Read Online Red Sea by Diane Tullson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diane Tullson
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in the cockpit. âSo much for neat-and-tidy, Duncan. I guess the storm undid your coils.â Each rope feeds through a cleat on the cabin roof. Each of these is labeled, of course. I find the cleat labeled
Mainsheet
and haul on that rope to secure the boom. The one marked
Headsail/Genoa
I begin to unravel from the others.
When Duncan unfurled the genoa, he did it at the same time as he pulled it in on one side of the boat or the other. That way the sail doesnât flail, which I guess is hard on the sailcloth. I know which ropes control the sail. (âSheets, Lib, not ropes.â I get it, Duncan.) These feed through blocks on either side of the cockpit and have figure-eight knots in the ends. This was the first knot I learned to tie, the figure-eight stopper knot. Duncan taught me using a string of black licorice. Every knot I tied right I could bite off and eat. My mother hates black licorice. Duncanâs not wild about it either. He bought it because I like it.
In the mess of ropes I find one sodden flare that disintegrates when I pick it up. I toss the ruined flare in the sea. I coil all the ropes, making sense of which go where, including the one attached to the top of the mainsail. This one is called a halyard, who knows why. If I lowered the mainsail, I could pack the rags of sail into the long canvas bagattached to the boom. The pirates took Duncanâs spare sails, so thereâs nothing to hoist in place of the tattered mainsail, but at least the useless sail would be out of the way and not making me crazy with the flapping. Iâve never done this job by myself either, but Iâve helped Duncan and my mother. They like to lower the sail into orderly folds that they flake evenly over the boom before drawing the bag around it. Iâm not after beautiful sail stowage. I uncleat the halyard and let the rope fly.
About half the sail plummets into the cockpit, an immense expanse of tattered sailcloth that piles onto my head. Cursing, I mound it onto the boom and cram it down inside the canvas bag. The boom is higher than Iâm tall, so I stuff the sail above my head, feeling with my hands where thereâs room to shove more sail. With each armful of sail-cloth Iâm able to stow, more bursts free from the constraints of the bag. Finally, though, I can pull the rest of the sail down into the bag. As lumpy as Iâve stuffed the bag, itâs impossible to pull the zipper closed to hold everything in place. Instead, I wrap the boom in three places with webbing straps. The bag looks like a giant snake thatâs eaten several distinct meals.
I turn my attention to the headsail. Furled, the genoa is wound into a tight roll at the bow of the boat. In a perfect world, it will unwind into a powerful, pulling wing. But it is not a perfect world, that much I know. I let slip the furling line.
Thereâs not much wind, so the genoa uncoils like a flaccid flag. Optimistically, I winch it in on the left side of theboat, cleating the genoa sheet, ready for the imaginary wind that will take me out of here.
Although, which way I should steer is not immediately clear. The gunmanâs bullets managed to miss the compass on the steering post. I remember from plotting the course with Emma that weâre heading northwest, not that Iâm going anywhere anyway. I flop down onto the cockpit bench. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I tip my head to rest on the back of the bench.
Each one of my muscles feels like an over-stretched rubber band. There must be several hundred muscles just in the back of my neck. The ones in my legs are denying all direction from my brain. Apparently, I even have muscles in my lungs, because the act of breathing is difficult.
The others in the flotilla will be wringing themselves out after the storm. Emma has her foul weather gear hung out to dry in the cockpit. Mac is making them lunch, a peppery omelet, maybe.
The thought of the eggs broken below, and Eggman, makes
Mainsheet
and haul on that rope to secure the boom. The one marked
Headsail/Genoa
I begin to unravel from the others.
When Duncan unfurled the genoa, he did it at the same time as he pulled it in on one side of the boat or the other. That way the sail doesnât flail, which I guess is hard on the sailcloth. I know which ropes control the sail. (âSheets, Lib, not ropes.â I get it, Duncan.) These feed through blocks on either side of the cockpit and have figure-eight knots in the ends. This was the first knot I learned to tie, the figure-eight stopper knot. Duncan taught me using a string of black licorice. Every knot I tied right I could bite off and eat. My mother hates black licorice. Duncanâs not wild about it either. He bought it because I like it.
In the mess of ropes I find one sodden flare that disintegrates when I pick it up. I toss the ruined flare in the sea. I coil all the ropes, making sense of which go where, including the one attached to the top of the mainsail. This one is called a halyard, who knows why. If I lowered the mainsail, I could pack the rags of sail into the long canvas bagattached to the boom. The pirates took Duncanâs spare sails, so thereâs nothing to hoist in place of the tattered mainsail, but at least the useless sail would be out of the way and not making me crazy with the flapping. Iâve never done this job by myself either, but Iâve helped Duncan and my mother. They like to lower the sail into orderly folds that they flake evenly over the boom before drawing the bag around it. Iâm not after beautiful sail stowage. I uncleat the halyard and let the rope fly.
About half the sail plummets into the cockpit, an immense expanse of tattered sailcloth that piles onto my head. Cursing, I mound it onto the boom and cram it down inside the canvas bag. The boom is higher than Iâm tall, so I stuff the sail above my head, feeling with my hands where thereâs room to shove more sail. With each armful of sail-cloth Iâm able to stow, more bursts free from the constraints of the bag. Finally, though, I can pull the rest of the sail down into the bag. As lumpy as Iâve stuffed the bag, itâs impossible to pull the zipper closed to hold everything in place. Instead, I wrap the boom in three places with webbing straps. The bag looks like a giant snake thatâs eaten several distinct meals.
I turn my attention to the headsail. Furled, the genoa is wound into a tight roll at the bow of the boat. In a perfect world, it will unwind into a powerful, pulling wing. But it is not a perfect world, that much I know. I let slip the furling line.
Thereâs not much wind, so the genoa uncoils like a flaccid flag. Optimistically, I winch it in on the left side of theboat, cleating the genoa sheet, ready for the imaginary wind that will take me out of here.
Although, which way I should steer is not immediately clear. The gunmanâs bullets managed to miss the compass on the steering post. I remember from plotting the course with Emma that weâre heading northwest, not that Iâm going anywhere anyway. I flop down onto the cockpit bench. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I tip my head to rest on the back of the bench.
Each one of my muscles feels like an over-stretched rubber band. There must be several hundred muscles just in the back of my neck. The ones in my legs are denying all direction from my brain. Apparently, I even have muscles in my lungs, because the act of breathing is difficult.
The others in the flotilla will be wringing themselves out after the storm. Emma has her foul weather gear hung out to dry in the cockpit. Mac is making them lunch, a peppery omelet, maybe.
The thought of the eggs broken below, and Eggman, makes
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