A Fish Flew Through the Porthole

. . . Dale and I had sailed west under San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge" twenty-six days ago and turned left. We were embarking on a 3,200 mile passage to the Marquesas Islands in French Polynesia, in the company of four other boats. Since Wind Gypsy was smaller than the others, she couldn't sail as fast as they could, and soon got left behind. This was vastly disconcerting to me since I had counted on the presence of a flotilla to help keep my fears in check. My husband was not bothered at all. He was living the dream of his life, and nothing could dull his spirits. The other vessels had sneaked through the latitudes of the doldrums before the dead air materialized, but we were far enough behind them to sail right into the ominous stillness. We remained there, caught in the invisible clutches of absolute Calm. How I longed for the sound of a noisy engine or the touch of wind on my face! All I could do was wait in hot, clammy frustration while I contemplated the long chain of circumstances that had preceded my being here at all. --Gerri Miller (the reluctant sailor)