Hitched to a mooring chain at the other end of the lifeboat was a rope caravan made up of floating trunks, wooden boxes, and barrels. The garbage can, which was still in the bow of the lifeboat, was filled to the brim with glass bottles, pans, and a kettle.
He glanced out at the smooth silvery water, where the bright sun reflected back. He blinked, then saw the ship supplies and wreckage that floated on the surface.
Something knocked against the stern of the boat a couple of times. Hank leaned over and squinted down. A small silver flacon was floating nearby. He fished it out and looked at it.
Smitty glanced up. “Oh. What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just an old perfume bottle.”
She held out her hand. “Oh. It looks lovely. May I—”
He tossed the bottle over the side. “The last thing we need is more crap in the lifeboat.”
He stretched and yawned again, then flexed his arms and legs and grunted and groaned a few times. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shake her head. He ignored her and frowned up at the clear blue sky to get his bearings, then sat up and began to unwrap the rigging.
Smitty whipped out the map and plopped down on the seat, pressing the map open with her hands and a few irritating crackles. She leaned down and burrowed through a box, then pulled out a twin compass, protractor, and a pencil.
“Where’d you get those?”
She looked up, distracted. “Hmm? Oh. These?” She held up the plotting compass and pencil. “From one of the trunks.”
He watched her for a moment.
“I’ve been studying the map.”
She’d been rattling the map.
“. . . and the way I have this plotted we should sail...” She poked the compass into the map and swiveled it around. “About, hmmm, yes, that’s it...” She lay the protractor on the map and said, “Forty degrees south. Or perhaps it should be sixty degrees?” She paused and looked up, then looked back and studied the map. “No, no, I was right. Forty degrees southwest, not south.” She pulled the pencil from the compass slot and jabbed it behind her ear before she looked at him.
He didn’t say anything, just adjusted the sail lines and checked the wind.
“We were traveling west when we left Dolphin Island and here on the map is Cook Island. It’s southwest of Dolphin.” She chattered on about how she had figured their correct course taking into account the time past and direction, never realizing that current and wind were involved.
He yawned again while she yammered about how she had calculated her course until his eyes began to glaze over.
She finally shut up and tilted the map toward him, then scratched her finger over it, pointing at a chain of islands. “See? Forty degrees southwest.”
Hank trimmed the sail, looked up at the sky for a minute, then turned the lifeboat sixty degrees northeast.
She watched him, frowning. She glanced down at the map in her hands, then looked at the sun, at the sail, and again in the direction they were headed. “I believe you’re going the wrong way.”
He gave her one of his universal grunts meant to cover a whole wealth of responses from “Yeah” to “Who cares?”
She crumpled the map in her lap. “You are not going to listen to me, are you?”
“No.”
“I am an intelligent adult, Mr. Wyatt, and I should have something to say about how we proceed.”
“Think so?”
“Yes,” she said emphatically.
“What happened to blind acceptance?”
“What happened to democracy?”
“I run a monarchy. Besides, you’re a woman.” He grinned. “You have no vote.”
