by Tobin F. Terry
I had never been sailing before. I wore my blue swimming trunks, my late wife’s favorite, a pair of deck shoes, and a white linen button-up shirt. When I got to the dock, Eric said I looked the part. I pretended it wasn’t on purpose. He gave me a quick course on port and starboard, bow and stern, tacking and jibing, bowline and clove-hitch. I asked him to go over it again and he told me to relax.
We were just past the causeway when Eric shut off the motor, took off his shirt, and sat down with his right hand on the rudder. He announced our turns. “Preparing to tack. Tacking. Preparing to jib. Jibing.” Each time I ducked under the boom, lunged for the other side of the boat, and pulled and secured the running rigging.
Eric lit a cigar and laid back, thick white curls of smoke trickling out of his mouth, the only clouds in the sky. He propped his legs on the edge of the boat. “So, how’ve you been?”
“Good, I guess. You know I got that job with the county. Simple stuff. Pays the bills.”
“How’s everything else, I mean.”
“I skim along,” I said.
Eric took a long hit off of his cigar. “Seeing anyone?”
I didn’t answer.
A motorboat carrying three women in bathing suits sped by creating a wake. “Hey, hey!” Eric yelled, holding up the cigar like a toast. The women shouted back, but were already too far away for us to understand.
“I got an idea,” Eric said. He stood and tied a loop at the loose end of the coiled dock line. “Put your wrist through here. It’s called keelhauling. Well, something like it.”
“What do I do?”
“Hold on to this rope, jump off of the back and don’t let go. When all the slack’s gone it’ll drag you along the surface. You can pull yourself up real easy.”
Keelhauling, I thought as I slipped the loop over my wrist, took a deep breath, and dove off of the back of the boat. The water split in front of me and I was under forever. The water was too murky to see anything, and, as a current of panic washed over me, I grasped for the surface, trying to pull myself out. Buoyancy took over and I surfaced. I could see the boat, Eric looking back and smiling. I grasped the rope with both hands and pulled at it. The rope jerked, and I dragged along on top of the water from behind the boat. I stopped fighting and felt the water rushing around me. It was, must be, what it’s like to fly. I pulled myself in one hand at a time.
Eric helped me onto the boat. “My turn,” he said and reached out his hand for the rope. Instead, I tossed the end into the water, and we watched the rope trail out long behind us.
Before I could protest, Eric was in the water. He was under for a long time.
When he came up, Eric wiped his face and searched for the rope. “Shit!”
“What? What?”
“I missed it,” he shouted.
“What?” He was getting farther away. If I tried to turn the boat, the sail would catch wind and the boat would tilt, maybe capsize. I froze.
“Reef the main,” he shouted. I could barely hear him. We grew further apart.
“Reef what?” I searched for a life vest, finally finding one in the cabin underneath a pile of old rags. When I came out of the cabin he was swimming toward me, but no closer to the boat, nor the rope. “Come on, man. Grab the rope.”
Eric yelled back, but he was too far away. He might have said, “I’m trying,” or “I’m tired.” He stopped swimming and treaded water.
“Keep swimming.” I tossed out the life jacket.
I followed the line used to raise the sail to its hitch, unhooked it, and watched the sail flap out wildly and then die in the wind. The boat and I came to a rest, bobbing only a little on the rippling surface, but afloat nonetheless.
Tobin F. Terry is Professor of English at Lakeland Community College where he teaches writing, coordinates Lakeland’s annual poetry competition, and co-advises the student-run magazine, The Lakelander. Tobin is an editor for Chagrin River Review, and his work has appeared in Emerge Literary Journal, Pemmican, and Revolution House.