BARBARA PROBST SOLOMON
567
boatyard men must have left off the cap," he grunts. Chris stuffs the
hole with rags . The bailer worked well, the flood has receded.
If
we
had switched tacks at night, and the leak had occurred then, we would have
drowned.
Suddenly, I dash into the head. I'm scared that I'll do some–
thing dumb. Like scream-let me off this boat. My delayed hysteria
embarrasses me.
Just pretend that you are twenty years old, aboard a trans–
atlantic crossing. It's a rough night. You are dressingJor a ship's ball. Applying
false eyelashes.
(Which I compulsively glue on now - because I can't
imagine a boat sinking while I am wearing false eyelashes.)
You are
going to a ship's dance, a dazzlingJuture.
I concentrate on getting my face
in order. Brush my hair, put on cologne, the lot. When I come out of
the head I seem calm. Or maybe I am sleepwalking.
"We can make it to Canada, Mr. Braden. I've run sloops down
to Bermuda stuffed with rags."
"Not this yawl," Daniel snaps . "Head her back to Maine ." He
stares at the cabin, which smells of salt, wet, and soaked denim. The
cloth now has a peculiar horse stable odor.
"Well, Elena-you did pretty good. Say, your eyes are glisten–
ing- what did you do to them?"
I don't intend to admit that applying false eyelashes kept me
from going nuts, so I just shrug.
I get out the red clay pot which is shaped like a nesting chicken.
The roaster is kept in the lazaret beneath Daniel's bunk. I have
carefully kept it towel-wrapped to avoid its being slammed about
during a rough sea. With rapid, automatic gestures I stuff the clay
roaster with two small chickens, herbs, and tarragon vinegar. The
pot is the one thing that I've given Daniel which always remains
aboard. It's the only object that has to do with me that lives on the
yawl. My person, my books, my clothes are temporary visitors. The
clay chicken stays.
Chris is steering now. He watches me cook. The galley is right
next to the hatch. "Mrs. Becker-wouldn't it be easier on you if you
just opened a can?"
"No," Daniel answers. In the matter of fIxing chickens we are
very united. "Elena is making her special copulating birds . Before
Elena came on board and brought her clay pot I never realized that
there could be a way of roasting fowl. See?" He holds up the earthen–
ware. "It's ,nagic. Bastes through the chicken's eyes- beautiful, isn't
it?"
"Chunky-chunk is quicker," Chris says.
• • •
