The sea, the sea, the sea. It heaves and rolls and rumbles at me.
The winds have been howling since last night at sunset, and we’ve nearly worn ourselves out coping. When the wind first picked up, we reefed the main, pulling it down and tying the bottom to itself to make the sail smaller, and we were about to reef the mizzen when the main boom broke. We’d been fearing that would happen.
Uncle Dock and Uncle Mo lashed the ends together with line, torqued it with a steel pipe, and then lashed the pipe to the boom. We’re praying it holds.
The wind howls around the sails, lunging at us from one side and then careening around the other, knocking us off our feet. The waves swell and grow, blowing streaks of foam. I don’t know how to judge how high they are—they seem two stories high—and you can’t believe it’s water standing up like that, arching over you.
We’ve now double-reefed both sails and Uncle Dock is barking orders in true captain fashion. I’m glad I know what most of the terms mean. You don’t have time to think about where starboard is or where the bosun’s locker is or the difference between a halyard and an outhaul; you have to know. And I’m glad that I’ve touched every line and pulley on The Wanderer and know how things work, because I feel as if I’m really helping and right now it doesn’t matter if it’s a girl or a boy doing it, as long as somebody gets it done.
Dock is calling—