overboard. It was simply easier on my nostrils and nerves to stay topside.

Finally, the gnawing reality of living in a pigsty became too much. I couldn’t take the filth and stench anymore. The Voice interceded: It’s disgusting in here.

“I know it.”

You need to continue the cleanup.

“I don’t feel like it; it makes me sick.

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