We’ve been trying to use the sextant for navigation, since our GPS is “toast,” as Uncle Dock says. Brian and Uncle Stew are the only ones any good with the sextant, and I heard Cody say to them, “Sure glad you guys know how to work that thing.”
They both looked up at Cody and smiled. They didn’t even say anything snotty to him.
Cody came and sat next to me. “You know,” he said, “maybe that’s all anybody wants, is to be useful.” He tied end-knots in each of my shoelaces. “And have somebody else notice it,” he added.
“You’re useful, Cody,” I said.
“So are you, Sierra-Oscar,” he said.
I’ve had a lot of trouble being on watch ever since The Wave. The waves aren’t nearly as big now, but it’s just too frightening. I’m always looking behind me, convinced that every wave with the slightest bit of foam on it is going to be a reincarnation of The Wave.
It seems a hundred years ago that we were lobstering and clamming on Grand Manan and trekking around Wood Island, and it seems a hundred years ago that we were eager to get under way, oblivious to what lay in wait for us.
I feel as if I have to start all over to love sailing again, because I don’t love it now. I just want to get to Bompie and forget about the ocean for a while.
But we’re not there yet. We’re here.
I feel as if there were things inside me that were safely tucked away, sort of like the bilge down there, hidden under the floorboards of The Wanderer. But it feels as if the boards were blown off by The Wave and things are floating around and I don’t know where to put them.
Brilliant Cody spotted and contacted a Canadian warship, which verified our position. We’re near the shipping lanes now, so if we can spot at least one ship a day, Cody will be able to call them on the VHF radio and ask for their position.
We’re 500 miles from Ireland, less than a week away, with luck, and then on to England.
Oh, Bompie!