Eight of them piled onto the boat parked in the St. Augustine marina. Three groups of strangers. A married couple. A family of four: Grandmother, mother, two boys. The two-man crew of the parasailing vessel.

The married couple had made their parasailing reservations earlier that morning. A phone call made from their traveling vehicle. They had arrived in St. Augustine less than an hour earlier. They changed in the restrooms of the hotel lobby. Their room not yet ready. A wedding anniversary marked with a getaway and a parasailing flyaway.

They do not know the others on the boat. The married couple soon learned a few things of them. The mother and her sons had moved to Florida several months earlier. Grandma visited from Kentucky. Mom was along for the boat ride. Grandma and the two boys would parasail. This family had attempted parasailing a couple times earlier. Weather postponed those excursions.

Storm clouds horseshoed the city, darkening the western horizon. Overhead, blue skies stretched out to the Atlantic. The boat backed away from the pier. The captain soon had the boat speeding to open waters.

The boat passed parked boats and ships ranging from motors to masts, under the skeletal renovations of the Bridge of Lions, into the afternoon shadow of the replacement draw bridge. It sliced through blue waters away from the bruised skies, into the blue, the deep, deep blue. Small islands and tall grasses surprised the passengers.

Choppy waters tightened their grips on the boat railings. The boat rose with an airless, stomach-rising weightlessness. It slammed down, a crashing of ocean, making waves upon the waves. The passengers whooped excitement. Knuckles whitened on the rail. Water sprayed the passengers. Water doused the first mate. He dripped beside the laughing captain.

The married couple’s husband thrilled at this unexpected adventure. The boat rocked up and down. Uppity-up. Down. Over and over. Thrilled but quiet, concerned his stomach may betray him.

Grandma talked non-stop. She chattered above the crash of waves. She talked as the first mate strapped her and the two grandsons into their harnesses. She talked as she was connected to the bright yellow parachute between her two grandsons. She out-talked the wind. Her voice still audible as the smiley-faced parachute boomed with wind and her dangling legs swinging back and forth with those of her grandsons. They rose into the air until her voice faded to nothing.

Rope uncoiled. The parachute with grandma and grandsons decreased to a yellow dot on a blue field, tied to a rope, a big kite on a string. Watching those six miniature legs twitter in space so far above, the wife said to her husband, “Oh my, I don’t think I can do that.”

“Are you serious?” the husband said, thinking of the money wasted if she chickened out. Thinking she better not expect him to stay on board if she didn’t go. “Seriously?” he said again.

“No,” she laughed. “Of course, I’m going up.”

The first mate reeled in the rope. Grandma and the boys descended with the parachute. The boys still quiet. Grandma quiet, too. They landed on the back of the boat. They never touched water. They stood. The parachute billowed. The first mate released them from the harness. The boys said nothing. They didn’t smile. They were blanks. Grandma walked away from the chute on shaky legs. Quiet save for the occasional moan.

The first mate helped the married couple into the harnesses. He told them to sit on the launching area at the back of the boat. He attached the chute.

“If we hit a wave, the harness may become real uncomfortable,” the captain said to the husband, looking to the wife. “She should be fine. But the harness can get uncomfortable for men. You know what I mean? If that happens, believe me, you’ll find a way to adjust the harness without falling out.”

The husband nodded.