Why the Devil Chose New England for His Work (28 page)

“You swim for shore and get help.”

Jacob couldn't see his father's lips moving. “No.”

“Don't argue. Take the paddle and swim as well as you can. Don't let go. Go now.”

Jacob stood on the gunwale with the paddle in his hand looking down into the water. The deck was less than a foot off the surface. He eased himself in with the paddle gripped in his hand.

“I'll be right back,” Jacob yelled, but there was no response. He could see the silhouette of his father's head and thought about checking on him, but decided he had better keep going, focusing on the brightest light on shore, probably someone's dock, and kicking with all the force he could muster. He felt strong at first, but then grew stiff, his legs moving in slow motion. He looked behind him. The outline of the sails seemed lower in the water. He turned and kicked harder, afraid to lose sight of the dock but also thinking maybe the wind would still come up. Soon he could barely move his legs, and the water felt warmer as he turned onto his back to rest. His thoughts slowed. Tomorrow, he thought, they would tow the
Sassanoa
to the island and patch the hole. He wanted to call out to his father and tell him about the plan, but before he could, the dark triangle set against the stars sank into the blue-black horizon, and there was no sign of the pale shoulders and arms of the man who had promised him all those summer afternoons when he would finally sail alone.