Devonne Brown

The Windjammer hit the wave head on and leaped into the blue sky like a whale breaching the surface of the sea. Another wave pushed its bow down into the drink. Without his steering prowess, the sailboat surely would have capsized. The six year old opened his eyes, paused his imagination’s scenario, and scratched his leg. His chickenpox was driving him nuts.

All Hunk was allowed to do was stay in bed and daydream. He didn’t have books or toys. He had only his daydreams to keep him company, so he wrote stories in his head. 

He resumed the Windjammer and his plight against the roiling ocean depths. Although in this tale, Hunk could see the land, the treacherous waves threatened his existence. The mast began to creak, and the mainsail ripped from top to bottom. Unless the wind and waves calmed soon, he’d never set foot on shore again. The smell of danger was as salty as the sea spray.

The boy scratched his arm and continued his adventure. Water washed over the side of the boat, just about knocking his hands off its wheel. It soaked him from stem to stern. It was hot, and his clothing clung to him like crisp, wet, sandpaper. The salt water itched and ran down his hair and face like sweat, and stuck to him when the wind dried it.

Hunk’s mother came into his bedroom with a wash rag and a bowl of warm water. She interrupted his daydream while she washed the salt water off of his face, and body, while soothing the pox that spread over his scrawniness. He felt refreshed. Too refreshed to get back in the storm, but not back in the boat.

It was a cool night on the Windjammer, a calm sea and bright stars to sail her by. An occasional splash signaled a night fish happily slapping at whatever makes fishes happy. It made Hunk happy too. He took the vessel down the canal to its dock, where he would spend the night on the water and under the stars, rocking gently in the arms of its waves.