Hole in My Life by Jack Gantos Page B

arm dog-paddled my way to the Beaver , where I grabbed the towline and held on. Hamilton reeled me in and I held up the sake. “This is mine,” I said.
    He took it from me. “You earned it, sailor,” he said. Then he reached out and gave me a hand getting up over the stern.
    â€œI thought you were dead,” he remarked, finally smiling at me.

    â€œMe, too. It was great.”
    I waved to the Japanese, then unscrewed the cap and took a big swig and poured it over my face. They roared their approval. Hamilton started the engine and we motored west, looking for land.
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    August 1 : Now that we have fuel we have been going all out and our spirits are high. We are both looking forward to land. After a day of smooth sailing the water has turned choppy and looks to get worse. The sky is low and pressing down on us. The temperature has dropped. Hamilton put on pants and a shirt. The weather has been easy so we might be getting close to Cape Hatteras (we think), where there is always rough weather. But we don’t know our exact position. We have no ship-to-shore radio. The sextant is broken because I was playing with it and snapped off a piece. I didn’t tell Hamilton. We have no radio directional finder, just the compass. All along we have been headed roughly north by northwest and figure once we hit land we’ll just follow the coast up.
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    August 2 : By this morning the wind picked up and the waves broke over the bow and swept across the deck, over the cabin, and all the way back to the stern, where either Hamilton or I was tethered to the wheel with a rope around our chest. The constant pounding of the waves is so exhausting we have to
change shifts every hour. Tonight it is pitch-black except for the light from the cabin windows. We have the sails tightly reefed and tied down. If it weren’t for the extra fuel the Japanese gave us, we’d be trying to steady ourselves with the jib—which seems impossible. I think we would be swamped by now.
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    August 3 and 4 : Storm.
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    August 5 : After three full days and nights of the storm we are exhausted and have no idea of our position.
    I was on watch this morning when a Coast Guard turboprop passed low overhead and circled around and dipped low over us again.
    Hamilton heard it and stuck his head out of the main hatch.
    â€œWhat’s he up to?” I asked.
    â€œThey’re just scanning the water after the storm,” Hamilton said. “Making sure there’s no trouble. Must mean we’re close to land.”
    With the next pass of the turboprop it was so low we could feel the prop wash. I waved to the captain, he waved back, then curled to the west.
    â€œFollow that plane,” Hamilton ordered. “I bet he’s heading back to the base.”
    We got a compass reading on the plane before it disappeared.
That night we spotted lights on the coast, but still didn’t know our exact location. We stayed offshore, following the lights north, and figured in the morning we’d locate an inlet where we might find a marina and rest up for a few days.
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    August 6 : This morning the weather was hazy with low visibility. We could hear more activity across the water than what we could see, so we knew we were close to something. Then as the haze lifted we saw a sign announcing that we were in restricted military waters.
    â€œBloody hell,” Hamilton cursed. “Let’s just push on until someone tells us to turn around.”
    â€œCan’t we just turn around now?” I asked. “Why invite trouble?”
    â€œJust do as you’re told,” he snapped. “Take the bow and keep a look out for shallow water.”
    I did. The water was all slate gray on the surface and I couldn’t tell if it was twenty feet deep or two. Suddenly I heard a motorboat coming our way, and as it pulled close enough I could see it was a small Coast Guard launch. Hamilton saw it, too.
    â€œWhat do we