Can you call him

The first text comes in at 5:30, I am still pumping the kayak.

Can you call Cormac. He didn’t go to practice. Came home on the bus instead. Angry. Won’t talk to me. Call him.

At the house I would take phone to the other room, and leave it face down next to car keys and wallet.

I take the phone and put in my lifejacket front pocket. I take it out and put it in my drybag. Wedge the drybag between the Nalgenes, strap it to a tow rope tied along the length of the hull. Everything sitting at my back. Out of sight.

I count the strokes to get me out of the cove and into the main channel. Seventy two.

I sink the right blade into the water next to me. Feel the flow pushing against it. The boat slowly rotates clockwise and stops. I count to sixty and start paddling again.

Call him, Dave. He won’t talk to me. Won’t come out of his room.

Bathtub water flows through the scupper holes.

One hundred and seventy one strokes to the first marina. It should have taken less than one fifty. I watch my stomach move. Every breath deliberate. I watch the boat’s yaw. I am pulling too much with my right arm.

You got my message. It’s important. It says it was delivered. Call him.

I have my sixteen foot boat, it’s self bailing, unsinkable. A pack of beef sticks, three Nalgenes, a joint, two headlamps, and no plan for the evening.

I take fifty strokes, pause, listen to the sound at the back of my skull, in my hair, under my right eye. The in-between radio stations noise that is always on. This is the first time in days I don’t feel it pressing against my eardrums.

Please call him. He punched his brother. He is punching the walls. He is screaming at us.

The moon ablaze fluorescent.

I perform exactly two hundred strokes and stop, and start again with the count.

Gurgling waves are coming from the boat, water pushing against the bow, vibration going up my back and then neck and ears.

Call him. Call him. He won’t stop. I’m calling the police.

Scupper holes filling and draining at every stroke, leaving my feet surrounded by grey foamy slime. There are a total of forty scupper holes in the floor, twenty on each side.

Hey dad. Mom and Gene are really fucking pissing me off. They are playing mind games.

There are five more messages. I don’t check them.

I put the phone back in the drybag. I roll the bag three times making sure to leave some air in it, and clip it to the rope behind me. I focus on my breathing and count the strokes.

It’s 3 am. The water is mirror smooth, full of stars, two moons.