Another day with not even a whisper of wind. Mariah gazed at the mirror-like surface of the expanse of clear, blue water all around her, shielding her eyes from the glare of the unrelenting sun. It was the hottest time of the day, between high noon and sunset. She sighed and picked up her journal.
“Day 14, 1600 hours: Fourth day in the doldrums. No measurable wind and none in the immediate forecast. Again. I should be in sight of land by now but without wind I’ll continue to drift aimlessly. Seriously considering starting the engine but afraid that I’ll run out of fuel and won’t have it when I really need it. And I’ll be disqualified from the race. No distress. All systems working well. Solar panels and water maker are doing their jobs and I have provisions for at least another month, albeit I am getting tired of canned food.”
Hilary McKittrick was a precocious child. She had the run of her grandparent’s Belfast farm and loved exploring the large piece of land. She often told her parents about her friends and their adventures and they laughed at her vivid imagination.
Lack of food and water had taken a swift toll. She lay naked on the hospital bed, soft fleece blankets draped over her private bits and the white wisps of her hair surrounding her face like a halo. A fan gently blew cool air on her feverish body and damp cloths draped her forehead and neck. Her limbs were mere sticks and she had to be turned every few hours to prevent bed sores. The vibrant, quirky woman of only 63 was now reduced to barely more than a skeleton, eyes sunken in her face and breathing so shallow that one had to watch closely to see that she was actually still alive.
He tied the rubber tube around his upper arm, holding one end with his teeth to pull it taut. He made a tight fist, took in a breath and jammed the needle into the bulging muscle. Breathing out and releasing the tourniquet, he stared at the reflection in his bedroom mirror. Not big enough.
It was her birthday and she had gone for a morning summer sail alone. She dropped the anchor in a cove off her favorite beach at Angel Island, stretched out in the sunshine and fell asleep. She dreamt of pristine white sand beaches and clear, turquoise water, delicate coral waving from rocky reefs teeming with rainbow-hued fish and dolphins playing tag with each other. She swam for hours in her dream, at ease with the sea creatures swirling around her and never needing to come up for air.
“I hate school. I don’t know why I have to go,” she pouted, sitting in the passenger seat next to her mother and looking out the window.”
“Superstitions are a bunch of malarkey. You can’t ward off bad luck with a spell. Why even bother with the whole thing?” Lisa asked while sanding the transom of the boat on stilts in the boatyard.
“Heidi, my wee love! I was just thinking about you,” she’d sing out in her Irish lilt as I walked through her front door. Taking my face in her hands she’d kiss my cheeks and lips and forehead.
Vivo O Sonho 