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toward the boat and explodes on their bow.
    I know why moviemakers sometimes film action sequences in slow motion. It’s because that’s the way we see it in real life. It’s like a strobe light catches the horror in flashes so that the images can burn into our brains. So that we can’t hope to ever forget it.
    The second boat is so much closer now that I can see the gunman. He too is wearing a ski mask, as are the other men in his boat. He’s standing at the bow of his boat, a large rifle aimed our way. His whole body shakes with the force of the weapon. Tiny bursts of fire erupt from the barrel followed by the blat-blat-blat sound of automatic gunfire.
    A spray rips across the mainsail. A cockpit cushion explodes in shards of foam. Then the Thermos of tea disintegrates. Maybe I imagine it, but I think I see tea droplets hang in the air. The noise is enormous but even so, I can hear Duncan, beside me, screaming at my mother. I think he’s telling her to drop. He’s scrambling out into the cockpit, running toward my mother. But nothing is faster than the bullets. Not his words. Not me thinking,
Oh good, they’re going to miss her
.
    They don’t. With the impact of the bullets, my mother spins, her arms splayed back in an almost graceful arch. Red goo shoots from one pant leg. I see the soles of her boots, and then she crashes facedown onto the floor of the cockpit.
    In one agonizing sound Duncan calls for my mother and cries out as the bullets catch him in midair and his left shoulder shatters. He rolls with the impact, flying now, his feet no longer in contact with the boat. More gunfire, andhis skull lifts away like a red and gray cap. I close my eyes and when I open them, he’s gone, clear over the side of the boat. Then the gunfire stops.
    The first boat accelerates toward our bow. As it passes I see the men gathering what looks like a fishing net from the bottom of their boat. Mustn’t run into a fishing net. Fishing nets will foul your propeller and stop you dead. I can’t see them throw the net in front of our boat, but with a strangling sound, our engine dies. In the sudden silence, I’m aware that I’m screaming. The second boat comes to a shuddering stop against our hull. The first boat pulls up against our transom and men from both boats board
Mistaya
.
    My legs give out and I crumple onto the top step of the companionway. I can see Mom lifting her head, struggling with the radio. The man with the gun steps over her, glances at me, then he shouts in anger. He cracks the butt of the gun into the back of my mother’s head. She looks up, then her eyes roll back and her head drops limply onto the cockpit floor. The screams stop in my throat.
    Waving the gun, the gunman motions two of the men to our cabin roof. Pulling large knives out of their belts, the men leap onto the cockpit seats, their legs just inches away from my face. Grunting, they lower our rolled-up inflatable dinghy off the cabin roof into one of their boats. Other men proceed to strip the outside of our boat.
    I clamp my hand over my mouth, willing myself to be quiet. The men are shouting at each other. All of them have knives. Two of them burst down the companionway stairs, one pushing me out of his way, the other shovingme ahead of him down into the boat. The gunman follows. With his elbow he knocks me against the cabin wall. I can practically feel the cold of the gun so close to my face. One man seems to check the sleeping cabins, says something to the gunman, and the gunman nods. Abruptly, he turns his back on me. At the chart table the gunman rips open drawers. In one he finds a wallet, Duncan’s wallet. Duncan said once that if you make some things easy to find, then maybe a thief would be happy with that and leave. The gunman thumbs through the wallet and pockets the cash, then he shakes it in my face, shouting. The wallet doesn’t seem to be enough.
    The other two men cut the