Chapter Seven

I was awake to possibilities, alert to nuance, and randy as hell; but Raven didn’t send up any smoke signals. It might easily be twenty days before we saw land. If I put any heavy moves on her, and she turned me down, we would both be looking forward to two-thirds of an absolutely miserable month together. So I went about my other business.

The main boom was beyond repair. I spent a day trying to convert the gaff to a boom and make the mainsail over into a reduced leg-o-mutton. I could have done it, but only by ruining the mainsail, and the emergency didn’t seem that great. I finally I gave up and hoisted the main as a boomless gaff sail. On a broad reach the Wahini was almost as good as ever, but off the wind she sailed like a turtle.

After that, things fell into a routine. I had to steer all through the daylight hours since the Wahini would no longer keep course with the wheel lashed. At night I could make her hold her course under jib and mizzen, but a heavy boat like Wahini doesn’t make much distance that way in less than a gale.

From six in the morning until eight at night I was chained to the wheel. Raven spent a lot of her time below, and a lot of time during good days up front straddling the bowsprit and watching the bow wave. It was the best spot on the boat for private contemplation. I used to spend a lot of time up there myself, back when Wahini would steer herself. Raven had a lot on her mind. We talked about her attack a dozen times, but we never came to any conclusions. Too little data. Raven had other things to think about as well. I didn’t know what – then – but I respected her privacy.

A week after the storm I found two wet rubber bands hanging from the rigging. Actually, it was the gag bikini. I had forgotten all about it until she decided to wash and dry it. Near noon, she came up with a bowl of canned stew and took the bikini back down with her. Fifteen minutes later she came up again in Will’s shirt with her long, bare legs sticking out, went forward and dropped the shirt. She had the bikini on, and it wasn’t much. She lay down on the forward deck in the sun.

It was a beautiful cloudless day with little wind. Once she was flat on the deck, I could not see her. But I could imagine, and I did. I stood it for about five minutes. Then I said, “Boat, I’ve been your slave long enough. You’re on you own for a while.” And lashed the wheel.

String bikinis were odd things. As a fad, they didn’t last long, and for good reason. Pure nakedness is much kinder to the female figure. If a woman were less than perfect, a string bikini showed nothing but her faults. If she were perfect, however, you could ignore it and concentrate on what was revealed. 

Raven was in the latter category. She was lying face downward on the deck, with her bra strap untied and loose beside her. more tomorrow

Raven’s hair was free and streaming back and she seemed to be having the time of her life. I know I was.

I showed her how to steer and after a while I gave her the chance to practice. She attacked the task ferociously, and after half an hour she was beginning to develop a fine and delicate touch.

I tried to lead her into talking more about her family, but she avoided the subject. She did not seem secretive so much as she seemed uncomfortable, as if she didn’t want to think about them. Until I mentioned siblings. 

“Brothers, no; but I have a sister. Daddy’s favorite. The kind of girl who can do no wrong. Never gets in trouble. Never gets less than an A in school. Always the best at everything she does. She’s really great!”

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. I said, “Older or younger?”

“Younger. Eight years younger than me. She’s an ice skater. She’ll be in the Olympics someday, if she doesn’t break her leg or something.”

I smiled at the venom in Raven’s voice, and asked, “What’s her name?”

“Pilar. You know, after the Virgin Mary, the first pillar of the Church.”

I laughed and Raven looked daggers at me. I said, “Even her name is perfect.”

“Exactly!”

“I watch ice skating sometimes, but I have never heard of her.”

“Do you go to the meets or just watch on TV?”

“TV.”

“A big meet will have a bunch of skaters, but the networks only show four or five of them. They shoot a lot of footage, then after the meet is over they splice together what they need. When you see it on television, it looks as if they just happened to film the winners. If someone makes an unexpectedly good showing, they go back to stock footage from previous years so that it looks as if they knew all along that she was going to be a winner.”

“How long has Pilar been the family favorite?”

“Since forever!”

When I had first fished Raven out of the water, she had spoken standard English. Now that she was becoming relaxed with me, her schoolyard Chicano-English mannerisms were beginning to creep out. She asked, “How about you?”

“I have a sister, and an older brother that I thought was perfect. Donal, was his name; he was much older so we didn’t compete. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Why?”

“He left home when I was nine. Just disappeared. I never knew where he went or why. Maybe my parents did, but they never said. He used to fight with my dad all the time.”

“Boy, I can relate to that!”

*****

At least ten years before I wrote Raven’s Run, I wrote the first sixty or so pages of a novel called Eden Lake. The names were different, but the main character had a father who had run away to Canada after causing the drunk driving accident in which his wife was killed. The son in Eden Lake was saddled with raising his younger sister, an event that led to mutual alienation.

Ian is a different character, but I grafted the Eden Lake backstory onto him, complete with estranged sister, and added Donal. All this was to provide plots for future novels should Ian have become a series character. more tomorrow

I barely even knew her name, or maybe I didn’t know her name. Raven was too melodramatic to be real.

“Where do you live, Raven.”

“Our original home is near Santa Cruz, but I really grew up in Sacramento.”

“I know both places. I went to college at San Francisco State. I spent a month in Sacramento once as part of my classes.”

“In what?”

“Political science. My friend Will and I both plan to go into the foreign service.”

“The friend who is in France? The one who owns half of this boat?”

“Yes. He was just posted to the consulate in Marseille a couple of months ago. He had to leave the Wahini in Jamaica and fly to Washington for briefings, and then on to his job.”

The ship’s name seemed to amuse her. “And that is why you are sailing alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why the foreign service?”

“It seems exciting, and it provides a chance to travel. I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin and never got far from home except for an occasional canoe trip to Canada. Then, when I was in the Army, I spent three years in Germany, and another three months wandering around Europe after I got out. After that, I didn’t want to take a job that would keep me in one place.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “I was just the opposite. When I was little we moved from place to place so much that I would have given anything to settle down and never move again.”

“Because your father was in politics?”

She shook her head. “Before that. He worked for the FBI for ten years. They don’t have that many Chicano agents, so he was always in demand for field jobs.”

“Could that be why you were tossed off that ship? Revenge for something he did, or leverage against him for something he is doing now?”

“No, of course not. He has been out of the FBI for a long time.”

“You think.”

“What?”

“You think he has been out of things, but if he were mixed up with some clandestine operation, he certainly wouldn’t tell you. So you don’t really know.”

#          #          #

The afternoon was fading fast and I had repairs to do. I took another inspection tour of the ship and decided that I could set sail once I repaired the strained backstay. It took most of two hours, then I set the jib and mizzen and hauled in the sea anchor. The mainsail repairs would wait until tomorrow. The wind was still about force seven, and I thought it would be a while before I could set more canvas anyway.

Raven went below, and when she came up again she was wearing Will’s ski parka under his oilskins and looking as if someone had inflated her.

The wind was dying down more quickly than I had anticipated, but the waves were not and it took a quick hand at the wheel to pick our way among them. It was a roller coaster ride. Raven sat across from me with her legs enlaced with mine. Her hair was free and streaming back and she seemed to be having the time of her life. I know I was. more tomorrow

Chapter Six

We live by conventions. Like the old fashioned western movies where the hero wakes up in the bedroom of the rancher’s daughter, to find out that he has been wounded and she has nursed him back to health.

When I woke up, it was like that. The mess was gone from the floor and the smear of coffee grounds and ketchup was gone from the bulkhead. There was a smell of fresh coffee in the air, and Raven had untangled her hair again. It hung in a fluffy cloud around her face and down across her shoulders, shaming Will’s ragged wool shirt with its elegance. Raven was leaning against the back of the opposite transom seat with her feet braced. She was three-quarters asleep.

I could only remember snatches of our later conversation. I must have been more tired than I had realized. Raven, too, although she had clearly outlasted me. At least I didn’t think the good fairies had cleaned up the mess.

The storm had abated. It was time to be getting out and beginning repairs. But looking at Raven, that wasn’t the first thing on my mind. Her foot was bare and close at hand. I brushed a fingernail from her elegant toes up to the cuff of Will’s baggy jeans. Her skin jumped under my fingers.

There was no getting around it. I was miles ahead of her in readiness. Rescuing her had given me a feeling of ownership; seeing her naked and vulnerable when I had first dragged her aboard had aroused me intensely. If I went ahead at the speed I wanted, it would frighten her terribly. She seemed to have accepted that I was not going to take advantage of her helplessness, but I could still easily lose that trust.

This trip wasn’t going to be easy. The Wahini didn’t even have a cold shower.

Raven yawned and stretched, and said, “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Me, either.”

“Ha!”

She rose and went to the cupboard, poured coffee for both of us and handed me mine. Her motions were sure and easy; she must have spent a lot of time while I slept familiarizing herself with the layout. She said,  “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“I couldn’t find any eggs.”

“I used the last of them a week ago. There are powdered eggs in that plastic jar, or you could open a can of hash.”

I left her and went on deck. The waves were still sizable, but nothing compared to what they had been. It was late afternoon and the sun was peeking in and out of scattered clouds. I made a slow circuit of the ship, assessing damage.  The mainsail was out of commission until I could repair it, but most of the standing rigging was intact. Only the port main backstay was strained beyond immediate use. Apparently the boom had hit it when it went overboard.

Raven shouted, “Come and eat.”

She was standing at the stove when I came below. I fished Will’s safety harness out and cinched her into it. Her clothing was not enough insulation for the electricity I felt pass between us. I felt! She just nodded and served up the hash. We ate it on deck, leaning against the deckhouse to stay out of the wind.

I set my plate on the deck and said thank you. She laughed and said, “Thank you, sir, and let me add that this has been one hell of a first date.” It was so unexpected that I laughed out loud.

We were sitting side by side, looking back past the lashed wheel across the dying but still lively waves. I wanted to take her hand, but decided not to. There was a feeling of companionship between us, but we were still strangers. I liked the way she looked, the way she smiled, and the sound of her laugh. I liked the way she had stood up to hardship and danger, and the way she had made herself useful without any fuss. And yet I knew nothing about her. I barely even knew her name, or maybe I didn’t know her name. Raven was too melodramatic to be real. more tomorrow

Everything seemed intact. The line to the sea anchor was becoming chafed where it passed through the anchor bits. I should have pulled it in somewhat, but that was out of the question. All I could do was let it out three feet to keep it from chafing further.

Up forward, the motion was severe. When the Wahini crested a wave, the deck fell away beneath my feet like a high speed elevator dropping from penthouse to basement. The line to the sea anchor was as hard as a steel rod; droplets of seawater danced on its vibrating length. I felt like Ishmael on a Nantucket sleigh ride. No amount of reason could convince my senses that we were moving backward more slowly than the waves. My eyes knew that we were surging forward.

I returned to the main hatch. Raven was there, her hair a black bramble in the wind. I took the canvas, hammer and nails, and dragged the hatch closed. The frame was shattered, but there was nothing I could do about that now. I simply nailed canvas over the hole, and trimmed it with my knife. Then I slid the hatch half open and clenched the nails over inside, took a last look around, and went below.

Raven was waiting. She looked so melodramatically woeful and bedraggled that I had to smile. I said, “Where were we?”

It took her a moment to shift mental gears; then she smiled too. “We were in each others arms,” she said. “Were! Now, you are going to tell me whether or not we are going to sink.”

I motioned her to the transom seat and sat opposite her, bracing my feet against the ship’s motion. “No, I don’t think so, but we’ll never come that close again and live to tell about it. The wind seems to be dying down just a bit, and the Wahini is riding properly again.”

“So we’re all right?”

“No guarantees, but probably.” I decided not to tell her about the Wahini’s inherent instability. “How do you feel?”

“Scared. Fine other than that, I guess. Tired. I haven’t gotten much sleep.”

“Me either.”

“So who was doing all that snoring?”

I smiled. I had to admire her for trying so hard. From a cruise ship, to near drowning, to this – she appeared to be holding up well. I wondered what it was costing her.

“What is happening to us?” she asked.

I explained about the rogue wave and the broken boom.

“Does that mean we are stranded?”

“No. It means we may have some heavy repairs ahead of us when the storm lets up, and that we may take longer to get to Marseille.”

She bit her lower lip and asked, “Will we have enough food?”

Another point for her, for intelligence this time. Not many people would have thought of that. I said, “Don’t worry.”

“I have to worry. I’m the one that got you into this mess.  Because I’m here, you have two mouths to feed.”

I shook my head. “No, Raven. I’m not putting you off. Don’t worry because there is plenty of food aboard. We stocked the the Wahini for two before Will had to fly on ahead. If we are much delayed, we may run out of luxuries like coffee, but we won’t go hungry.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You aren’t.”

She laughed bitterly. “So who went out to repair the damage and who stayed inside safe and warm.”

“This conversation could get tiresome. No, I didn’t invite you aboard; but you didn’t choose to be here either. There is no blame involved, and nothing to apologize about. You are welcome aboard, Raven.

Very softly, she said, “Thank you.”

“I think I could get to like you very quickly.”

Her face lit up. She couldn’t have looked happier if Ed McMahon had knocked on her door with ten million dollars. I wanted to say more, but I sensed a reserve in her, and the last months had left me emotionally drained. Perhaps that was part of the reason I was falling for her so hard and so fast. Not that I needed a reason beyond the fact that she was beautiful and we were alone in mid-ocean. If you rescue a mermaid, you’re expected to fall for her. more tomorrow

The hatch was canvas covered plywood, framed with oak. Something had punched a fist sized hole in the plywood near the back and the whole thing was jammed. I forced it open. The wind, fierce as it was, seemed to have abated slightly. We were once more on an even keel, riding to the sea anchor, but at a sharp angle to the waves. The Wahini’s main boom had torn loose from the harness that supported it’s outboard end at the mizzen, and was dragging in the sea along our port side. The mainsail was still furled between gaff and boom.

It actually seemed to be improving the way the Wahini met the waves, but I couldn’t leave it in the water. I did not have a spare mainsail; if we lost this one, we were dead in the water. Maybe literally. The sheet seemed to still be intact, so I tried hauling it in. The great mass of wood and canvas bent double, and I knew that the sound which awakened me had been the boom breaking. I released the sheet and threw the bitter end of it around the base of the mizzen. With that new angle I could drag the furled sail back toward the boat with less damage. To the sail; not to me. I had to brace one foot against the mizzen and put my back into it. Near the end, I had both feet on the mast and was lying on the deck with the sheet around my shoulders, heaving with my thighs, then taking up slack. Like doing deep knee bends to lift a Buick out of a well. When the sail finally came back aboard, I lay panting and sweating before I could get up to lash it to the deck.

Raven was standing with her head out of the hatch, looking scared and helpless. I moved to the pump, a hefty, old-fashioned type set amidships with a pair of short handles like an old pump handcar. I went to work. The pump dredged up gallons of seawater, smelling of gasoline and colored with ketchup and coffee grounds, and dumped them on deck. Passing waves quickly swept it clean again. Raven said something, but I lost it in the screaming wind and just shook my head. I put my hand on top of her head and pushed gently. She gave way and I stuck my head through the hatch where she could hear me.

“Forward, through that door, in a cardboard box marked canvas. Bring me a piece of scrap, at least a foot square. Then look under the ladder, beside the engine, high up on the left. You’ll find a tool box. Bring me a claw hammer and a dozen roofing nails. Those are rough gray nails with big flat heads.  OK?”

She nodded and I let her go while I shifted my harness line and worked forward. I scrunched along with my feet in the scuppers and my hands on the edge of the cabin house while the wind tried to pick me up like Dorothy and carry me away. Definitely, this wasn’t Kansas. more tomorrow

Chapter Five

The storm’s masterstroke came just after dawn. What actually happened, I never knew for sure. Perhaps some freak combination of waveforms resulting in a rogue wave much higher than the others. Perhaps the waves had changed their period and the Wahini was out of synch, and caught still rolling to port under the influence of one wave when a second one added its force to the first. The reason was irrelevant; only the result mattered.

I was shocked fully awake by a sound like an explosion, a shudder that ran through the hull and the sickening feeling of overturning. I sat up so quickly that I slammed my head against the overhead, but my curses were cut off by a firehose spray of salt water in the face. Before I knew it, I was out of the bunk and standing with my feet on the side of the cabin, looking down through the portholes into green swirling water that went all the way down, miles down, to the deep ocean floor.

Wahini was lying on her side. Raven’s bunk hung above me. Her eyes were like twin coals glowing in twin caverns, her mouth worked with fear but no sound came out. She clawed at the ropes that held her canvas restraint in place and came slipping out like the sudden, final rush of birth. I caught her as she fell.

Wahini’s masts must have been nearly horizontal. If she had had even one stitch of canvas set, it would have driven her down that last degree to her death – and ours. Instead she hung there for agonizing seconds that felt like years, mastheads just above the surging waves, rail buried, cabin sides buried so that we could look down between our feet out the porthole into the green depths where Leviathan sleeps. 

There was absolutely nothing I could do. Not even pray. Raven’s hands were making furious crosses, forehead to waist, shoulder to shoulder. Please, God! Please! Another bucketful of water came in the broken hatch and washed the canned goods, ketchup, and coffee grounds around our ankles, covering the portholes and hiding the sight of the depths that lay beneath us.

We braced each other up, arms wrapped around each other, trembling in the darkness, helpless as mice beneath a lion’s paw.

Slowly, regally, Wahini found her feet. The cabin side slid sideways beneath us and we scuttled back to the narrow floorboard. Wahini groaned around us.

I swallowed my heart, and as the fear-buzzing numbness faded from my ears, I became aware of the fact that I was holding Raven in a close embrace. She had buried her face in my chest and the scent of her hair was strong. Raven black. Long, firm body pressed close and trembling. And I had no time for her! I disengaged gingerly, cooing reassurance and cursing our timing. more tomorrow

The hollows between the waves had become like caverns. Wahini would crest a wave then plunge down into the trough with such speed that it seemed as if she would bury her bowsprit and keep on driving clear underwater. I could no longer trust my steering to prevent disaster. I had been up so long that I could hardly trust myself to stay awake. I had to put out the sea anchor.

It was a clumsy device of boards and welded chain that Will and I had fashioned months ago, hoping we would never need it. I turned the Wahini into the wind and dropped it off the bow on a long line. I paid out the warp until it coincided with the period of the waves and the Wahini settled into a wild but regular pattern of motion. The sea anchor dragged her bow around, holding Wahini’s head to the wind as she worked the waves. She seemed to move forward while actually sliding backward under the press of the gale. As we crested each wave, the sea anchor snubbed the bow down until green water came over and shot a thin sheet the length of the deck. Then the wind would catch the full height of the masts and Wahini would shake her head like a horse with a harsh bit in her mouth. Down the face of the wave then, nearly plunging through the swirling surface and on down to the sea floor miles below. In the trough, crashing into the face of the next wave; then struggling, shuddering, up to the next crest to repeat the cycle.

I lashed the wheel amidships and waited. I had been without sleep for thirty-seven grueling hours, but I had to stay long enough to know that I had done all I could for Wahini. Finally I slid the hatch back and went below.

All was chaos. The crazy motion had been magnified below decks. The latch on one of the food cabinets had broken and canned goods were rolling around underfoot. A bottle of ketchup had broken, turning the narrow deck into a smear of bloody-looking broken glass, mixed with grounds from the overturned coffee pot. The blanket I had wrapped up in was half soaked in the mixture. Raven was in her bunk again, clinging with both hands to keep from being thrown out as the boat shuddered and staggered from wave to wave. Her face was full of terror and seasickness.

I said, “Look,” and showed her how to adjust the canvas restraint that would pin her into her bunk so no motion, however violent, could throw her out. Then I replaced her seasickness patch and dug out a pair of chocolate bars. She refused hers, so I ate them both.

I shook the broken glass out of my blanket, wiped the worst of the ketchup and coffee grounds on the edge of the transom, crawled into the bunk opposite Raven’s, and fell instantly asleep.

#          #          #

My night was broken. Every hour – it seemed like every five minutes – Wahini’s wild motion would bring me to wakefulness and I would lie staring into the darkness, feeling her drunken dance with the storm and gauging her condition. Eventually I would drift off again, and an hour or so later wake again with that steel-twisted feeling of helpless. So it went, all night. I made no move to go on deck. Unless Wahini lost her sea anchor and I had to makeshift another one, there was absolutely nothing I could do to make things better. There was no reason to look out for other ships. If one were bearing down on us, there would be nothing I could do to avoid it. It was better to just sleep and wait. more tomorrow

There is no accounting for what drives the engine of memory. In the midst of storm and danger, my mind went sailing again on a Swiss lake, on board one of the lovely old paddle wheel steamers. It was my first trip from Geneva to Montreaux by way of Luisanne, fresh out of the Army and happy to just play tourist. I stood for hours watching the bow wave curl back in smooth mustache of green water, probably dreaming of crossing an ocean in my own small ship. 

Funny thing, the mind. Here in the middle of screaming wind and angry seas, I should have been remembering scenes of similar violence in my past. The shock of cold, swift water as my canoe overturned in the rapids of the Canadian sub-arctic; or crouching silently in the dark, waiting with Greta for East German guards to find us. Instead, I remembered my first entry into Luisanne by steamer, with swans slipping gracefully and unconcerned out of the way. Beyond the embarkation pier were parks and a marina where I had spent an hour admiring the sailboats. The swans had come to beg crumbs, and I had shared part of my bread-loaf lunch.  Young swans – cygnets – as dark gray and ungainly as Hans Christian Andersen’s ugly duckling, trailed in their mothers’ wakes.

When I returned to the dock, two young femmes were sharing a park bench, singing to the guitar one of them was playing. They were perhaps fourteen, as fresh and awkward and innocent as cygnets. They were singing in English, with accents that said they were French. Suzanne, Leonard Cohen’s first real success, a song full of pain, disillusionment, and wry bitterness. Their sweet voices curled around his salt-sour words, singing of things they could not possibly understand. It made the words more bitter, and the beauty of their innocence more poignant.

When they sang that “the sun came down like honey”, the scene came together in my mind in one unbreakable gestalt. The awakened innocence of the girls, the honey warm air, the clear, flat green water with mountains rising up in the distance across Lac Léman. The sound of birds in the bushes; the swans parading awkwardly on dry land down near the marina. I took it all in – a small satori – and it was mine forever, to rise up again when least expected.

Like now, cold and stiff and a little fearful, caught in the midst of a gale a thousand miles from safety. With another girl, more awakened than innocent. With waves that rose up all around me, awaiting a moment’s inattention to destroy both of us. more tomorrow

Chapter Four

Wahini was laying over too far. I could feel it even below decks, and as soon as I could, I disengaged myself from Raven, put on a sweater under my oilskins, and went on deck. Once I let Wahini fall another point off the wind, the pressure on her storm trysail eased and her masts came back closer to perpendicular.

I watched her and felt her motions for a while. She was still laboring. Even under that single small sail, she was sailing too fast. Her broad, blunt bow was crashing into the waves, sending shudders through her massive hull, and showers of spray cascading over the decks.

The wind was force eight and still rising. I released the lashings on the wheel and eased her into the wind as she approached the next wave. This time she took it obliquely, slid sideways as she went up the back of the wave, and slipped down the far side with a twisting, corkscrew motion.

For the next hour I steered her over the waves, letting her slip away to lessen their force. Eventually, I had to take down the last sail, change course, and run her off under bare poles. The masts and rigging alone were enough to carry her downwind as fast as I dared to let her go.

Once Raven stuck her head out of the hatch, looked around her, and slammed the hatch closed again. I didn’t blame her.

Wahini was not a typical yacht. She was a replica of Captain Joshua Slocum’s Spray, built to plans reproduced by Pete Culler.  Slocum had been the first man to sail around the world alone in 1895, and ever since, dreamers have been building replicas of his ship.

I had inherited my Wahini, left half-built in the corner of a trucking yard in the industrial district of San Francisco. When I had first seen her there, forlorn and abandoned, I had been bitten by the same sea fever. Over the next three years, Will Hayden and I had finished and launched her.

Slocum had twenty years of experience as a professional seaman when he circled the globe, but even still, he and the Spray had gone missing on a later voyage. The original Spray had been too shoal, too wide, and inadequately ballasted for her length and sail plan. She was extremely stable, up to a point, but if she lay too far over, she would just keep going until she reached her new position of stability – upside down.

When I inherited the Wahini, I had known none of this. By the time I found out, it was to late. I was committed. So I stayed at the wheel for the next fourteen hours, corkscrewing up and down the waves, and worrying.

#          #          #

Exhaustion, the pounding, twisting, heaving motion of the Wahini, the howl of the wind, an unseasonable cold punctuated by salt spray working its way down from the neck of my oilskins, drove all thought of Raven from my mind. But even fear can become numbed in time. By the third hour I was flogging my mind to remain on task; by the fourth my responses had become automatic while I dreamed awake. more tomorrow