The minutes pass, maybe hours—I don’t look at the clock, feel only the wind, how it intensifies, beating against the headsail, driving me forward. I have tacked three times, but still can’t stay on course—the long, shallow keel is producing leeway. I am moving too far south, drifting southward along the coast, but not any closer to land.

The mainsail halyard is whipping against the mast, has wrapped itself around it several times. The sound of steel cables against aluminum is like nothing else on earth. Damn that it slipped, dammit.

I could have been indoors, in front of a fireplace—warm, yellow light, not a sound except for the crackling of firewood burning, a room filled with the silence of evening, a book, an afghan, something hot to drink. I could have been submerged in a steaming bubble bath—the scent of soap, steam on the mirror. But I’m here, the wind pounding against my face, the water pouring off me, nature clawing at me, battering me.

I grab the wind meter, want to know how bad it is, probably not as bad as I think. I hold out my arm, the needle rises, sixteen meters per second, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.

High winds, heavy gales, and increasing in intensity.

Bloody hell.

I have to reef. The headsail has to be furled all the way, the wind is going to get even stronger. I can’t continue.

I tug at the reefing line, but it gets stuck on the roller. I tug and tug, but I’m unable to budge it—the jib flaps violently. I have to make my way forward to the bow. On deck the wind feels even stronger—just one gust and I’ll be blown overboard. I take pains to tether the stays on the safety harness at all times, not moving an inch without securing it. I don’t want to think about lying out there, don’t think about it, lying there, in the waves. How long would I stay alive, how long would I manage to keep my head above water, for how long would I survive?

The entire world is rolling—there is nothing that isn’t moving, nothing stationary. I have to roll with it, can’t fight against it. I crawl, my knees on deck, but they’re too old for this, they are like a separate part of me, older than the rest of my body, creaking knees. The knees are the first things to go on human beings; it’s almost impossible to make them last an entire lifetime. And nothing helps, they’ve already withstood too much, too many steps, all the strain settles into them. They grumble and I try crawling differently, but nothing helps. I can’t think about it, just keep moving forward, meter by meter.

The jib is flapping savagely, like an enormous out-of-control white bird. I tug at the line. Loosen, now—come on, help me, work with me, damn line. Then it gives way and I can reef.

A powerful wave washes over me on the way back. There is water everywhere, rain in the air, salt water pouring off me, the taste of it on my tongue.