Tying off the mainsheet, Atiena chanced a fearful glance back over her shoulder, toward the sky. Dark clouds billowed behind the palms on the hill above the village as she moved away at full sail. She would have gulped if her gasping breath had allowed it, but the sprint to the docks followed by hurriedly raising the sail had left her utterly winded, beyond any outward expression of fear.
The village had been her home for the last year, and she had grown to like it more than the other homes she had before. The people of the little coastal village had been immediately welcoming toward her, so she had grown attached more quickly than the other villages where she had lived more privately. But today everything had changed. Just like it always did on her birthday.
The villagers had made the only choice they could, forcing her out of the village, and she had fled onto the ocean, where she felt safest, where Agwe was most able to protect her.
This wasn’t the first time she had faced Ogou’s wrath, but most of the village had never seen such a thing. Such possessions were rare, and rampaging Loa were unheard of. She couldn’t blame them for turning on her in their panic, but the feeling of being abandoned once again—always in her hour of greatest need—overwhelmed her nonetheless. Tears began welling up in her eyes, but she fought them bitterly, blinking them away and shaking her head violently to clear her vision. Her shoulder-length, dark brown dreadlocks broke free, falling into her face. She caught the mottled green bandana she used to hold the tight coils back before it could blow away in the wind and hastily gathered them behind her head while sniffing away the last of her tears.
“This is no time for blubbering. You’ve made it this far, don’t give up now,” she told herself out loud.
Ogou’s storm would be upon the small sailing craft soon and there was little chance of it surviving the fierce storm Atiena was expecting. She had to come up with another way to survive. She needed something to keep her afloat when the boat inevitably sank.
She locked the rudder of the boat she had commandeered and ducked into the cabin to look for a life vest. Atiena wasn’t all that tall, but she still had to crouch in the tiny cabin. If she had the time to stretch out, she could have easily touched her toes to the stern end of it and stretched her hands to the bow end. She could touch a hand to either side if she stretched. In the cabin, there was a small dining table convertible to an awkwardly shaped bunk, a single-burner propane stove, an icebox, a washbasin, and a few small cabinets and cupboards.
She started opening cupboards, but the space was filled with canned food and well-used fishing equipment. Evidently, the owner was a bit of a weekend gunkholer. Atiena sent a silent apology to the owner of the boat for stealing and sinking his beloved pastime, but her life was at stake and an apology was all she could give.
The boat lurched in a gust of wind, and Atiena rushed back to the cockpit. As she emerged, she was buffeted by the force of the air. It had grown noticeably stronger in just the few moments she had spent below. The boat was blowing off the course she had set and began to list wildly under the increased force. She moved back to the rudder, steadying herself with her hands. Releasing it, and easing the mainsheet let the boat relax back to a level position. Her floatation device would have to wait a moment.
She loosed the halyard as quickly as she could, adding slack to the sail. Then she climbed the boom nimbly and, half-hanging by one knee and one elbow, reefed the sail in about halfway. Dropping back into the cockpit, she hoisted the halyard back up to pull in the slack, locked things back in place, and ducked into the cabin again.
This time, with her thoughts collected, she realized the cushions on the little table’s seats were packed with buoyant kapok, and were probably intended to be the little boat’s only personal floatation devices.
Atiena frowned at the ugly little green and white striped cushion, this time silently cursing the little yacht’s owner for being lackadaisical about his nautical safety.
The cushion would keep her afloat, though. That is, if she could hold onto it in the turbulence of stormy seas.
Digging into the bench seat the cushion had been on top of, she found a rope, and quickly lashed the cushion to her stomach. It might not keep her head above water if knocked unconscious, she thought, but it would at least get her close to the surface. Beyond that, she’d have to trust her life to Agwe. She tied off the lashing in front of her where it would be easy for her to reach and made a mental note to cover her head and neck if the boat capsized.
Stepping back outside the cabin, she took the rudder in hand once more and adjusted the heading toward the northwest, and Cuba. Then she turned to face the storm, — approaching fast from astern — this time full-on, the wind in her hair, and courage in her eyes.