Free The Great Wide Sea by M.H. Herlong Page B

the cockpit seat right over my head and dropping to the floor. Gerry’s voice told some story. Then Dad yelled for something and Dylan’s feet pounded over my head.
    It was impossible to sleep.
    I turned and looked out the tiny porthole in my bunk. All I could see was the surface of the water. Then Dad’s head popped up in the middle of my view. He spat out his snorkel and called for Dylan again.
    â€œI need a knife,” he yelled.
    I heard Dylan’s feet and saw his shadow fall over Dad.
    â€œDon’t just drop it to me,” Dad said. “Tie a line on it.”
    Dylan was busy and then Dad swam toward the side of the boat and out of my sight. “A little more seaweed,” I heard him gasp. “Won’t pull off.”
    Another splash and he was back under the boat. I heard bumps against the hull as he swam toward the prop.
    Everything went quiet. Gerry had stopped bombing his cars. Dylan was waiting for Dad to surface again. In a split second I was asleep.
    It was a good sleep. Like drifting off lying on the couch on a spring afternoon when birds are in the trees and someone is mowing his lawn. But the lawn mower stopped. I opened my eyes. I wasn’t on the sofa. I heard shouting and bumping. The water outside the window glittered and then I heard Dylan calling me.
    â€œBen!” he was shouting. “Come up here! Hurry!”
    I looked up stupidly. Gerry appeared at my feet. “Hurry, Ben,” he said, and raced away. “He’s coming,” he yelled as I crawled out and stumbled on deck.
    Dylan was crouched at the rail, holding on to the lifelines with one hand and to something far over the boat’s side with his other hand. The thing was Dad. Dad was gripping Dylan’s arm with his left hand and holding his right hand pressed in a fist against his chest. Blood streamed from his hand down his chest and pooled in the water.
    â€œBad cut,” he said through white lips. “I can’t pull myself onto the boat.”
    I reached over and grabbed Dad’s arm with Dylan. We pulled together, but it was no use. We couldn’t lift Dad’s weight.
    â€œHold up your other arm,” I said. Dad lifted his right arm and blood pumped out of his hand and down his arm. I grabbed his arm. It was slick. Dylan and I pulled again, but Dad was still too much for us.
    â€œThe dinghy,” Dad said.
    â€œAnd life ring,” I said to Gerry. He threw it overboard and Dad grabbed it as Dylan and I untied the dinghy from where it was stowed over the forward hatch. As we flipped it right side up, the emergency pack fell out. I shoved it toward Gerry, who held on to it while Dylan and I slid the dinghy into the water. Dylan held the towline while I lowered myself into the dinghy and turned its side toward Dad.
    Dad grabbed it with his left hand and then lifted his right arm over the gunwale so the blood was falling into the dinghy. I grabbed under his right shoulder, and he pulled with his left arm. He kicked a few times, the dinghy rocked, and then he scraped on his belly over the side and into the floor of the dinghy.
    Lying on his back, he held up his hand. “Pressure,” he said. I grabbed his hand and saw that the cuts sliced evenly across the inside of the second knuckle of all four fingers and through the middle of his palm. It was impossible to tell how deep they were. I pressed my hand against his and blood oozed between my fingers.
    Dylan and Gerry stood on Chrysalis , looking into the water. I followed their gaze. Sharks. Not very big, but sharks. Three of them.
    I turned and looked at Dad. Tears were sliding from under his closed eyes.
    â€œYour hand hurts,” I said.
    He shook his head. Then he spread his left hand across his chest and turned his face away. His lips barely moved. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
    I held his hand and squeezed.
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    That night Dylan and I sat out under the stars. I kept replaying in my mind