The Boating Accident

Okay, Beers.

Leaving Biscayne Bay was as uncertain as getting in to art schools. Planning to actually live at one seemed surreal until I put some faith in the system. I was, however, having trouble doing the same with Captain Luis. It wasn't clear if he'd ever boated beyond his easy-chair tourist route, and Dad had to help him with directions to the ocean race.

Dad was notorious for getting us into these messes. When I was a kid, I'd once had to back my way out on a zip line hundreds of feet high to get my eleven-year-old self to the platform in a tree. Then we hiked five miles to spend the night in a frigid bunker on the mountain. The time before that, we'd camped in the pouring rain-in forty degrees. Even our dog had gone under the covers and not come out till morning. This storm could pummel our tiny boat, and then I'd never even get to apply to art school.

"Wonder what your Mom's doing," Dad said as he punched his phone.

"Probably up to her elbows in manure." I slid my sunglasses up. Mom was getting smarter in her excuses for not being able to join these escapades and had written Holmes, one of her biggest landscaping clients, on the kitchen calendar.

The waves kicked up so fast it was like climbing into a trampoline when three people are already jumping around. I stood and grasped the convenient pole that up to this point had seemed in the way. A rhythm began but then changed so I had to keep track of it to know which way to throw my weight. Weaving from side to side, Riley and I focused on our bizarre pole-dancing routine as Luis steered our booty-shaking machine into heckling waves.

So much for the sketches I'd planned to make.

The Canadians sat low and held on to the more professional equipment rimming the deck. They flailed but, like seasoned subway riders, continued conversations and sipped drinks around each bump and jarring jolt.

The sky had settled on a color, Dementor Gray, and the sea accented the choice with a bold flooring of Black Abyss. Boats appeared like new furniture. One stained-wood vessel displayed a yellow and blue Swedish flag. A large tour boat ironically promised tranquil waters, and a yacht bullied its way onto the scene. Like a junky family heirloom no one dares get rid of, Bambino was noticeably the wimpiest ship.

Our bobble-head pony ride teased toward its mark as we worked the pole to thumping Miami hits. Amid our involuntary gyrating, I noticed that Hector was the only stationary object on the boat; he seemed almost asleep, hunched, quietly peering through binoculars at the race point while the world throbbed around him.

When the box of pastries went flying, our pole dancing got more technical. I had to switch arm positions while fixing my black Converse securely to the deck. Now Dad's insistence yesterday that I pack real shoes made sense.

"Star?" Riley whined at me. I knew that face. Oh-no.

"Look all around," I offered. Actually I wasn't feeling too spectacular either. After our delayed flight and Taco Bell dinner in a dark-green-carpeted hotel room, Riley had unpacked her bathroom minibar as promised and spiked the drinks that came with the tacos, which had led to another at the coffee cart in the lobby. Our plan to cross the street to the marina had been thwarted by Dad's need to check the score in the hotel bar, like he couldn't do that in the room.

"Breathe deeply," Justin added, clueing in to the blue-cheese tint of Riley's face. But Riley was already moonwalking to a seat with easy access to feeding the fish. As she chucked the first wave of pastry, salami and apples over the side, I bumped my way over to hold her hair out of the wind.

"Dude, now who looks like egg salad?" Carley shouted to Justin who had turned his own queasy shade of mold. The boat swayed hideously with each wave from the wake of larger ships knocking us around. The horizon went up and down, up and down, up and down like a maniacal see-saw.

"Shut up," he said and put his head down. But soon Justin made it to the other side of the boat and puked into the waves, insisting the culprit was last night's Welcome-to-Miami binging and not the salami.

I fought the urge to join them. It was a source of pride, my strong stomach, but the thought of egg salad and aroma of acidic vomit weren't helping.

To thwart the tugging sensation on my gut, I tuned in to the race chat. Dad liked to talk shop about the technical wares he peddled that went into the sails, and now he had the perfect audience.

"The cost it takes to rig one of these boats is unbelievable," Luis said.

"Amazing that wicked expensive sails are only used once," Carley added.

"Money to burn," Dad said.

"Meellions and meellions," Hector agreed.

"You seen an ocean race before?" Luis asked Hector.

"Jes, I'm following thee race around thee world, reporting for my yacht club een Veracruz." He put the binoculars back up to peer at the tiny sails on the horizon. The racers circled in a warm-up lap. Tall splashes of electric orange, teal and crimson popped in the Black Abyss.

The sail holding an octopus graphic reminded me that, like the Kracken, this storm could take us down any minute. "Do they ever call this thing off?" I shouted into the wind.

Justin smoothed out his beard. "Yeah, sometimes they say, okay doesn't look good. Let's just have some beers."

"Okay, Beers!" Hector squeaked.

"Beers!" The Canadians boomed.

A/N: Are you feeling queasy yet? Please vote by clicking on the star if you enjoyed this chapter, and hang on to that pole.