The truth is, checking up on Jo is a habit so deeply ingrained, I can’t seem to break it. I don’t feel at ease unless I know she’s safe. I don’t feel alive unless I’m certain she’s out there somewhere, existing. So now, as I round the small peninsula where Cormorant House looms and the cove comes into view… my hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles turn white. Because the small red sailboat is missing from its spot at the dock. Which means Jo is out sailing.
Sailing in a storm.
My eyes cut to the ominous wall of black clouds billowing on the southern horizon. It’s heading straight for shore, cutting a swathe directly through an area there’s a good chance she’s out exploring.
Not that it’s my problem, anymore.
She’s not my problem, anymore.
But…
Fuck.
The first bolts of lightning split the sky over Salem Sound. I hope to God I’m wrong. But I know I’m not when I hear a distress call over the radio. I fumble for the knob, turning up the volume to hear it over the roar of the engine.
The voice coming across the line is faint. Muffled with static. And undeniably, heart-stoppingly familiar.
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! This is the vessel Cupid…”
Her transmission cuts off halfway through. It doesn’t matter. The few snippets I managed to hear tell me everything I need to know.
Taking on water.
The Misery Islands.
Immediate assistance.
There’s no choice.
No weighing of options.
No moment of hesitation.
The Ebenezer’s engine growls in throaty protest as I push the throttle faster, foregoing the turn-off into the Gloucester Harbor channel.
Heading south toward the islands.
Toward the squall.
Toward Jo.
NINE
josephine
Lightning streaks again,electrifying the world for the briefest of instants. I didn’t realize how dim the sky had grown until it flashed momentarily back into focus; the craggy outline of Cape Ann is now almost indiscernible from the oppressive storm-front of rain and mist. Thankfully, the lumpy land masses that make up the Misery Islands are still visible off my port bow, my one remaining reference point in the darkness.
Hope sparks inside me — a fool’s hope, perhaps, but I grasp at it with all my flagging courage. There’s an anchorage at Great Misery. A small inlet, barely more than a shallow bay. Not a perfect spot to ride out such foul weather, but surely a better option than bobbing out here like a sitting duck, waiting to be struck by the next bolt of lightning.
Almost as if I’ve conjured it, another shockwave streaks across the atmosphere — a bolt of pure static power that severs the sky into neon shards. I count the seconds in my head: eight full heartbeats before the accompanying crash of thunder.
Eight miles away.
Too close.
And home is too far.
Just like that, my decision is made. Abandoning any aspirations of making it to the mainland, I adjust my course and head for the nearby islands instead. My sails groan over the howling wind, straining against their stays. The sheets grow taut beneath the pressure. I fear the rigging will not hold if the storm intensifies even slightly. The thought alone is enough to inspire true panic.