The swell has fully arrived, but the winds are onshore. So a few of the guys decide we should go trolling for dinner.
The further out we go, the rougher the seas get. I have visions of pearling. Or of the motor dying and being blown into this maelstrom; the boat splintering to pieces on the jagged rocks jutting out of the ocean angrily in the middle of the froth.
As I shift back and forth between pondering a drift story, or getting sucked down into the angry sea, it hits me that we have no radio on this boat. Flares? Doubtful. Life jackets, I don’t think so. Our first aid kit consists of the few band-aids and half used tube of antibiotic ointment I have packed. Not to mention we forgot a large portion of our food rations at Bill’s house; big blocks of cheese and tortillas. And then there’s our one knife blade.
"Uh, you think we should turn around?" Daniel says. Mikala is in the middle of a story about using a board to roof tie down strap as a leash one trip, Timmy is walking around the side of the boat with a box of beer as if we're at anchor in a calm lagoon, and Dustin is casually talking story too like we could be anywhere.
"Let’s turn the ____ around," I say.