Around the World in a Cement Boat

Crunched into a corner of the bunk, my bare toes pushed against the lip of the wooden berth. My heels dug into the vinyl cushion. Every muscle tense, I fought to stay put. I felt like I’d been here, in this position, forever.
   By my side, Jolene clung on, too. Together, my five-year-old little sister and I struggled simply to stay in one place. That doesn’t sound so hard; does it? But we’d fought this battle, on and off, for an eternity. Okay, it had only been a few days, but even a couple of minutes of this felt like forever.
   I’d lost track of Pierre-Paul, the four-year-old son of two of our crew. Maybe I should call him “the terror of the ship” instead. In the gloom, I couldn’t see much in the galley, but he must still be in his bunk in the bow where he’d retreated a while ago. He’d be safe enough there, not that I worried much about him, given all that he’d done. Well, I didn’t wholly blame him. His parents were the real problem. Still, I was glad I didn’t have to look out for him, too, right now.
   I was only six-and-a-half years old, but as the oldest child onboard, I took on the job of watching the kids. Well, Mom took care of Jackie, my three-and-a-half month old baby sister, but I kept Jolene and Pierre-Paul out of the way of the busy grownups as much as possible. A lot of grown-ups said I acted too mature for my age, but Mom said she appreciated the assistance. Besides, I wasn’t allowed to work with the crew, and I wanted to help somehow.
   At first, I’d entertained five-year-old Jolene and four-year-old Pierre-Paul with stories, but the storm became too much. Like a toddler having a tantrum, screaming and tossing a rag doll this way and that, ripping it apart in anger, the cyclone flung us about. School lessons and toys were forgotten. Holding on became all we thought about. Damp, miserable, and scared, we worked to survive.
   The Berenice lurched again, and I slammed against the bulkhead between the galley and the head. The leeboard, the canvas curtain strung across the front of the bunk and tucked under the mattress, helped prevent us from flying to the floor below. I clutched the rope strung through the leeboard, bracing myself. I didn’t want to slam against the wall, again, when the next lurch came.
   At times, the ship jerked rapidly from side to side and bucked like a wild horse. Other times, it rolled this way and that, before building up to a series of fierce slams. Through it all, we hung on as best we could.
   I shifted my bent knees and repositioned my hands, clutching the rope again. Beside me, I felt Jolene rub her head before she grabbed on again, too.
   “You okay?” I yelled, but Jolene didn’t say a word. Of course she didn’t. Who could hear anything over the racket that had filled our ears for days? Roaring winds, pounding waves, driving sheets of rain blocked out all other sound. Or maybe she did say something which I couldn’t hear.

Hours later, sunlight peeked through the heavy clouds, bringing a little daylight into the cabin. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around. Inside the cabin, everything was damp and musty smelling. Water dripped through the slats of the cabin door. Since everything had been strapped down or stored away days ago, the cabin was remarkably tidy despite the wild ride.
   Through the portholes, I gazed out at the waves. Really, I should say “wave,” because there was only one wave. A wave so huge, I couldn’t see its top or sides. Up and up it went, like a skyscraper. If such a monstrous wall of water collapsed on us…. Well, imagine dumping a barrelful of water onto a paper cup floating in a bathtub; the cup would be smashed to the bottom immediately. That’s why the adults scurried about so much, leaving me to take care of my little sister and myself.
   The motion of Berenice calmed enough that we could sit without a fight. As though a giant hand had turned down the volume of the wind and waves, other sounds emerged. Rrrip. Crack! A sail split as the spinnaker pole supporting it broke under the strain of another gust of wind. Dad yelled something from his post at the wheel. Footsteps pounded as Claude, a New Zealander, and his French wife, Marie, raced to save the spinnaker’s remnants. Claude and Marie were the crewmembers who knew nothing about disciplining brats.
   In the galley, utensils clattered against the pans on the stove as Mom finished cooking lunch. The stove to swing wildly front to back and side to side, but the double set of hinged brackets did their job keeping the stove horizontal, despite the movement of the yacht. Pots and pans stayed in place even when people couldn’t.
   “Lunchtime. Come and get it!” yelled Mom, a pretty, curly-haired American in her late twenties. She grabbed a bowl from the shelf where a series of bars held dishes secure. She spooned some vegetable stew, and then added a hunk of damper. The Australian pan bread and stew should have smelled delicious, but the wet-dog smell of the cabin and the bile in my throat blotted out other scents.
   Dark-haired, slender Pierre-Paul scampered in from the front bedroom. He grabbed the bowl, spoon, and cup of water that Mom offered. Then he plopped down on the berth opposite us.
   “Wait for grace,” Mom reminded him, and he lowered his spoon with a grunt.
   “Come on, girls,” she said, holding out another bowl.
   “I don’t feel like eating,” I protested, clutching my roiling stomach. Though I had my sea legs, my tummy couldn’t handle this wild motion.
   “Cheryl, you need to eat. Everyone needs to eat. It’ll keep us going,” she insisted, with a smile.
   Reluctantly, I got up and took the bowl she offered.
   Strawberry-blonde, freckled Jolene sighed. Then she plodded over and took her food, too. Sitting down, she looked at it warily. Jolene was never seasick, but the extreme weather took a toll even on her stomach.
   “How you manage to make meals during this kind of weather, I’ll never know,” Bill said, shaking his head, as he plopped down at the table beside Pierre-Paul. Bill was an Australian bloke who’d joined our crew along with Pierre-Paul’s family.
   Mom smiled uneasily at him. She suspected him of stirring up trouble behind the scenes and didn’t trust his silver tongue, but she tried to be polite.
   With a squeal, the hatch in the ceiling slid back, and the door underneath banged opened. Pounding rain hurtled in, swirling through the cabin with a howling wind, making each of us shiver. A figure in bright yellow foul-weather gear hustled down the companionway ladder, latching the door and slamming the hatch closed. The yellow rain hood slid back to reveal a dripping wet Marie.