6 CHRISTINA MILES Catamaran 452 We used to eat fried chicken, salty and wet, on the black trampoline ofmy dad's catamaran, number 452. Food appeared when wind hid, and the boat fidgeted rhythmically. I perched on one hull and splashed my sister on the other. Our brother sat behind, hooked to a halyard-too little to balance. Dad watched the sails for a hint of a gust, and Mom eyed the paddles, a birthday gift, tied near the rudders. Hours later, after we'd lost at least one pair of sunglasses and, perhaps, a pager, Dad steered the boat to shore, and we each hopped off to guide it on the trailer. I pulled sand dollars and seashells from the ocean's grainy floor, while others tied ropes, dismantled sails, and dragged the boat from the water. From the back seat, I watched our Saturday, lashed to the back of the family van, bump down the highway. Then it sat in the yard, white like chicken meat, the skin peeled off.
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