Here is the conclusion to Chapter One, Ocean of Insight: A Climate Justice Memoir. As a reminder, the story starts in my June 5th posting. Because this is a crowd-sourced book, I invite your comments! Enjoy, H

This is our moment of consequence, the seconds before we save ourselves from ruin or resign ourselves to ship wreck and loss. Dave studied the engine manual and created a plan requiring him to run above and below decks while I steer a precision route. He figured how—from below decks—to goose the engine manually as I throttle forward. But, we need someone at the bow to haul anchor lines aboard as we drive forward so the lines stay clear of the propeller shaft. I must steer at all times so he has to dash between two jobs.

“OK,” he instructs, “we will set the boat speed at a fairly aggressive pace to power into these waves. The biggest mistake we can make now is tangling our anchor lines around the prop. Right?”

I awaken to the threat of a new disaster. Months ago, while anchored off Amelia Island for a picnic in Florida’s Intracoastal Waterway, currents spun the boat in a circle. The anchor line wove through our keel and prop shaft and we hung at an odd angle in the out-flowing tide. That day, I shifted the engine into forward just as Dave coached: “Keep the boat out of gear.” THUNK. The wrapped line snagged the prop blades and choked the engine to a quick death. Dave jumped into the tranquil waters and cut us free. But once the line gave way, the boat took off in the current. Dave made it back on board because I could motor toward him. It was impossible to find and retrieve the anchor so it was an expensive and memorable mistake. A repeat of that event in this storm would put Dave into violent waters and catapult our vessel with only one person on board out of control, without a motor, toward the land we longed to flee.

“Oh my god,” I blurt. “No, let’s not wrap the prop.”

“I figure you’ll need to drive forward for about twelve seconds on a two-sixty-five degree heading to retrieve the first anchor. When it’s onboard, you’ll turn to a three-twenty degree heading to drive toward the second. If you drive that course we shouldn’t snag the lines.” I picture the underwater conditions in my mind, the placement of the anchors relative to north, the length and angle of submerged ropes, the contour of the sea floor. I imagine how the route, boat speed, and timing of the turns would play out.

“Yes—got it. That should work.”

To ready the space and add a measure of safety, we illuminate the deck—the zone of our rescue operation—with mast-mounted floodlights. In an instant we are center-stage on a surreal movie set; fans and rain-making machines churn off camera. We have one take–one chance to save ourselves and our ship. Live or die, I am fully present and prepared to end this crisis.

The engine starts easily as I flip the switch and push the button. Together, we set the throttle into a position we guess sits at the right boat speed. Dave goes below and manually adds engine power to the limit of the set throttle. I start maneuvering the boat on our course through the blow and he darts out the companionway toward the bow, holding on as the boat pitches, exercising care that his feet keep their grip in pooling rain, shouting “Here we go!” I drive twelve seconds toward the closest anchor at the two-sixty-five degree heading, counting time in my head. As I reach twelve, Dave hoists the first anchor onboard.

Perfect. That’s one anchor done. I turn to the next heading and watch the ship’s compass spin in its mount at the center of the ship’s wheel, settling at three-twenty-ish. Dave spends brute force lifting chain from the sea. Normally we would use our anchor windlass, a powerful motor and gear system that feeds chain up and into our bow’s anchor locker. But, the windlass is slow and easily jams. It is not the right tool for this emergency drill. I watch through rain’s slanting, meteoric marbles set a glare by our Hollywood spotlight as Dave’s arms and back muscles strain. His vulnerable human frame glows wet and silver in the light against a backdrop of black night. He yanks hard as if his life depends upon his action. It does. But as I watch I imagine him collapsing next with a heart attack. Oh, my love, this is all too much.

“We’re free,” Dave whoops barely audible above the gale. “Drive us outta here.”

Made blind to my surroundings by the glow of floodlights, I follow the route from our arrival still broadcast on the GPS monitor. I throttle forward again as Dave adds more power from below. Trying to relax the grip of fear, I turn awareness toward my breath, but it is difficult to convince myself we are safe. I don’t register the soft popping sounds.

“Oh look. Happy New Year, sweetie,” Dave coos as fireworks burst above our starboard rail.

“Uh…Happy New Year to you, my love,” I reply as I kiss my best friend and hero with necessary efficiency. “A lee shore, impenetrable bottom, weirdly silent radio, broken throttle cable—so much went wrong. Why did we leave the protected sanctuary of Hope Town? We could have had a nice holiday on a mooring ball there.”

“I don’t know. But, we’ll sit down tomorrow and figure out everything we learned so this never happens again.”

The analysis can wait for now. Mindful of the impermanent nature of our fragile existence, I think this moment is for cherishing the fullness of being alive. Breathing, I begin to find the roots of peace as colorful bursts hover atop palm fronds and light our course. A happy new year blows in.