After a straight run to Tortola’s Western tip, we tacked and headed north, back towards White Bay, before the wind eventually hushed and then died completely. We hauled in the sails and secured a line off one of the rear cleats, then engaged in the same mad scramble that Jude and I used to whenever the sails came down in the middle of the lake—trying to strip off shirts, hats and sunglasses to see who could be the first into the water. I won by leaping low over the railing while my father climbed atop it for a higher dive, costing him precious seconds. The sun, hiding behind a grayish wall of haze, wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it’d been the past few days; the water was refreshing regardless, as we were still in the midst of mid-80s temperatures.
It was some 50-odd feet deep where we swam, making it fruitless to bother with the anchor; even though the wind was barely blowing, the boat was constantly drifting, although not so quickly that we couldn’t grab a hold of the line we’d tossed out to go along for the slow ride. I hoisted myself onto the swimming platform off the stern and remembered that I’d brought a tennis ball for this very moment. Soaking wet, I clambered quickly down to my berth, trying to drip as little as possible, eventually emerging victorious in the cockpit, little yellow-green ball in hand. I tossed it out to Ken, comfortably lazing behind the boat. With one hand fixed around the rope, he caught it easily in the other.
“Ready?” he asked, warming up his throwing arm. I climbed up onto the top of the cabin, standing to the port side of the boom and facing the water. He cocked his right arm back and counted “One. Two. Three!”
He winged it good, a high floater. I bent my knees and jumped, keeping my eye on the ball as it sailed toward me, although a little above my head. As I plunged into the ocean, I stretched both hands above my head, cupping them together into a basket for the ball to drop into. Instantly I went under, but felt the fuzzy ball slap against my left hand—I grabbed it tightly and held it aloft, above the water, as proof of my catch. I surfaced a moment later, still holding my prize atop the surface while wiping the salty water from my eyes.
“Nice grab,” he commented as he swam towards the boat for his turn. When he used to play these games of catch with me and Jude, we’d position two of us on one side of the boat and one on the other, then toss the ball back-and-forth like jugglers, trying to time our jumps and throws just right. Even describing it for you now makes the game sound ridiculously simple and a slightly pedantic, but it was one of those rituals that families have, like scratching the living room ceiling with the top of the always-too-tall Christmas tree (a mark for each year) or being the first person to say “rabbits rabbits” to the rest of the family on the first day of each month (it’s supposed to bring good luck). Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed our ridiculously simple and slightly pedantic game, though, and I found that familiarity comforting, like a soft, dry towel wrapped around my shoulders after a long swim.
Ken threw the ball back to me as I grabbed hold of the rope trailing behind the boat. I didn’t give him as good a throw, however, and the ball sailed wide, a few feet past his outstretched hand. He swam after the floating yellow sphere and the game continued for a while—leaping, splashing, swimming, throwing, catching, missing a few here and there. It was every American family’s backyard version of father and son playing a game of catch, only our backyard was now a turquoise stretch of tropical ocean instead of a green patch of suburban lawn. The camaraderie was the same, though, just as it had been when there were three of us playing the game, back and forth. We laughed and teased each other good-naturedly when someone threw an errant pass or fudged a catch off his fingertips.
After a half-hour of the game, I climbed atop the cabin for one last jump and noticed that Ken’s attention was focused on the horizon. I looked off to the west and saw what had caught his eye. Remember those amorphous low-lying cumulus clouds I described during the gorgeous sunset last night? Well, they were back—lurking hands curling into menacing fists, their color deepening from a frosted light gray to a tarnished, inky blue. All around us the sea flattened to an eerie glassy calm and I shivered as the temperature dropped; my dad swam quickly to the boat and pulled in the line behind him.
“I should’ve known when the wind died that this was coming,” he muttered, turning the key to fire up the engine. Rubbing the goose bumps back into the flesh of my arms, I climbed down into the cockpit and cautioned a look back at the giant anvil-shaped cloud sweeping toward us, already releasing its payload on St. Thomas, some ten miles away.
“You think we can outrun it?” I asked.
“I hope so,” Ken replied. “Just to be safe, why don’t you throw the sail cover on while I get us going.” I ducked below and grabbed the royal blue canvas cover, then hopped up and snapped it in place over the boom and the lower section of the mast as my father eased the throttle down, steering us back toward Jost Van Dyke and Great Harbour.
Note: I received my first proof from my publisher on Monday. Here's a mock-up of the cover:
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