The Trouble Not Being With The Sea    Lee Woods A singular, indifferent wave slapped the port side hard, sending spray over the rail and into the cockpit, dousing the whole of Jim Thompson, his hair, his face, his clothes and his cheese sandwich, now soggy and drooping between his fingers like a Dali painting. He tossed the sandwich over the side, wiped the saltwater from his beard and took a deep breath. It's okay, he thought. No problem. Won't happen again. Not to worry. He took another deep breath and gripped the wheel. Suddenly he imagined the horizon swelling up into a wall of raging blue water. He clenched his eyes shut, muttered something about stupidity, then looked out over a perfect sea, perfect sky, perfect breeze. "Forget it," he told himself, "let it go. " The fears had begun slowly, gradually, on his first day in the Gulf, haunting him throughout the Florida Straits and into the Atlantic. Would he get knocked down by a freak wind, swamped by a rogue wave? Crushed by a ship? What if the boat came apart and sank ...would he drown? What if he hit something or the stove blew up? Wasn't there a story about a Great White that had eaten a boat and crew somewhere off the coast of Peru? And what about hallucinations, the narcosis that drugs the mind after days and nights alone at sea? Could that really happen? The question gave way to a sudden image of himself standing in the cockpit, delirious, the boom hurtling across and knocking him over the lifeline. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. With St. Thomas just over the horizon, he visualized easing into a slip, cleating lines with a nonchalant flip of the wrist, then making his way step by step to the bathhouse, a cold can in hand. He tried to hold the image but it dissolved to a stronger one, the memory of a nightmare that had awakened him in a hot sweat two days ago. A giant blob of seaweed, big as a house, with flaming red eyes and a hundred slithery arms, rose from the sea and crushed the boat like a walnut. He looked at the compass, then up into the rigging, trying to block the vision, but others replaced it, others from long ago when he was a kid growing up in Missouri; the night he walked home after his first Boris Karloff movie, down the center of the street, away from the trees because it was darker under the trees. He remembered whistling as he walked, his mouth trembling, then when he could see his house at last, suddenly running. And all those nights when he was awakened by a sound, a limb in the wind, scraping the side of the house, a thump in the attic, a rustle in the basement. How many times had he sat up in the middle of a nightmare, gotten up and turned on every light and looked behind every door? It seemed as though his mind was calling up every fearful moment he had ever experienced. He turned his cheek toward the sun, trying to enjoy its warmth, but now he was having trouble swallowing, as though his saliva had evaporated; and despite the hiss of water rushing alongside and the hollow slap of a halyard, he was sure he could hear his heart. He stood up, formed a tiny circle with his mouth and tried to inhale. Breath slow and even and deep, he thought; oxygen to the brain was supposed to help. Even with sweat trickling down his anus, he could feel cool tingles in his knees and elbows. "How 'bout some music," he said, "something with a beat." He went below, pushed a tape into the stereo then climbed back into the cockpit. Behind the wheel again, he swayed back and forth to a Latin rhythm, trying to imagine his smiling face on a dance floor in St. Thomas, a gorgeous woman following his every move. He hummed and snapped his fingers. Still, he could feel a trembling in his stomach. Cursing, he pounded the wheel and looked over the side, into the steady, undulating flow of dark blue water. "Hey Neptune," he shouted, "where are ya, fella? You're supposed to look out for me, remember?" What silly things we do at sea, he thought. He looked at his watch, anticipating the noon chime, then engaged the autopilot and went below. Just the thought of land, a dock, grass on a hill, anything besides water, seemed to ease the sensation in his chest. Sighing out loud, he sat at the nav station, cupped his face in his hands, and retraced his track from Tampa, reliving warm days and clear nights. He glanced at his watch, then tried again to imagine his arrival, gliding into Charlotte Amalie, people waving, smiling. And the dock at Yachthaven Marina, solid and secure beneath his feet. He picked up the chart, his binoculars, and stood on the ladder. Peering through the bow pulpit, he saw a tiny bump on the horizon, then another. He smiled, knowing it was St. Thomas. "Finally," he said, "the good ole hard stuff! " During the next hour, he wandered fore and aft, back and forth, fiddling with lines, tugging on stays, then hung off a shroud and watched the bumps grow into living green hills, rising and spreading out before him. He remembered something he had read, something about the trouble not being with the sea but with all the hard stuff around the edges. At this moment, he did not agree. He gnawed on a pencil and looked around the cabin Pretty tidy, he thought, nice and neat. Then, glancing down, he was sure he saw water streaming in from under the port settee. The boat was leaking! Filling with water! He fell to the sole on hands and knees and slid his hand over the wood No! Wait! It wasn't water. Sun beams, just sun beams, flickering across bright varnish. He hung from the grab rails and sucked cool air into his lungs, breathing slow and deep. "Go back to the cockpit and relax, " he whispered, "it's almost over." He studied the approach one last time, then strolled forward and dropped the jib and stuffed it down the forehatch. Then the main, rolled and tied. On his way back to the cockpit, he slapped the boom as if it were the rump of an invincible thoroughbred. On tiptoes, he smiled and gazed across the water, watching his daydream become reality: Long Bay, cruise ships, Hassel Island to port, Rupert Rock to starboard, markers. He disengaged the pilot, stood up, and draped himself over the wheel, steering with his shoulders. He could see rows of masts now, buildings, people walking. Then, finally, Yachthaven Marina. He shifted to neutral and coasted, looking for the gas dock. Announcing himself on a handheld VHF, he steered as a monotone voice directed him to a T -dock. Fifty yards...twenty five yards...almost there. He could see it now. Easy into neutral one last time and a slow turn to starboard. Coast...slow ...slow ...in! He tossed a bow line to a man in tan shorts and dropped the boarding gate, stem line in hand. How nice this breeze, he thought, watching it ease the stem against the dock. He stepped off and twirled a figure eight around a cleat, then stood for a moment, grinning, rocking back and forth on the planks beneath his feet. Stepping back aboard, he went below and grabbed his toiletry bag, a towel and fresh clothes. Time to go ashore, time to relish, time to smell the jasmine. His first step to the dock landed successfully, his weight distributed evenly over the bottom of his left foot. As he followed with his right foot, he glanced one last time toward the horizon and smiled, silently mocking the demons that were no more. In that instant his right foot lost its aim, landing at an angle. Jim Thompson felt his ankle snap, then his body fall. Bag, towel and clothes flew skyward, arching into the water. Landing on his side, he rolled over on his back and reached for the stabbing pain in his ankle. A couple strolling the dock ran, stopped and leaned over, studying the writhing figure below them. "Looks like you sprained your ankle, friend. " "It's swelling bad, " the woman said, grimacing at the sight of tan skin turning purple. "There's a doctor next to us," the man said. "Stay put, I'll get him." Jim Thompson heard the voices above him, and something about help on the way, but he was thinking more of the solid planks beneath him, and the sweet smell of land. The woman reached down and touched his shoulder. "You're okay now," she said, trying to lighten the moment, "you'll be okay now." Jim Thompson looked into her smiling eyes, then gave into a sudden and irresistible impulse. He laughed, then kept on laughing until all he could hear was the sound of his own incomprehensible laughter. Lee Woods is a former USCG licensed captain and instructor with the American Sailing Association. Credits: Cruising World:     Wishful Thinking, 1991 SAIL magazine:     The Importance of Things Past,1992     How to Survive a Gros Islet Jump-up, 1992     Someone to Watch Over Her (purchased but not yet published) Caribbean Travel & Life:     Perchance to Sail, 1992 Comment on this article Tell us your story