Born Wild

“We’ve sailed into a thunderstorm!”

And yeah, he didn’t need to be told. The fact that every hair on his body was standing on end pretty much made that a foregone conclusion. Talk about a total soft-on. For future reference, the best way to lose chub? Sail into a thunderstorm and get tossed off the bed onto your ass.

“I, uh, I forgot to check the NOAA weather forecast last night,” he admitted as the boat heaved again. Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed his discarded swim trunks with one hand while steadying himself on the mattress with the other.

“We were a little busy,” she said, turning, stumbling down the length of the cabin to retrieve her bikini bottoms as the vessel bucked again. The sky opened up and rain pounded against the hull, creating a constant, dull roar.

Yeah, busy. They’d certainly been that. And even with the vessel being tossed around like a cork on the ocean, he still took the time to appreciate the sight of Eve scrambling into those skimpy red bottoms while he hopped into his shorts. Shoving his cell phone into one Velcro pocket, he staggered out to the galley in time to see her slip an orange life vest over her T-shirt. Handing him a vest, he pulled it over his head just as the humming engine suddenly caught, choked, rumbled unsteadily for a bit, and finally sputtered and died.

“Shit,” he cursed. “That can’t be another rope. We can’t be that unlucky.”

Although, in all reality, considering how things had been going for Eve lately, he wouldn’t lay down any money on that last statement.

“No.” She shook her head, her eyes wide. “It’s probably zebra mussels. With the water all churned up like this—”

“What kind of mussels?” he asked as the boat took another violent roll to the port side. He banged his hip against the table and caught Eve as she slammed against him.

“Hurry,” she said, hastily pushing away, “we have to check the output port.”

He followed her up the short cabin stairs. When she opened the door to the deck, the wind ripped the thing from her hands. It slammed against the side of the cabin—crash!—splintering the wood and cracking the porthole window. Rain immediately deluged them, soaking them to the bone and pelting against any exposed skin like tiny, sharp knives as the boat caught a wave broadside and tipped precariously. Frothing gray water rushed over the deck, pouring into the open cabin and freezing Bill’s legs from the knees down as he struggled to retain his balance.

“The engine’s cooling system’s output port is on the aft, starboard side!” Eve shouted as she pushed up onto the deck, grabbing onto the railing to steady herself as the vicious wind tried to yank her from the boat.

Boom! Another flash of lightning blazed overhead, slicing through the violent sky, cleaving the angry, roiling clouds in two.

“Go check to see if there’s a sooty residue near the port!” she yelled, stumbling toward the Harken roller that would unfurl the mainsail. “If there’s not,” he had to strain to hear her over the howling wind, over the rain drumming against the deck and the waves crashing against the hull, “then try to restart the engine! If there is residue, come back and help me with the mainsail!”

Shit, shit, shit…

Bill had been in some pretty hairy situations before, but usually he was the one who knew what steps to take. He wasn’t used to relying on the expertise of another. Though, he had to admit, if he had to be caught out in the middle of Lake Michigan during a violent squall, he couldn’t think of a better sailing partner than Eve.

The woman had been raised on the water. In fact, his sister had proudly informed him a couple of months ago that Eve was a five-time CYC Mackinac Island racing champ. At the time, he’d told Becky to stuff it, maintaining that he had no interest at all in Eve or her accomplishments. But, he had to admit as he stumbled across the heaving, bucking deck toward the rear of the vessel to check the cooling water output port—please don’t let it be sooty; please let us still have engine function—right now he took comfort in the knowledge that she was a first-class yachtsman…er…yachtswoman? Was that even a word?

Sploosh! A giant gray wave rolled over the vessel behind him, and he turned to squint against the driving rain, his heart in his throat, half expecting to find Eve had been washed overboard. But she was hanging on to the main mast, wrestling with the forestay, the cable that ran from the top of the mast to the deck.

“Hurry, Billy!” she screamed when she caught him staring. It was all the impetus he needed. Clutching the railing in a tight fist, he shuffled forward on the slick deck until he reached the back of the vessel. Taking a firm handhold, he leaned over the side.

“Oh, fuck.” His whispered words were caught and tossed away by the viciously howling wind. “Residue!” he yelled to Eve, turning to make his way back to her.

“Okay!” She nodded, finally defeating the stubborn forestay. “Come help me with the mainsail! It’s blowing at least forty knots! These waves are coming every eight to ten seconds, and some are sixteen feet high! One more broadside could flip us! We have to get control! Now!”

And even though his breath was burning in his lungs, even though his pulse was racing out of control, the way Eve was working, so quickly and so efficiently, gave him a modicum of…not comfort. There was nothing comfortable about their current situation. But knowing Eve, five-time CYC Mackinac Island racing-champ Eve, was in control made him feel as if the odds were stacked in their favor.

And in his line of work, anytime the odds were stacked in his favor he considered it a good day.

By the time he managed to shuffle back to the main mast, spreading his bare feet wide on the water-logged deck, she’d already begun the process of unfurling the mainsail. “We can’t take it all the way up!” she instructed, her black hair plastered against her pale cheeks like long, dark fingers, her blue eyes bright with calculation. “We need it at about fifty percent to give us control!”

“Whatever you say, Captain!” he yelled, water filling his mouth and eyes as he tilted his head back to watch the mainsail climb toward the roiling sky, flapping violently with the wind, its cables clanging loudly against the mast.

When Eve was satisfied with the amount of woven sailcloth they’d unfurled, she instructed him. “Okay, let’s move to the wheelhouse!”

Grabbing her hand, consoled by the feeling of her slim fingers laced with his, they shuffled around the cabin toward the covered cockpit. Ducking under the wheelhouse’s roof was like stepping into a bass drum in the middle of the Rose Bowl parade. Rain hammered against the ceiling, roaring and pounding as towering waves continued to try to roll the boat. Then, Bill watched in amazement as Eve’s hands grabbed the wheel. She turned it a bit, adjusted it a notch, then ducked her chin, water sheeting off her face, to watch the mainsail catch the wind and snap tight. The loud pop echoed even above the clamoring storm.

She nodded, blowing out a shaky breath as she maneuvered the boat into the waves until it was no longer rolling side to side but climbing each swell confidently before plunging down the other side.

“Sonofabitch,” he breathed, holding onto the steering console, shaking his head. “I think I just shit enough bricks to replicate the Great Wall of China.”

She reached up to scrub the water from her eyes. “You were in the Navy,” she said, making a face. “Surely you’ve been in worse storms than this.”

“Just because I was in the Navy, that doesn’t mean I actually spent much time on a ship. And the ships I have been on were so big most storms didn’t so much as make the vessel wobble.”

“Well,” she grinned, “welcome to the Wonderful World of Sailing. It’s exciting here.”

“Hot damn,” he huffed in agreement, loving the way her eyes were bright with enthusiasm. Then, “Holy shit! You’re actually having fun, aren’t you?”

She laughed, shrugging one shoulder. Then her expression changed. Dimmed. Like someone had flipped a switch inside her. “Maybe not fun,” she admitted, “but for a second there, I forget my father or my ex-husband or both were trying to kill me. For a second there, I forgot about what happened to Buzzard…”

And as wonderful as it’d been to see excitement in her eyes, it was just as awful to see such unremitting pain and guilt there. “Sweetheart,” he tried to infuse his voice with understanding, “I told you, what happened to Buzzard wasn’t—”

“I need to go out and reef the sail,” she cut him off. “With the force of these winds, I think we’re running too