Changes in Latitudes Page 4

  She gestures with a grin to their dinghy, tied up alongside the one we’re towing behind our boat. I don’t know what qualifies one as being any better than another—after all, they’re not much bigger than a kayak and are basically glorified inflatable rafts with sides and small outboard engines, as far as I can tell—but I also don’t want to reveal my ignorance of all things nautical just yet, so I settle for a nod and a smile.

  She leans closer, darting a glance to make sure Abigail isn’t paying attention, and stage-whispers, “Between you and me, if I were ten years older and straight, Christian could give me a ride on his Zodiac anytime, if you know what I mean.”

  Um, I do know what she means, but I’m not exactly used to adults (especially ones I’ve known for two-point-three seconds) talking to me so casually on the topic of sex, and the best I can manage is a cough and another nod.

  Amy’s grin gets wider. “Oh, now I’ve embarrassed you. Miranda—that’s my wife—would kill me. I’m seriously the worst. No filter. She’s convinced our kids are going to spend all their future earnings on therapy sessions. Between my big mouth and them growing up out here . . .” She passes a hand vaguely through the air in the direction of the sea, then turns and calls, “Abigail, did you leave the salad in Tiki?”

  Abigail scrambles over the side and drops out of sight. By now, my mom and Drew are climbing the steps up from the cabin, and Mom’s smile of greeting is huge. My mother considers every stranger a friend she just hasn’t met yet. Reference: brief political aspirations. I’m only about 30 percent her and the other 70 percent my dad, who far prefers to meet new people inside the pages of books.

  While they introduce themselves, Abigail passes up a bowl covered in plastic wrap and hops inside the cockpit again. Immediately she moves to where Drew took the tail end of a rope that extended off one of the sails and wrapped it around a cleat using some weird crazy-eight pattern. Wordlessly, she begins unwinding and expertly retying it; the whole process takes her about six seconds.

  “You did this backward,” she states.

  Drew gets a pucker between his eyebrows and leans in closer. “Really? But it matched the picture on my iPad perfectly.”

  “Backward.” She lifts her chin, daring him to argue, before saying, “I can fix the rest of them if you want.”

  “Show me,” orders Drew, and the two of them take off for the bow, my brother looking like a giant next to the tiny girl. Abigail scrambles along the narrow deck like a sea monkey and I grimace, remembering the full five minutes of clutching at railings it took me to maneuver the same path. Granted, we were rocking some waves at the time, but still.

  “So what was that your daughter said about redheads and bananas? I could only hear a snippet from down below,” Mom is saying to Amy as I move closer to them.

  “Old sailors’ superstitions. It’s supposed to be bad luck to encounter a redhead before boarding. Except if you speak to them first it negates everything.”

  My mother’s eyebrows rise and her lips twitch in amusement as she asks, “And the bananas?”

  Amy smiles too. “There may have actually been something to that. Most of the ships that disappeared at the height of the trading empire between Spain and the Caribbean were carrying a cargo of bananas. There are some rationales for that, though. One is that ships with bananas tried to make faster time so the fruit wouldn’t rot before landing. Another theory suggests that the heat where they were stored caused the bananas to produce toxic fumes. Or that a species of deadly spiders caught a ride in the bunches and bit sailors during the journey.”

  I shudder as Mom and Amy share a laugh.

  “But I’m sure there’s nothing to those bad omens besides silly superstition.” Amy bites her lip and peeks comically over the rail of Sunny-Side Up, whose name would be more apt at the moment if it were Belly Up.

  Mom laughs again. “Either way, we’ll be tossing our bananas at the next port of call.”

  “Meh. Welcome to a life at sea. Nonstop adventure,” Amy says. “Seriously, don’t worry about the grounding. The sandbars in this river are notorious for their constant shifting, so it’s next to impossible to chart them. Trust me, it could happen to the best of us.”

  Mom makes a face. “I think you’re being too kind, but let me assure you I am far from ‘the best of us.’ I’m counting on you guys to help guide us down to Mexico in one piece.”

  “Challenge accepted,” replies Amy, shading her eyes with her hand and peering over Mom’s shoulder. “Oh! I see the rest of our crew coming!”

  A few minutes later, three more people climb aboard and the cockpit becomes standing room only. Amy’s wife, Miranda, turns out to be another blond, tanned bubbly type. With her is Abigail’s little sister, Grace, an adorable girl with Asian features who looks about four and who refuses to unwind her arms from Miranda’s legs.

  The last to board is Christian. The first thing I notice is that his irises are the color of the forget-me-nots I planted this spring—jarring in contrast with his sunbaked skin and hair as black as a newly paved road. I can see what Amy meant about his, er, Zodiac. He’s pretty easy on the eyes, even for a guy who must be in his fifties, at least.

  “Where’s Beatriz?” Abigail demands of him.

  “Ah. Well. I had to leave her on the yacht. I was worried it would be too crowded.”

  “Is Beatriz your wife?” I ask, confused.

  “Beatriz is my golden retriever,” Christian replies with a smile, before addressing an indignant Abigail. “My deckhand, Tommy, agreed to stay behind to keep her company and he’s promised her a long game of Frisbee this evening.”

  He turns to me again and holds out his hand. “Buenas tardes, lovely Cassandra. In Venezuela you would have all the boys trailing after you.”

  I hate that my cheeks go hot, but I compensate by smiling nonchalantly and offering a confident “Nice to meet you, sir,” which makes him smile.

  “I come bearing gifts,” he says, reaching into the large canvas bag he carried aboard and pulling out something tall and conical, wrapped in green tissue paper. He gestures that I should take it by the base, and I raise surprised eyebrows at my mother, who shrugs.

  I gently peel away the paper and gasp at the perfect bonsai tree I’m holding.

  Seeing my dazed expression, Christian laughs. “Your mother mentioned how much you love to garden. It’s not so possible on a ship, but perhaps with this . . .”

  He trails off as I examine each delicate branch of the miniature tree. It’s planted in a small green pot covered in lighter green polka dots. It’s like he’s been inside my brain—I love polka dots. On the bottom, a giant suction cup is affixed to the ceramic.

  As I run my fingers over it, Christian says, “Ah! So you can stick it in place on your table and the turbulence of the sea won’t send it crashing to the floor. There are instructions and scissors for grooming it.”

  “Thank you so much. It’s amazing.” I give him a smile before returning to my every-angle examination of the little treasure in my hands.

  It’s basically the perfect gift.

  But wait.

  He said my mother told him about my gardening? I mean, I assumed Mom had been coordinating details of the trip with Christian, Amy, and Miranda, but I didn’t realize they were trading personal information too. What else has she told him? Were the polka dots maybe not such a coincidence? I suddenly wonder if Mom’s oversharing about the details of our lives included mention of her newly single status.

  She steps behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder, addressing Christian. “This is so nice, but you really didn’t need to bring any gifts—”

  He interrupts her with, “I derive such pleasure from it though. I wasn’t always in a position to be generous with others, so please indulge me.”

  I swear I feel Mom’s knees buckle when he adds a helpless shrug to his killer grin. I jerk my shoulder from her grasp and step aside. She glances at me in confusion, then returns her attention to him, saying, “Well, t
hat’s really sweet of you. Thanks. I guess we should get dinner going, huh?”

  If things were cramped above, they’re even worse below. The table occupies most of the cabin. With the sides folded down, there are narrow alleys between it and its cushioned benches, allowing someone to pass through to where Mom’s berth is built into the V-shaped bow. Opened up, it completely fills the space.

  To the immediate left at the bottom of the steps is a tiny kitchen. Obviously there’s a sink. There’s also an oven, barely wide enough for one brownie pan, framed by two upper and two lower cabinets—except behind one of the bottom doors is actually a dorm-sized refrigerator. Which is just fine for a dorm because there’s, you know, an entire dining hall to back it up. But for three people who each use a different type of milk on our cereal? Not so much. And then, of course, we all know where the freezer is. . . .

  To the right of the steps is a small built-in desk and “navigation center.” The VHF marine radio is there, along with a whole wall of buttons that make zero sense to me, even when I read the labels below them. They go far beyond the scope of what our safety class covered and into “serious sailor” territory. Two words that will never apply to me.

  My bunk and the only bathroom are both underneath the cockpit, at the stern of the boat.

  The whole tour takes all of five seconds; one 360-degree turn and you’ve seen the entire place.

  Christian drags his bag down with him and produces Star Wars–themed Monopoly for Drew, claiming to be a bigger fanboy than my brother, though I wonder if that’s possible. He also has coloring books and fancy markers for Abigail and Grace, and Mom sends the girls into her bunk to play with them while the rest of us set up our potluck meal.

  Our previous plan was to meet at a restaurant in the town of Florence, to take advantage of dining-out options that won’t be available to us for whole chunks of this trip. Instead, everyone brought what they had on hand.

  Amy and Miranda produce a giant salad with chicken, and Christian provides fresh loaves of bread and a couple of bottles of wine the adults ooh and aah over, so I guess maybe they’re decent.

  We stocked up on groceries before leaving port this morning, but that’s a relative term when you factor in the limited amount of storage space we have on board; what we’ll eat at sea will consist primarily of canned goods. The best we can come up with as dessert for a group this size is a package of Double Stuf Oreos. No one seems to mind, which gives me the impression that boat meals are held to lesser standards.

  All the adults are laughing, pouring wine, and turning this into a party atmosphere as they set the table. I can’t help but be annoyed when I see my mother toasting with them. Any thawing I felt toward her earlier flies out the hatches as she smiles up into Christian’s face when they clink glasses.

  Why should she get to have fun and do whatever she wants when I have so little say in making my own happiness? When she’s the one to blame for upending our lives. I’ll bet my dad’s not having nearly as much fun tonight, grading papers in a lonely Hong Kong apartment, half a world away from his family.

  I’m oddly grateful to have the sour taste back in my mouth; its familiarity over the last year has made it almost a comfort, and I need the reminder to stand my ground. Even when there’s not much ground around (present circumstances excepted).

  I can’t let her unhinge me out here. I won’t.

  “We have a tradition whenever we start a new leg of our trip,” Amy says, once most of us are squeezed thigh-to-thigh around the table. Abigail and Grace are cross-legged on the floor in front of the stairs and Drew opted to stretch his long legs under the navigation desk. “Do you guys know those six-word novels?” she asks.

  Christian nods, while Mom, Drew, and I shake our heads.

  “Okay, so I’m not sure if this is true or not, but the story goes that over lunch one day, Hemingway bet a group of his writer friends ten bucks he could craft an entire story in six words,” Miranda says, picking up for Amy. “Obviously they all took the bet, figuring it was impossible. Then he writes on a paper napkin For sale: baby shoes, never worn. They all paid up.”

  I mull the sentence. “That’s so sad.”

  “Exactly! But you get a whole narrative right in those six words, don’t you?” Amy asks.

  I nod.

  “Why didn’t the baby wear the shoes, Mama?” Abigail asks. Miranda shakes her head at Amy, who’d opened her mouth to answer.

  “Uh, maybe she took a really long time learning to walk and by the time she needed shoes, she’d outgrown that pair,” Drew suggests, and Abigail thinks this over for a second before nodding, satisfied.

  Miranda and I both give Drew a smile. Hers is grateful; mine is proud.

  “Obviously, we don’t want anything as morbid as that example, so the challenge before you is to come up with six words that encapsulate either why you’re here or what your hopes are for the trip we have ahead of us. Whoever’s ready first can go.” Amy sits back, looking very pleased with herself.

  There’s a hush around the table as we formulate sentences, but it isn’t long before Christian starts us off. “Worked hard, cashed in, relaxation awaits.”

  Mom, Amy, and Miranda applaud.

  “Hear, hear,” Mom says. “I’ll go next!” She smiles softly at me, and then at Drew, before saying, “Trying hard to rebuild and renew.”

  The sour taste slides into my throat when Miranda reaches over and squeezes Mom’s hand. Do they all know everything about us? It’s one thing to fill strangers in on my love of plants, but bringing them into our personal stuff before we’ve even met them? Not cool. I avoid eye contact and stab a piece of chicken.

  Abigail pops up from the floor. “I have one! Can I play?”

  Miranda smiles. “Of course, honey. Whatcha got?”

  Abigail waits for everyone to turn to her. When she’s satisfied she has the stage, she says, “Gonna see the whole wide world!”

  She laps up our praise and applause before declaring, “Now Gracie has to go.”

  Grace looks like she’d rather run upstairs and dive overboard, but she manages to squeak out, “I just want to see a real live mermaid.”

  “That was nine words!” Abigail accuses, ticking each off on her fingers to confirm.

  Miranda says, “Your sister just needs to work on her counting, the same way you did when you were four. Maybe you could help her. And, Grace, I think that’s an excellent goal. I’ll help you look for one.”

  Grace smiles and goes right back to ignoring her dinner in favor of coloring. Abigail murmurs sulkily, “I wanna see a mermaid too,” but soon returns to her picture, too.

  Amy rolls her eyes as if to say “Kids!” but aloud she voices, “Okay, I’ve got mine: Challenge accepted: go big or surrender.”

  Miranda adds a “Hells, yeah!” and there’s laughter in response.

  Drew is next, and his is: “Surf, sand, sun: living the life.”

  So very Drew-like.

  All eyes turn to me, next in line. Other than Mom’s, they’ve all been adventure-y and cheerful, but I can’t get there. I just . . . don’t feel that way about this whole thing. I stare at my hands in my lap. “Four more months until I’m home.”

  I steal a glance at Mom in time to see her lips purse tight. I don’t know what she expected from me. I can’t fake enthusiasm for this trip and I don’t think she should force me to.

  “Poor Cassie had a bad bout of seasickness today,” Mom says.

  “That’s merely the cherry on top,” I snap.

  If she’s going to fill them in on our personal lives, let’s not hold back. I don’t need her making excuses for me. I know I’m being rude in front of company, which must drive Mom crazy because she drilled manners into us from the second we could keep a napkin in place on our laps. And, okay, maybe I’m not acting terribly mature.

  But.

  I know Mom hopes I’ll simply get over it now that our trip is under way, but she needs to know you can’t just kidnap someone fr
om their life, force them onto a sailboat for months, and expect them to be upbeat and polite about it. You just can’t.

  It’s tense and quiet for a few beats, until Miranda clears her throat and jumps into the sudden silence with, “Okay, I guess I’m last, then. Here’s mine: Adventure awaits on the seven seas.”

  “Are you guys really going to sail all seven seas?” Drew asks.

  Mom is still stealing glances at me with narrowed eyes.

  “That is the plan, my friend,” Miranda says, sharing an excited smile with Amy. “We’ve been bopping around the Pacific Northwest for the past eighteen months or so, getting used to life aboard, learning to do our own repairs, and making sure we’re fully prepared for an ocean crossing. Now it’s time for the big go-round.”

  She grins at her wife, who picks up right where Miranda left off. I kind of love how they do that.

  “This is the big one, all right,” Amy says. “From Mexico to the Panama Canal, then across the Atlantic to England, down the western coast of Europe, through the Strait of Gibraltar, and along the top of Africa to the Indian Ocean. From there we’ll skirt the bottom of Asia before heading south to Australia.” She pauses to catch her breath before adding, “And finally, we’ll cross the Pacific to South America and head up here again.”

  “Whoa,” Drew breathes. “How long will all that take?”

  “We figure maybe three years. There are entire seasons we have to plan around—hurricane months in the Atlantic and such. But we’re in no hurry. There’s really no final destination because, once we get all the way around, we’ll probably just do it again. This is our life for the foreseeable future.”

  Everyone is awed for a moment, thinking about the scope of their plans, when my phone finally buzzes with the text I’ve been waiting for. I peek into my lap to check it, smile to myself, then take a deep breath.

  “Hey, Mom? I texted Tara and Jess earlier about how we got stuck right outside of Florence, and guess what? They drove over to hang out for one last night! Can I take the dinghy and follow everyone back to the town dock?”