Resolute.
A word she had always associated with the admiration of one’s spirit, except when it was spoken by her estranged father. She was not at all surprised by his ability to spin it sideways. He’d called her ‘dangerously resolute’ during one of their many arguments. It effectively planted a seed in the recesses of her then adolescent mind. Buried deep and rooted, it eventually grew into an obsession.
She had dismissed the rest of his drivel over the years but always clung to that one word. It drove her, defined her. Directed her down a path where she learned to stand up to any challenge with forthright conviction. The one she was currently embarking on would be the biggest in her young adult life.
A solo sail from the southern coast of California to the continent of Australia.
During her preparation, she had been repeatedly warned about the magnitude of the feat. Hours upon hours were spent studying, meditating, reading other sailors’ stories to help strengthen her mental fortitude. Honing that determination that now encapsulated her self-worth.
She was as ready as she thought she could be to face the potential perils of being alone on the open sea. And now, she was encountering the one everyone said would be her most formidable.
The Doldrums. The Intertropical Convergence Zone. The ocean’s desert. A region of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans near the equator where the solar radiation from the sun beams directly downward. The result is an upward rise of the air rather than an easterly or westerly horizontal blow.
A challenge to navigate, even by the most seasoned mariner, a title Valerie Lundquist was resolute to earn.
Val confidently unsheathed a four-by-eight-foot deck of solar panels that hovered overhead. Resembling a miniature canopy, they ran port to starboard across the glistening stern of her Ericson 38 sailboat; cleverly named Better When Wet.
She flipped up the switch of a converter and smiled gloriously to the motor's gentle hum as it kicked on. The sailboat puttered along, prow slowly slicing through a mirrored sea, barely making a wake. But Valerie was in no rush and with plenty of sun in sight, she knew she’d be back to the wind soon enough.
Day one of running on solar power was coming to a close. The sun was making its ritualistic fade, slowly disappearing into the seemingly endless blue sea. Val pulled her raven-black hair into a ponytail, sat cross-legged on the deck, and double-checked her plotted course. The movement of the boat was subtle, but it was forward progress none-the-less.
Below the pristine water, deep enough not to send even the slightest ripple to the surface, something stirred. A single eye blinked open revealing vein-like black striations etched into a caramel-colored iris. It watched earnestly from the murky depths as Val’s thirty horsepower prop whirred a trail of bubbles through its salty lair.
Back up top, Val hopped into her hammock with a bottle of wine she’d been saving especially for this moment. She dropped her polarized lenses to shield her aqua-green eyes and stared out at the setting sun. Dipping beneath the horizon, it kissed the sky lava-red with a heated sigh.
“The Devil’s breath,” Val whispered with adulation. “Gonna be seeing that for quite a while.” She unscrewed the bottle of wine and took a long pull, no glass needed.
A cache of batteries below deck would store up enough energy to power the motor through most of the night. Val calculated about a two-hour window between running out of the stored energy and sunrise — when the power cells would recharge.
She wasn’t worried. With still waters and sails tightly furled, she knew her positioning would remain on course during that drifting period.
It was late, deep into the night when Val finished off the last sip of wine. Her eyes were heavy and she contemplated whether to stay up top or head below deck for the rest of the night. The ocean was the temperature of bathwater, the nighttime air balmy and heavy, free from pests and no threat of any breeze. She slipped off her khaki shorts and settled in.
Val’s breathing eased into an automatic and peaceful pattern. Her consciousness ebbed with the gentle sway of the hammock and a slight rhythmic accompaniment of water lapping against the hull. She touched her belly with the palm of her hand and let her fingertips tease the hem of her powder-blue panties.
Burgeoning heat emanated from within her core to rival the humidity being billowed out by the placid waters. Sweat-slick skin offered little resistance as her hand slid lower, cupping her mound with a squeeze. She let out a soft moan, arched her lower back, and slid a single finger between her folds. Another moan, this time much louder, unabashed.
Her finger worked inside, orchestrating the throb the way only she knew how. Another finger pushed in while the butt of her palm pressed hard into her clit. With a hitched breath, she curled into the webbed cocoon of her hammock, tightening the grip of her thighs, humping in short vigorous strokes against her hand.
After a moment, her body locked, frozen in the momentum of her suspended perch as waves of climax washed over. She slowly slid her fingers out, eyes still held shut.
In that moment, Val felt alive, more so than she’d ever felt after an orgasm. The empowerment of this journey was needed, it’d be her crowning achievement. Proof to the skeptics that she could, in fact, do anything. Well worth all the sacrifices she’d made.
Rolling to her back, she gently flitted her eyes open and was greeted by an audience of stars. She slid her coated fingers over her tongue, took in her essence with an audible breath, then sucked them clean.
Not long after her performance, Val bid her sparkling onlookers adieu and drifted off into a deep, intoxicated sleep.
As expected, the battery supply drained a few hours before sunrise and the boat’s motor cut out abruptly, slowing Better When Wet to a pause. A thick silence surrounded the boat, above and below the glassy sea.
The velvet night crept until dawn; Better When Wet bobbed virtually motionless.
A combination of the morning’s searing heat and throbbing temples pulled Valerie from her slumber. She blinked her eyes open, but quickly squinted them back shut.
‘My fucking head.’ Her hand came up to wipe a field of beaded sweat from her brow. ‘Why am I not moving?’
She listened. Silence.
The time on her watch showed 8:23 AM, she peered up. “Clearly enough sun. So, why the fuck is the motor not running?” she thought aloud.
Raising out of the hammock, Val let out a slow grunt followed by a groan. “Fuck.”
As she made her way back to the solar set-up, she began to push thoughts through the sludge pounding inside her skull.
Mechanics were not her strong suit. “Must be a loose wire… Hopefully.” She leaned over and gave the converter box a tap. Nothing. With a sigh, she gave the box a kick. Still nothing.
“Well, I’m all out of ideas,” she nervously murmured, dropping her hands to the side. A comedic attempt to avoid confrontation of her brewing anxiety. The boat continued to float motionless stave for that slight bob.
Surveying the open water, Val ran through her checklist of crisis operating protocol, even though she told herself repeatedly she wasn't at that stage yet.
There were plenty of rations on the boat, enough to last more than a few weeks. That included a supply of fresh water and a catchment system in the event that supply was expended. She had the satellite phone for emergencies, ‘Did this qualify?’
There was a flare gun with a canister full of waterproof flares and of course her Sig Sauer P238, personal protection. “Not going to be very many assailants out here, Val,” she told herself sliding the gun back into its lockbox.
If all else failed, there was the Emergency Position Indicator Radio Beacon.
The EPIRB was a safety measure and only as a means of dire need. It would activate if submerged below three or more feet of water, or manually tripped by forcefully removing the device from its mount. The radio signal would then broadcast to a government monitored satellite, notifying emergency contacts specific to the distressed boat and pinpointing the vessel’s location to within two nautical miles. It would most likely never be actuated.
Val calmly located the solar panel’s instruction manual and spent the better part of the day poring it over. There was an entire section dedicated to troubleshooting. She frustratingly tried every step, twice, then a third and fourth time. Everything was wired, no visible corrosion, nothing to indicate why the motor was not purring. She decided to move on.
The ship’s sails were now unfurled to full-mast, just in case. In her preparations and study for the voyage, Valerie learned that although the doldrums were devoid of consistent weather patterns, they did trigger the occasional squall. Her sails were up and ready to catch any accelerant for movement.
Days began to melt into weeks and the sails continually hung lifeless and limp. The monotony was beginning to sap all of Val’s energy.
To combat it, she developed a routine. Exercise in the early morning, which consisted of pacing the boat’s perimeter; before the heat grew too unbearable. Mid-morning activities included yoga, fishing, and occasionally singing out loud. Dinner occupied the evenings.
But even the routine, by its very definition, became tedious and boring. Val grew tired from doing nothing. She was hot, miserable, alone, and sick of the same majestic scenery. Its beauty grew stale. Its jewel-like-encrusted surface taunted her, endless in all directions, derailing any hope.
The ocean, once the nightly occupant of Val’s childhood fantasies and dreams, now tormentingly surrounded her. It held her in its silent grip of soul-numbing weariness, methodically chipping away at her sanity, breaking her down piece by agonizing piece.
The morning of the incident, Val’s mind was swirling with a tempest of uncontrollable thoughts. Wild, wicked, vicious thoughts.
She paced through her exercise regimen; yoga pants already drenched in sweat. She rounded the bow of Better When Wet, where she paused and took a stance, commanding in stature. Ready to fight back. The tumult in her head came to a pinpoint.
Outstretching her arms with balled-up fists and gritted teeth, she summoned what emotion she had left and screamed with all the breath in her lungs…
“FUCK YOU!”
No reply. Not even an echo. It was as if the ocean, in a diabolical taunt of promised motion, floated the words away leaving her behind. A punctuating blow of solitude beyond her mind’s ability to fully comprehend.
Tears welled in her eyes, signaling the beginning stages of defeat. Val slowly blinked them closed.
The moment Val’s head began to slouch, the boat lurched violently with a sudden thud to its stern. The bow swung several feet sideways, sending the only wake Val had seen in days cascading to her left. She stumbled, grabbing onto the rail for balance in the abrupt and unforeseen heave.
“What the fuck was that?”
After a moment, she cautiously leaned over to peer into the water. Crystal clear, she estimated she could see down at least thirty feet, maybe more. The blazing sun offered enough brilliance to maximize her view. Nothing. No whales. No Sharks. No mysterious uprise of a coral reef. Just the glistening shimmer of the sun's rays as they filtered through the water, prism-like.
Val stood frozen for several minutes still gripping the chrome rail, waiting with trepidation for something else to happen. Her heart raced, breathing became rapid. Silent and slow on her inhale, but quick and audible on the exhale, like small successive punches to her gut. The sun’s heat seared. Sweat dripped from her nose dotting the surface of the deck.
She looked left and right, behind. Spinning. Waiting.
Nothing.
The ripples from the surge were gone, absorbed back into the ocean’s bed. Better When Wet returned to its motionless float. Val cautiously leaned further over the side to inspect for damage. Not even a smudge.
She twisted and slid to sit.
With her back leaning against a rail post, she clasped her hands loosely in her lap, shoulders slumped, legs stretched out to either side to form a V. Her mind tried to process the supposed event, but the thoughts of it were swallowed in that tempest of an internal storm.
Was it even real? Was she so desperate for anything to happen that her mind was now fucking with her? She shook her head back and forth with a growing, maniacal laugh.
Nothing else followed the jolt.
That night, Val cooked a special meal. After her minor meltdown, she had pulled herself together, rigged up some fishing gear, and landed a forty-pound yellowfin. Perhaps, a peace offering from the sea.
Slicing some of it up sashimi-style as an appetizer, she then cooked the rest as seared ahi; the entire time telling herself repeatedly it was fine. Everything was going to be fine.
She had known this leg of the journey would be a test. She’d prepared for it, read stories of sailors losing focus, being beaten down by the melancholy ecosystem. That was not going to happen to her.
