Beth called out over the noise of the storm, "Do you know what you're doing?"
"Sure. I took a course once called Suddenly in Command."
"About boats?"
"I think so." I looked at her, and she looked back at me. I said, "Thanks for coming."
She said, "Drive."
The Formula was at half throttle, which is how I think you're supposed to keep control in a storm. I mean, we seemed to be above the water about half the time, flying over the troughs, then slicing right into the oncoming waves where the propellers would whine, then bite into the water and shoot us forward like a surfboard into the oncoming sea again. The one thing I knew I had to do was to keep the bow into the oncoming waves and keep from being broadsided by a big one. The boat would probably not sink, but it could capsize. I'd seen capsized boats in the bay after lesser storms than this.
Beth called out, "Do you know how to navigate?"
"Sure. Red right return."
"What does that mean?"
"You keep the red marker on your right when returning to harbor."
"We're not returning to the harbor. We're leaving."
"Oh… then look for green markers."
"I don't see any markers," she informed me.
"Neither do I." I added, "I'll just stay to the right of the double white line. Can't go wrong doing that."
She didn't reply.
I tried to get my head into a nautical frame of mine. Boating is not my number one hobby, but I'd been a guest on a lot of boats over the years, and I figured I'd sucked up some facts since I was a kid. And in June, July, and August, I'd been out with the Gordons about a dozen times, and Tom was a nonstop chatterer, and he liked to share his nautical enthusiasm and knowledge with me. I don't recall paying a lot of attention (being more interested in Judy in her bikini), but I was positive there was a little pigeonhole in my cerebral cortex labeled "Boats." I just had to locate it. In fact, I was sure I knew more about boats than I realized. I hoped so.
We were now well into the Peconic Bay, and the boat was slamming very hard into the water-jarring, teeth-rattling thumps, one after the other, like a car driving over railroad ties, and I could feel my stomach getting out of sync with the vertical movement of the boat; when the boat was down, my stomach was still up, and when the boat was tossed into the air, my stomach dropped down. Or so it seemed. I couldn't see a thing through the windshield, so I stood and looked over the windshield, my butt braced against the seat behind me, my right hand on the steering wheel, my left on a handgrip on the dashboard. I'd swallowed enough saltwater to raise my blood pressure fifty points. Also, the salt was starting to burn my eyes. I glanced at Beth and saw she was wiping her eyes, too.
To my right, I saw a huge sailboat lying on its side in the water, its keel barely visible and its mast and sail swamped. "Good God…"
Beth said, "Do they need help?"
"I don't see anyone."
I got closer to the sailboat, but there was no sign of anyone clinging to the masts or rigging. I found the horn button on the dashboard and gave a few blasts, but I still didn't see any signs of life. I said to Beth, "They may have taken a life raft to shore."
Beth didn't reply.
We pressed on. I remembered that I was the guy who didn't even like the gentle rolling of the ferry boat, and here I was in a thirty-foot open speedboat plowing through a near hurricane.
I could feel the impacts in my feet, like someone was slapping the soles of my shoes with a club, and the shock traveled up my legs to my knees and hips, which were starting to ache now. In other words, it sucked.
I was getting nauseous from the salt, the motion, the constant slamming into the waves, and also from my inability to see or separate the horizon from the water. Add to this my precarious post-trauma physical condition… I recalled Max assuring me this wouldn't be strenuous. If he were here now, I'd tie him to the bow.
Through the rain, I could see the shoreline to my left about two hundred yards, and up ahead to my right I could see the dim outline of Shelter Island. I knew we would be a little safer once I got into the protected passage on the leeward side of the island, which I guess is why it's called Shelter Island. I said to Beth, "I can put you ashore on Shelter Island."
"You can steer the damned boat and stop worrying about frail little Beth."
"Yes, ma am."
She added, in a nicer tone of voice, "I've been on rough water before, John. I know when to panic."
"Good. Tell me when."
"Close," she said. "Meanwhile, I'm going below to get some life vests and see if I can find something more comfortable to wear."
"Good idea." I added, "Wash the salt out of your eyes and also look for a chart."
She disappeared down the companionway between the two seats. The Formula 303 has a good-sized cabin for a speedboat and also has a head, which might come in handy real soon. Basically, it's a comfortable, seaworthy craft, and I always felt safe when Tom or Judy was at the helm. Also, Tom and Judy, like John Corey, didn't like rough weather, and at the first sign of a whitecap, we'd be heading back. Yet here I was, confronting one of my A-List fears, looking it right in the eye, so to speak, and it was spitting at me. And crazy as it sounds, I almost enjoyed the ride-the feel of the throttles as I adjusted power, the vibrations of the engines, the helm in my hand. Suddenly in command. I'd been sitting on the back porch too long.
I stood, one hand on the wheel, one on the top of the windshield to keep my balance. I peered into the driving rain, scanning the heaving sea for a boat, a Chris-Craft to be exact, but I could barely make out the horizon or the shore, let alone another boat.
Beth came up the stairs and handed me a life vest. "Put this on." She shouted, "I'll hold the wheel." Still standing, she took the wheel as I put on the life vest. I saw that she had a pair of binoculars hung around her neck. She also had a pair of jeans under her yellow slicker and was wearing a pair of boating shoes as well as an orange life vest. I asked, "Are you wearing Fredric's clothes?"
"I hope not. I think these belong to Sondra Wells. A little tight." She added, "I laid a chart out on the table if you want to take a look."
I asked her, "Can you read a chart?"
"A little. How about you?"
"No problem. Blue is water, brown is land. I'll look at it later."
Beth said, "I looked for a radio down there, but I didn't see one."
"I can sing. Do you like 'Oklahoma'?"
"John… please don't be an idiot. I mean, the ship-to-shore radio. To send distress calls."
"Oh… that. Well, there's no radio here either."
She said, "There's a mobile phone recharger down below, but no phone."
"Right. People tend to use mobile phones in small boats. Me, I prefer a two-way radio. In any case, what you're saying is that we're out of touch."
"That's right. We can't even send an SOS."
"Well, neither could the people on the Mayflower. Don't worry about it."
She ignored me and said, "I found a signal pistol." She tapped the big pocket of her slicker.
I didn't think anyone could see a signal flare tonight, but I said, "Good. We may need it later."
I took the helm again, and Beth sat on the stairs in the companion-way beside me. We took a break from shouting above the storm and sat in silence awhile. We were both soaked, our stomachs were churning, and we were scared. Yet some of the terror of riding through the storm had passed, I think, as we realized that every wave was not going to sink us.
After about ten minutes, Beth stood and moved close to me so she could be heard. She asked, "Do you really think he's going to Plum Island?"