The Wave. The Wave. It blew me straight through the canvas dodger which covers the cabin, and onto the deck next to the rail. I was on my back, like a turtle, arms and legs flailing for something to grab on to. My first instinct was to do whatever it took to get out of there before another wave hit. My harness was on and it had held; if it hadn’t, I would have been far behind the boat by then.
I saw Uncle Stew, with his yellow face sticking out of the main hatch. He looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach. His mouth was hanging open and he was staring straight ahead.
All I could think of was Where are Cody and Uncle Dock?
Uncle Stew grabbed at my harness and pulled me back through the dodger hole and down the hatch. Below, I slumped onto the navigation table. My legs were killing me. I thought they were both broken. I felt sick and battered and my heart seemed to be beating faster than my body knew how to keep up, and my legs couldn’t hold me even though I was sitting down.
I slid onto the floor in at least a foot of water, trying to focus on where people were and if everyone was still on board and if everyone was okay. There were clothes and bits of food sloshing around. There was Uncle Stew. And Uncle Mo. Brian. My brain couldn’t count, couldn’t focus.
I crawled across the floor. Who was missing? Stew. Mo. Brian. They were all here. I was scrabbling across the floor through the water and the sloshing crud. And then I was screaming, “Cody Dock Cody Dock!” I made it to the aft cabin and collapsed on top of a pile of wet clothes. “Cody Dock Cody Dock!”
And then Brian was there, kneeling beside me. “He’s okay, Sophie. He’s okay. He’s up top.”
“Who’s up top?”
“Dock. He’s okay.”
“But Cody? Where’s Cody?”
There was a blur of people racing to and fro, scrambling to pump out the water.
“He’s okay, Sophie,” Brian said. “He’s here. I saw him.”
“What happened to your arm? It looks funny.”
Brian cradled his right arm in his left. “Banged it, I guess.”
My brain kept insisting on making sure everyone was there. I must have gone through everyone’s name twenty times, and each time I’d tell myself where each person was: Dock: he’s working the emergency bilge pump. Mo: he’s on deck, securing the hatch. Brian: he’s bailing down here. Stew: he’s bailing, too. Cody? Where’s Cody? Where’s Cody? I always got stuck on Cody. Then I’d figure it out: he’s on deck.
And then there was Cody standing at the bottom of the ladder, his face covered in blood. The force of The Wave had blown his head right into the wheel, gashing open his nose and left eyebrow. He rushed past me into the bathroom.
I followed him and found him sitting on the floor with a bunch of Band-Aids on his lap, looking helpless and confused.
“Sophie?” he said. “Fix me.”
I crawled to the forecabin to get the emergency medical bag and crawled back to Cody and started in on his face, cleaning the blood off with fresh water. The gashes were deep, and when I began cleaning them with antiseptic, he winced and started vomiting.
I was babbling: “It’s okay, Cody, it’s okay, it’s the shock, it’s okay, Cody.”
I recleaned the gashes and put loads of gauze over his wounds and taped him up good. He looked pretty wretched, but his face was temporarily salvaged. I found him some dry clothes and helped him onto a bunk and covered him with wool blankets.
Pain darts are shooting up and down my legs while I’m sitting here next to Cody, keeping watch over him. All around me is the most appalling mess. The canvas dodger is lying halfway up the deck, and its metal frame, which had been bolted onto the deck, has been ripped out. The table in the cockpit is broken, our ham radio antenna gone, the hatch doors gone. The outdoor speakers are also gone, along with the bucket, a blue chair, and a bunch of cushions.
The top of the emergency fresh water container was blown off and the contents sucked out. The wood in the cockpit seems about three shades lighter now, scratched and gashed.
Down below, everything is soaked. Water came in through the hatch like water out of a fire hose, gunning everything in sight. A huge pot of chili, which was half full before The Wave hit, now is still half full, but the chili was blown right out of the pot and replaced by saltwater.
The GPS, ham radio, and radar are all shot, and the kerosene heater is smashed.
It feels as if we’re riding a bull, being slammed violently by every wave, hard, like rock against rock.