Pretty sure I lost every bit of liquid inside of me due to the Squid Incident.
Funny word, incident. That’s what Mrs. Harrison calls any of the big mess-ups I make in class. The Chalkboard Eraser Incident. The Macaroni Glue Gun Incident. The Hermit Crab Civil War Diorama Incident. Don’t ask about that last one.
“This incident occurred because of a questionable decision with a predictably negative outcome.” That’s what Mrs. Harrison said after the principal banned me from ever again participating in show and tell.
But maybe more important is what she didn’t say. She never said that I was stupid or a bad kid. Just that I made the wrong choice at the wrong time.
Like eating old squid or drinking salty water.
I wonder if them astronauts lost in space called it an incident once they got back home to their families. I bet they did. I could see them all sitting around a big Sunday dinner at NASA having a chuckle about the Spaceship Incident.
And then I could see Mrs. Harrison bust through the door, wagging a finger at the whole bunch of em as they’re chowing down on astronaut ice cream.
“So what did we learn from this incident?” she woulda asked.
“A lot,” they woulda said. “We even made up a new rule. Don't blast yourself into outer space in a big metal garbage can.”
Or try to cross the ocean in a bathtub, I thought.
Too late for that. But what else did I learn? What else could I learn?
I was wiping down the Montauk the next morning, still feeling queasy but at least not like my insides was trying to get out. It was a misty rain kind of morning and I was anxious to collect as much of it as I possibly could.
A wave sent up a splash of spray. Not over the side of the boat, but into the air, just a little higher than the gunnels.
Mixing with the freshwater mist.
That’s when I noticed. Anything as low as the side walls of the Montauk gets ocean water mixed with the fresh, turning my ratty tank top into a salt sponge. Which was life-saving information. So instead of soaking up water from everywhere, I needed to focus on what was the farthest away from the saltwater.
And I got rewarded with my first decent drink in days.
The fresh water came from the bimini. That’s the canvas sunshade that stretches over the center console. It’s on a big metal frame like a folding chair and when I kept it open, a blanket of mist settled on top.
But when I closed the bimini, the canvas folded into creases and clean, fresh water pooled up inside. It wasn’t much, but the first sip was better than any homemade lemonade I ever drank.
By opening and closing the bimini during that misty morning, I got seven sips of cool fresh water. In between sips, I soaked my tank top almost all the way through to squeeze out even more into my jug.
It made me feel like one of them astronauts.
