Stranded With The Captain. Sharon Hartley
flapping so loudly she could barely hear the engine.
“Now slowly fall off the wind,” Javi yelled.
Cat steered to the right. The wind caught the sail, which billowed and quieted. Javi returned to the cockpit and pulled the huge metal pole attached to the bottom of the sail—the boom, she remembered—toward the center.
The sail grew taut, and Spree darted forward like a racehorse released from the starting gate. She felt a tug on the wheel and overcorrected, which made the sail snap crazily again, so she turned the wheel until the sail became taut again.
Javi grinned at her and shut down the engine. The vibrations abruptly ceased. Without the engine noise, the only sounds were the rush of wind on the sail and the ocean flowing over Spree’s hull. She hadn’t realized how intrusive the sound of the diesel engine had been until the natural sounds took over, a huge relief to her ears.
But with the wind pushing on the huge mainsail, Spree definitely tipped to that side, what the captain called heeling. She spread her legs for better balance.
Javi pointed to a compass, which floated inside some kind of liquid, beneath the wheel.
“Try to hold a course of thirty degrees,” he told her. “A couple of degrees either way won’t matter. We’re a long way from Gun Cay.”
As Cat gazed at the compass, trying to focus on the number thirty—northeast—the sail began flapping again.
“That noise—it’s called luffing—will be one indication that you’re off course,” Javi told her. “You can also tell by the action of the ocean on your rudder. You’ll feel a difference in the wheel.”
Cat nodded, too engrossed in sailing to reply. Watching the telltales, she played with Spree’s direction, turning the wheel, figuring out how best to remain on course. The boat responded quickly, so the trick was to make gradual adjustments. Oversteering made the sail luff every time. She relaxed her grip, aware she clutched so tightly her fingers ached.
“You learn fast,” Javi said.
“Thanks. This is fun,” Cat said, thankful the captain remained at her side. She looked behind her. Key Marathon had receded in the distance, becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon. Facing forward again, she watched the bow cut through the waves, occasionally sending a cool spray back to the cockpit. She laughed in sheer delight.
This must be what it feels like to fly.
“I’m going to release the jib,” Javi said. “It’ll change the feel of the helm, so don’t let that throw you.”
Another white sail, hidden inside a blue cover, unfurled from the bow of the boat. When it caught the wind, Spree surged forward even faster. Cat intuitively made the adjustments. And now the whole deck really did tip to the right, although the sensation wasn’t too horrible. Just a little awkward.
No one spoke for what seemed like a long while as they skimmed across the water. Deb said, “You know this is really nice, guys. Thanks for making me come.”
“Told you,” Joan said.
Debbie shot her a bird, and everyone laughed.
“Do you want to take a turn at the wheel?” Cat asked.
Debbie shook her head. She placed a white boat cushion behind her, leaned against the back of the cockpit and extended her legs out on the white fiberglass. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“Joan?” Cat asked.
Already in a position similar to Deb’s, Joan waved a hand. “I’ve got all week.”
Secretly pleased, Cat returned her attention to steering the boat. Of course, there was no way she could stand behind this wheel for the fifteen hours it would take to sail to Gun Cay.
She experienced a moment of terror when Javi left her side and trotted forward on the deck to fiddle with lines on the mast. What if he fell out? Or what if one of her friends did? By now they were miles from land.
During the safety briefing, he’d cautioned them about the boom and jibing—where the boom swung around, potentially knocking people overboard. She stood safely behind the boom and suspected that was one reason Joan and Debbie stayed low. He’d instructed them on how to use the radio for emergencies, so they could call the coast guard if the captain went for an unplanned swim.
He’d also showed them where the life jackets were stowed and made them promise to wear them if things got rough. She nibbled on her lower lip. Actually, he’d said when things got rough.
Right now he was so far forward the boom couldn’t smack him. But footing was precarious, and the seas were getting choppier. The captain couldn’t fall over, could he?
“What’s he doing? Debbie asked.
“I don’t know,” Cat answered.
The sail luffed, and Javi glanced in her direction with a frown. She quickly made a course correction.
Cat released a breath when Javi returned to the cockpit.
“You need a break,” he said.
She stepped away from the wheel, stretching her arms overhead, her shoulders tight from holding the boat on course for over an hour.
“Unless one of you ladies wants a turn?” Javi called out.
“I’m too relaxed,” Joan said. “Maybe later.”
Debbie shook her head, placing her palm flat against her stomach.
“I think your friend is a little seasick,” Javi told Cat.
“Too much bubbly,” Cat said.
“You’ll feel better if you take command of the boat,” Javi yelled to Debbie. “That helps.”
She grimaced. “No thanks.”
Javi shrugged and refocused on the sails.
“What were you doing up there?” Cat asked.
“Double-checking a repair I made. Don’t worry. We’re safe.”
“It’s gotten rough,” she said.
“It’ll get worse.”
A tingle of alarm sliced down her spine at his ominous tone. How rough?
“I was thinking,” she said. “What if one of us falls into the water?”
Javi focused on far distant land to their left and nodded. “You’re right, Irish. It’s time to put on our life jackets.”
* * *
FIVE HOURS LATER, with the jib refurled and the main reefed, Javi stood behind the wheel and evaluated the status of his vessel. It was full-on dark, the moon not yet up. The bow rose as it crested a trough, and then crashed back into the Gulf Stream, making him release a pleased laugh. Nothing like pitching a man and a well-designed boat against the elements to make that man feel alive. Almost as good as catching criminals.
On a thirty-degree heel, Spree raced toward Bimini like a champion thoroughbred. He could put up more sail, but why take a chance? NOAA weather predicted a storm behind this north wind, although they’d be safely across before it hit. Still, no sense in beating the hell out of his boat with novices on board. With the two-to three-knot push from the Gulf Stream, they’d make good time to Gun Cay even without the jib.
If they continued on to Gun Cay.
Satisfied that Spree was operating perfectly, Javi turned his focus to the condition of his charterers. Matters weren’t so rosy on that front.
Debbie had been violently ill over the side of the boat even before they hit the worst of the conditions. Definitely too much “bubbly.” Joan, the purported sailor, held out a little longer, but had insisted on going below to pee and as a result had also puked her guts out.
Wearing their bulky life jackets,