An Afternoon Boat Trip

The smell of the boat’s diesel engine and the lurching movement made my stomach roil. I took another sip of the tea. I wondered if I’d throw up this time. I never knew if the feeling would go away or get worse. My husband Michael, our friends Paul and Linda, and I were on a day fishing trip about five miles out of the Mendocino harbor. Our two-year-old daughter Lisa was sitting on the floor of the cabin playing with her doll. Maybe the unease I felt was anxiety. I’d never felt safe with Michael at the wheel, whether it was our car, the boat, or our lives. He’d wanted to live on board the boat. I wondered about his sanity, and found us a little house on solid ground.

I didn’t know he was looking for a boat until he took me down to the dock at Noyo harbor, the fishing center of Fort Bragg. He led me down the floating dock to a boat with Mary J lettered in crude hand painted letters on the bow. How could I be impressed with the peeling paint and the ungainly lines? Its oily smell? The sad little bunk under the front deck and the rusty two-burner propane stove? I guessed that this was a working boat, not one to be admired, but one considered a necessity if he wanted to belong to the fishing community.

Our friends Paul and Linda were lying away from the wind on the aft hatch cover, smoking a joint, and listening to Jimi Hendrix on the tape deck. They were both from New York, with exotic accents.

I had bent down to pick Lisa up when I heard a snap and a whomp, the crash of the cabin glass, and felt shards rain on my hair. The Mary J listed starboard, its mast broken. Lisa screamed, and I clutched her, trying not to cry myself. Through the doorway I could see dark water slapping, threatening the deck. Our broken mast pulled us sideways into the oncoming swells.

The rotten, splintered end of the mast that missed hitting Linda by inches. Paul was lying on top of Linda. She was yelling. His sunglasses skittered across the deck and stopped by the coiled rope. With great effort, it seemed, they dragged themselves up, moved back to the stern, and sat on the deck.

Michael ran up the bow and down to the cabin door where I stood. He grabbed my shoulder. “Hold the wheel into the seas or we’ll go down!” he yelled over Linda’s cries. I took the wheel. As I held Lisa in one arm, I clamped my fingers around the spokes of the wheel into the oncoming seas, piloting a boat for the first time in my life. The stiff sea breeze sharpened my senses. I looked out at the glittering Pacific, its horizon shifting like a kids’ slow-moving seesaw. I strained my eyes searching for something, someone who could possibly help.

The oily engine smell rankled my nose. Even over the grind of the engine I could hear Michael shouting to Paul, “Pull the mast and lines alongside, watch your hands, careful now!” I tightened my grip around Lisa, anchored my sandals against the base of the captain’s chair, and with my strong left arm held the course westerly, into the oncoming seas. My thighs wedged against the seat, my feet splayed outward. I rode the waves crest to trough and back to the crest, and softened my knees. I breathed in deeply, loosened my shoulders, and I thought to myself: this isn’t the beginning of my career as a ship’s captain, but it’s the end of me as a fishwife.

Michael stepped back down into the cabin, lifted the mike off the box, and called for help. The radio answered in a scratchy voice, ”What is your position?” Even though it had been only minutes since the mast broke, it felt like we’d been out here forever. Each wave knocked the mast against the boat’s side, pounding the old wooden planks and I heard the bilge pump start. I didn’t even know if the tattered life jackets would hold up under our weight. I looked at the horizon past the choppy water and knew that we had a chance of sinking unless help came fast.

Michael responded with our general location, and after about ten minutes I saw a couple of fishing boats making their way toward us, bobbing up as we bobbed down. As they came closer, I could see they were regular guys, fishermen out of Noyo Harbor. They came alongside us and helped us secure the lines and broken mast to our boat. We limped in to the harbor, listing but now safe.

In the silence during the drive home, I made up my mind. The following week, Michael took the Mary J out on an overnight fishing trip up the coast. I packed the suitcases in the trunk, set Lisa on the back seat and drove onto the highway going south. I had to take him by surprise this time, or he’d defeat me again. I’d had time to prepare. My wallet held the money that I’d been saving for months. My friend Linda agreed to let me stay at their flat in the City. I had tasted control, and I liked it.