Chapter 23

Sometimes, when I seem to be staring to you ... I'm not. If you see me jerk and look a little embarrassed it's because I'm back from wherever I've been. Lately, I've been spending quite a bit of time there instead of here. Which gives me furiously to think, Is where I've been actually where I'm supposed to be and this is where I'm not?

Ah, yes. Raised eyebrows. Mine did, too.

Such long ranging thoughts are not a good thing when one is in the middle of a fresh water ocean that has a lot of BIG traffic and ones mind gives the I don't know where I've been, but I'm back, jerk ... what was I doing before I left? Steering ... ah ... yes ... steering. You should get back to steering, David. Umh ... SSE that's about 165 degrees from north. Hey. That's what I've been steering. At least I've been paying attention while I've been gone. I think.

What brought me back? The radar has no imminent disasters reported. The wind hasn't changed ... much. Nice star lit night, a fingernail clipping of moon hung out to dry ... dead east. South looks good. West is still all lit up. North ... umh ... what happened to north?

Nice thing about an aluminum boat ... when the helmsman stomps on deck the crew can hear it.

Chief Petty Officer Pieter Olsen USCG, stuck his head out of the hatch ... that put him looking dead north.

"Holy Shit!" He stuck his head back inside and yelled, "Grace! Suits! Close hatches!" He came up out of the cabin and stood near me, "I have the wheel, David, get all the canvas off her you can! Venting!"

I grabbed the mainsail bag out of the cockpit locker, released the out haul on the boom end, unclipped the clew at the foot of the mast and started to lower and pack the main in the bag ... lower and stuff, lower and stuff, There wasn't any time to do accordion folds ... just get that monster in the bag.

The diesel fired up and we began a slow turn into the wind. I was stuffing the main into the bag as fast as I could. I had the halliard in hand and clipped to the mast, and loosed the roller furling. There was still a scrap of jib out of the roller furling when the first wave hit. The crash and shatter of the teapot and several mugs told me whoever made tea didn't secure before they hit the rack. There were interesting noises when I pitched the mainsail bag down into the salon. Then there was an outrageous corkscrew roll and myself pitched after the bag. I could do the vector mathematics and my old brain said the table is in the flightpath. While I was in the air, my teenage brain thought, This is gonna hurt!

I hate being right.

I was tied into the starboard bunk and the sun was shining through the porthole on the halo of a classic nordic blue-eyed blonde angel. This beautiful angel looked a lot like Gretchen Sorensen ... except angels don't normally wield bloody wet washcloths.

Ah ... Gretchen ... angels don't mop up blood.

I am certain Heaven doesn't have diesels ... Heaven especially doesn't rock and roll violently and Heaven doesn't make me puke.

Hmm, I thought as Gretchen poured the contents of my stomach from the basin into the bucket tied to the mast, Someone broke the table.

And then the headache hit and my stretcher was being lifted out of the cockpit by four stalwart giants wearing blue sweaters with USCG across the back ... at least the two at my feet had that ... I couldn't read the two at my head. Then I couldn't SEE the two men at my feet OR the two at my head.