Chapter 50
Now
It is nighttime and Annie is still sailing.
She sleeps in twenty-minute chunks, scouting the horizon in between, keeping watch, checking her instincts. The dark surface
of the water is electrified by Galene’s running lights, the moon, the twinkle of starlight.
It is still north.
She does not feel tired.
Morning reveals good winds. She boils water and eats a mug of oatmeal in the cockpit while writing her coordinates in Galene’s ledger. Midway through her entry, a very subtle drag weighs at the bottom of the boat.
She checks the bearing and the gauges. The wind is constant, the sails are full, only an occasional flutter, but Galene isn’t moving the way it should.
Something must be caught on the keel or the rudder. She looks over the transom at the lacy foam, the flowing wake. Then she
sees it: netting and several entangled crab pots. They drag behind like innocent stowaways.
She’ll have to cut them loose.
Annie climbs back into the cockpit and fishes out a life jacket from the lazarette. After fastening the straps, she takes a knife from the drawer under the helm. She will step down the ladder, reach across, slip the knife under the orange netting, and cut. It will take less than a minute.
It seems reasonable.
Considering all the times she’s negotiated a boat deck and the calm seas she’s had all morning, she does not expect the sudden
wave that rocks Galene as she steps onto the ladder. The crest of water knocks her off balance.
Annie loses her grip.
She falls as if in slow motion, plunging into the cold with a face full of salt water. She surfaces with a gasp, wiping sea
from her eyes, filling her lungs with air.
She realizes instantly what is happening.
The boat has drifted. She swims—-kicking hard, life jacket in the way, arms reaching and reaching—-but not fast enough. She
watches in disbelief as Galene sails on without her.
How long can you float before freezing to death?
Annie has been in the water for hours. Her thoughts go round and round, she berates herself: She should have dropped the sails,
left the crab pots and tried to anchor first. She has screamed and flailed. She has yelled for help.
But she’s still here, floating alone in the sea.
Galene is a blip in the distance now.
Annie’s limbs feel hot, and she knows this is a bad sign; this is the end coming for her. Her teeth have stopped chattering.
She’s fluctuating in and out of consciousness, sleepy, engrossed by the empty horizon. The water tickles her cheeks like it’s
playing. Her lips are dry, her tongue rough and swollen against the roof of her mouth. Water camps out in her ears.
Waiting for death is unbearable.
Should she unclip her life jacket and be done with it? Drowning might be easier than freezing. She feels for the clip. She is so weak, her fingers so numb, she cannot squeeze the buckle to release it.
Eventually, night swoops in with endless stars that blur together, then pull apart like strobe lights. She doesn’t know how
she could possibly be still alive. Her body can’t hold time in order. Her skin is still delusionally hot, like she’s inside
a steaming bathtub.
On the edge of awake and asleep, a whining sound reverberates through her skin.
Is she hallucinating? Logical thinking is failing. A sharp click, followed by a whistle. Annie can’t keep her eyes open.
Sleep, or death. Some kind of oblivion arrives.
Annie stands at the helm of Amphitrite. It is suddenly daytime and squinty bright. Her mom is inches away in the cockpit, her eyes sparkling as she talks of whimsical
things like shell necklaces and marshmallows over fires, conch shells and purple starfish.
Mara’s musical laugh spirals, an instrument playing Annie from the inside out, stirring the recesses of her brain. A thing
she used to remember. Nothing feels as complicated anymore. The open ocean holds her. Mara and her sound envelop her in a
watery cocoon.
But then Mara is removing her clothing. One piece at a time, she tosses them to the wind, until she’s naked and standing at
the transom. She peers over the edge as if she’s about to jump.
Annie shouts.
But words do not come. Her mouth opens to an empty silence. She reaches out, but Mara dives off the boat, taking her music
with her.
Annie scans the black water, a slurry of bubbles where her mother should be surfacing. She’s not there. Her vision clouds.
The bubbles merge into a piercing tunnel of sound that eclipses the rest.
It is no longer bright.
Darkness cloaks everything.
It is loud; a humming that moves up into her belly, honey-like and thick.
It is even warmer. Heat rises from her toes.
The sea must be coming for her, as if the only thing that could satisfy her would be to consume her whole. Somewhere in her
gut, Annie knows she is dying.
Let me tell you a story. Mara’s voice returns.
Startled, she opens her eyes. She’s still floating in the ocean. Galene is far in the distance.
But Annie is not alone.
A humpback whale swims beneath her. Its knobby head moves gently under her fingertips. A guttural moan fills the waters around.
All of them sing to her in concert: the sea and the whale and Mara’s dream voice. Annie opens her mouth. Salt gushes in. She
isn’t alone anymore, swallowing it down, the sea itself funnelling into her.
And Mara tells her, back in the heart of the darkness, I hear you, singing the words.