19. Hands on the Wheel
Hands on the Wheel
Josie
Our first morning starts as a bit of a bummer. “Holy fog, Batman,” I say, walking out the back door of Wyatt’s house at six o’clock.
I’m talking to myself because Wyatt is already on board. At least I think that’s Wyatt and I think that’s the boat. The vague shape of a tall person—a hockey player–shaped person— moving around has to be him.
I refuse to see the fog as some kind of omen. But it’s wild— other than the one morning I woke to a torrential downpour that lasted less than an hour, every morning since I arrived has been bright. Hot. Sunny.
Then today we get fog. Not pea soup fog either. It’s more of a nice, creamy baked potato soup.
“Come on, Jib.”
She’s off before I finish talking, running ahead and barking out a greeting to Wyatt. She only pauses to lift her leg on a dock piling. Because yes, lifting her leg is Jib’s potty preference.
“Really?” Wyatt asks as I reach the boat. He’s looking from me to Jib. More specifically, at what Jib’s wearing.
“What? Too on the nose for you?”
Today I have her decked out in a little rain outfit: a yellow slicker, matching yellow hat, and black boots that fit over her tiny paws. I’ve never seen something so cute. Honestly.
Ridiculous and unnecessary? Yes.
But if you have a rain slicker, when better to use it than a foggy morning?
With a sigh, Wyatt scoops up Jib and pulls her onto the boat. She snuggles happily against his chest. I don’t blame her—it’s a great chest for snuggling into—and though he turns away, I don’t miss Wyatt’s smile.
I never would have predicted it, but now I see little signs of Wyatt’s kindness every day. And it’s leaving me with a very nagging sense that I’ve spent years misunderstanding him.
Such a secret softie.
“Are you coming?” he asks a little abruptly.
A secret softie wrapped in porcupine quills.
I hop onto the boat, saying goodbye to land for the next few weeks.
Okay—that’s slightly dramatic. It’s not like some ocean passage where we won’t actually set foot on solid ground for days or weeks at a time.
According to our plan, we’ll get off the boat almost every day.
We have to, at the very least, for Jib to go to the bathroom.
Wyatt swears she’ll learn to use the little patch of synthetic grass he bought for her—and he gives me a hard time about buying her outfits!
—but so far on our test sails out to the Chesapeake Bay, she’s proven she won’t.
All things considered, the trip down to just south of Savannah and back should take us around three to four weeks.
Barring any delays, Wyatt likes to remind me.
And we really need to avoid delays. There’s still plenty of summer left, but I never intended to be gone more than a week.
And if Wyatt’s ready, he’ll head back to preseason training camp in Boston.
Neither of which are things I want to think about.
When I asked him what kind of delays we could have, Wyatt said, “It’s life. There are always unplanned issues, whether you’re on a boat or on land.”
True. But because I like to be prepared, I googled What can go wrong on a sailing trip? and now unfortunately have a whole litany of disasters to worry about. Despite my growing excitement, this trip is so far out of my comfort zone it’s not on my comfort planet .
Throw in the idea of storms or the boat breaking down and my brain goes to a bad place.
And yes, I know I take the kinds of trips with my brother where he’ll text me an address and I’ll show up, but that’s Jacob .
We grew up together. Shared life, shared memories, shared DNA.
I might not know the details (and honestly, his track record for these trips is horrible), but I know I can count on him.
It’s not comfortable, but I’m more used to it. To him.
With Wyatt, there are so many unknowns.
We’ve shared a house, shared a trip to the hospital, and shared some nice moments lately. Like, for example, last night after my nightmare. (And after he recovered from me kicking him in the baby-making parts.) But...
But.
But.
But.
I still think this whole thing could blow up in my face.
We’ll see, I guess—because after taking a deep breath, I get on the boat.
“What can I do?” I ask Wyatt after stowing my backpack in my cabin.
Jib is at the prow of the boat, lying down on the little grass patch she’s supposed to use as her bathroom, while Wyatt frowns at his phone. He glances up and slides it into his pocket.
“Nothing. We’re ready. If you’re ready.”
It’s a statement, but there’s a question in his voice. I can hear the unspoken offer. It’s not too late to change your mind about this.
But I smile and tug on the brim of my baseball cap. “Let’s hoist the anchor, raise the sails, and bon voyage!”
Wyatt shakes his head. “Please stop with the sailing terms. You sound like someone who spent the last few weeks researching sailing.”
“That’s exactly what I did.”
Lo and behold—Wyatt chuckles. “I know. But technically we’ll be motoring a lot of the way, so what you’re saying is also wrong. We won’t raise the sails until we’re in the bay, depending on this fog.”
“Sheesh. Batten down your hatches.”
He waves a hand toward the front of the boat. “Help me cast off.”
“Aye, aye—”
“Don’t say it, I beg you.”
“ Captain .”
“Are you going to do this the whole time?” he asks.
“What—be utterly charming and fun? Or pepper every conversation with sailing terms even if I’m using them incorrectly?”
“Both.”
“Probably.”
“Fine,” he says. “Now pull in the bumpers.”
And...we’re off.
The fog burns off quickly, and things are uneventful for the first hour. And according to Wyatt, uneventful on a boat is good.
We reach the Chesapeake Bay where we’ll switch from the engine to sails—just as we’ve done almost daily for the last ten days. Now, though, adrenaline and anxiety twist in my gut. Because this is it. Not practice. The real thing.
Wyatt and me on the not-so-open seas. I swallow and squeeze my hands into fists.
“Josie?”
I glance over at Wyatt. “Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Totally.”
He watches me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to confess the truth. Which is that I’m honestly trying not to freak out. I must convince him because Wyatt gives me a brisk nod and moves on.
“Take the wheel,” he orders.
Instantly, nerves flutter in my stomach.
But I fight them off by giving them the coldest of cold shoulders. Nerves? What nerves? Setting Jib down from her perch on my lap, I stride over to the wheel with all the faux confidence I can muster.
No biggie. I can steer a ship. Boat. Whatever.
I’ve steered before during our practice sails, but even so, I don’t know how many times it would take for me to feel at ease.
How many years of sailing does it take to do all this with Wyatt’s confidence?
I watch him move around the deck, tying and untying and fastening and doing all the things needed to switch from motor to sail. Some of the steps I remember; some I don’t. Mentally, I go over various boat terms like I’m giving myself a pop quiz. Mainsail, headsail (or jib), cleat, sheet.
And if, while doing so, I happen to admire Wyatt’s effortless movements around the boat, not a single person could blame me. I find my brain zipping from sailing parts to muscle groups as Wyatt’s strain against his T-shirt: trapezius, deltoids, triceps, latissimus dorsi.
If there were a combo quiz on sailing and men’s muscle groups, I’d get an A plus.
It’s also great to see him fully mobile with hardly a limp. His progress—once he decided to actually make progress—was impressive. He has an orthotic insert inside his shoe to support the arch, but you’d never know from looking that he’s a few months out from a serious injury.
“Watch the markers,” Wyatt says sharply, and I realize that while watching the sails and the man raising them, my attention drifted from my one task.
I reorient myself, glancing quickly at the screen a few feet away that shows our speed (four knots) and our direction (southeast). Then I glance out at the water, seeking out channel markers.
“Red, right, returning,” I mutter. I remember the phrase, but at the moment, it confuses me.
We’re not returning. So red shouldn’t be on my right—right? Green. I want green on my right.
“Let me.” Wyatt is suddenly beside me, his voice tight as he uses his shoulder to nudge me aside and takes the wheel.
I stand there for a long moment, feeling the sharp sting of embarrassment as Wyatt cuts the boat sharply to the left. A gull glides overhead, laughing.
I know, logically, it’s not laughing at me. But I want to throw something at it anyway.
“Hey,” Wyatt says, catching my eye. His voice is gentler than before. “It’s fine. You were doing fine.”
I nod quickly and take a seat, glad when Jib rushes over and plunks down in my lap. She’s lost one of her boots. I tug her hat off—after all, the sun is now beating down on us—and stroke her ears.
Wyatt’s wrong, of course. I was too far over, past the channel markers. And my brain shorted out and took too long to remember the knowledge I needed immediately. I could have run us aground. The thought of how quickly and easily I messed up has my stomach knotting uncomfortably.
“Josie, I’m serious.”
“I wasn’t paying enough attention,” I say, sounding stubborn. “I lost sight of the channel markers.”
“You’re still learning. It will take time for this to be second nature. If you beat yourself up every time you make a mistake or forget something, you’ll make yourself miserable. Stop.”
“Okay,” I say, but I can tell by the way his frown deepens he hears the same tremor in my voice that I do.
“Come here,” Wyatt says, the command firm but not sharp like when he warned me to watch where I was going.
It’s the kind of authority I can’t help but respond to.
Nudging Jib off my lap, I walk sti?y over to him, squinting in the sun. Wyatt takes one hand off the wheel and steps back a little.
“Here,” he says, but I shake my head.
“I need a minute,” I tell him.