He gives a joyous laugh through his tears. “I love you, too, Zach. So much.”
We hold on tight like we’ll never let go. I want to live in this moment forever. Hit a pause on life and simply be here with him, in his warm embrace. Together, forever with the guy I love, who loves me back.
We stay that way for a long while, but my energy is fading. I finally pull away. “I need to rest. And you need to pilot the boat.”
I sit on a bench in the cockpit as Aiden takes the wheel. A few minutes later, I’m weak and lightheaded.
“I’m going to lie down for a bit.” I get up and take the first step down into the cabin and have to steady myself as I nearly fall over.
Aiden’s brow furrows. He puts a hand on my forehead. “Oh man, you’re really burning up now.”
He takes a bottle of ibuprofen from his jacket and taps out a few pills. “Take these. It’ll help with your fever. And try to get some rest.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” I pop the pills and wash them down with water from my pack.
Lying down on the bed in the cabin is not very restful, and the boat’s motion isn’t helping the unease creeping over me. A wave of nausea hits me, and I run for the sink just in time. The violence of the act sends waves of pain through my entire body.
So much for all that ibuprofen.
Soon I’m huddled up on the bed in the boat’s bow. I gather all the blankets I can find to cover myself up while shivering uncontrollably. Closing my eyes, I remember my mindfulness. I clear my thoughts and focus on my breathing. Meditation is difficult with the ever-present undercurrent of pain and discomfort. But it’s not impossible.
Somehow, I manage. My body and mind quiet. I push away all external senses and internal pain to make a place of darkness and solitude. Here, I’ll wait—a castaway on an island in my mind. I’ll wait to be rescued. I’ll wait for a miracle.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Homestretch
AIDEN
This sailing stuff isn’t so bad. I’ve got this.
No sooner does that cross my mind than the mainsail snaps wildly, losing the wind. I tug on various ropes, hoping to correct it. But now the genoa is snapping too. Damn it. The wrong rope. I undo my original error and finally get both of the sails trimmed. The boat is now cruising, cutting a course through the choppy water.
We’re getting close. We’ve made it all the way north, and the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard is to my left. Turning the boat will mean running perpendicular to the wind. It can be done.In theory. Zach described it to me, but I have yet to try it.
Down in the cabin, Zach is under a mountain of covers.
“Zach, are you awake?” I call down. “I might need some advice on tacking.”
No answer. My heart skips a beat.
I run down to him. Zach is burning up, and his breathing is labored. He’s not doing well. He looks so helpless and fragile, and it tears me up.
I head back up and try my best on my own.
I release the tension on the rope holding the boom. The sails immediately start flapping, making loud snapping noises as the wind rips through them. I turn the wheel to the left, and the boom flies to the right. The sail catches the wind with a loud snap.
I did it.
The sails are a little turbulent, so I let out more rope until they quiet down.
The boat slows as it cuts across the wind, but we’re still moving. It’s actually working.
The shipyard looms larger as we approach. Even with the sea level rise, the docks are awe-inspiring, with massive aircraft carriers, each the size of a small city, anchored alongside them.
With the boat headed in roughly the correct direction, I get ready for our approach. I put on my backpack, then head down to wake Zach.
I give him a little shake. “Zach. It’s almost time to go.”
