The yacht had always been my father’s happiest place. He bought her the year after my mother died and spent the next decade sanding teak, replacing lines, and swearing at weather apps with the devotion some men reserve for religion. As a child, I thought he loved the boat because he loved winning races. When I got older, I realized he loved the boat because the ocean didn’t care who you were off the water. Out there, you were either honest about the conditions or stupid enough to sink.
The marina smelled like diesel, wet rope, and fried fish from the shack near the bait shop. I cast off with hands that still remembered what Dad taught them. The harbor opened. The wind filled. The deck tilted under me with the old familiar grace of a thing built to move forward.
Out past the breakwater, the city fell away.
I let the boat run on a broad reach and felt my shoulders drop for the first time in days. Salt stuck to my lips. Sun flashed off the water in white knives. My father had been right: some grief loosens when the horizon gets wide enough.
I was halfway through adjusting the jib when my phone buzzed in the waterproof pocket of my jacket.
Blackwood.