Stuart is in his element, pointing out landmarks, educating me on the function of everything, issuing instructions.

“Hold this tightly, stand there—not there—to the left. Don’t sit on that side,” until, finally, we are off.

It’s not the same exhilaration I remember from our younger years in Ibiza—you really can’t compete with the weather, no matter how well you dress for it—but it is strangely exhilarating to be free from the constraints of my life. The sense of freedom and possibility initially feels the same as it used to, despite it being colder and a different type of boating experience. I feel my shoulders relax. My whole body has been storing tension.

It doesn’t last. The motion gets to me as I clutch the metal on the side.

“Too fast,” I yell at Stuart. “I want to go back!”

So much for me deciding that this was something I could do differently than Nina, that I would enjoy it. I’d thought about bringing the children, sailing off for jolly picnics, all-hands-on-deck type of atmosphere. My stomach lurches as we go faster, as if Stuart hasn’t heard me.

I shout again, but my words are lost in the wind.

Oh God, I’m going to tip overboard. I clutch my life jacket and think of my baby being tossed around in my womb and hating me. We appear to be heading as far out to sea as possible. The ting-ting of something hitting the metal increases in sound and frequency.

When Stuart twists his head around, he looks shocked when I mime a slicing motion across my neck, but he at least gives a thumbs-up. We turn. It feels like a painfully slow process. As the shore gets closer, my heart rate slows.

When we reach the safety of the marina, I’m still furious. I anchor my feet to the ground with renewed gratitude.

“Why did you ignore me?”

“I didn’t realize,” he says. “I’m sorry. I remember you loving it.”

“I did,” I snap. “When I was young and not pregnant.”

My legs shake as I step onto the walkway and head for solid land. The more I try not to be like Nina, the more I end up being exactly like her, mere footsteps behind. Relief at being safe, along with a sense of failure and futility intertwine.

Over lunch in the restaurant, artichoke soup and pasta, I calm down.

When various people pass by our table, Stuart almost seems to take pride in introducing me. He clearly loves it here and feels at home.

“I’ve been thinking,” Stuart says. “But you need to hear me out.”

“Why do I feel nervous?”

“Because what I’m going to suggest may sound hasty, so that’s why I need you to listen carefully.”

“Go on.”

Despite my loyalty and dedication, if I could pause all of this for even another six months (while somehow obtaining magical seeing-into-the-future powers by knowing that I’d fall pregnant soon), maybe I would, but whenever I think of my own innocent baby, there is no way they will ever feel second best or born at the wrong time.