Free White Dolphin by Gill Lewis

seasickness if you can concentrate on something else.’
    Felix nods. He looks slightly better, a paler shade of green now.
    I sit up at the front of the boat with Mr Andersen, but can’t help looking back at Dad and Felix. A pang of jealousy runs through me and I try to push it away. Dad taught me to sail like this, sitting with him by the tiller, allowing me to test the wind and feel it in the sails. Felix can’t control the mainsail and the tiller with only one good arm. It takes two hands for that. But I watch Dad show him how to adjust the mainsail, when to pull it in and how to spill air if we heel over too far.
    Moana slices through the water on a course set for Gull Rock. We’re running fast and smooth. Mr Andersen and I have to lean right out to balance her. I run my hands in the bow waves that furl along Moana ’s sides. Her sails above us are curved and taut like birds’ wings. We’re racing through the water. It feels as if we’re flying, almost.
    I look back again to see Dad and Felix, big grins stuck on both their faces. That pang of jealousy hasn’t gone away. It’s not because of Dad, this time. It’s because of Felix. For someone who’s never sailed before, he’s good at sailing.
    He’s far too good.
    I don’t want to admit it, but Felix Andersen is a born natural.

    Dad takes over near Gull Rock and guides Moana into the crescent-shaped cove that faces the mainland shore. It’s sheltered here. The waves that heave against the seaward cliffs of Gull Rock swirl round here in foam-topped eddies. Mr Andersen drops the anchor and Dad lets down the sails.
    Felix’s eyes are shining and the colour is back in his face. ‘That was so cool.’
    Dad sits back and grins. ‘That was some sailing, Felix. Don’t you think so, Kara?’
    I shrug my shoulders. ‘It was OK.’
    Mr Andersen can’t take the smile off his face. He punches Felix on the shoulder. ‘I told youyou’d like it.’
    Dad pulls the picnic bag out from the locker. ‘You could enter the regatta race with sailing like that.’
    Felix just sits there with a massive grin.
    ‘What race is that?’ asks Mr Andersen.
    ‘It’s the one held every summer on the last day of August,’ says Dad. ‘Any sailing boat can enter. It’s a race from the harbour around Gull Rock and back.’
    I pull my knees up to my chest. I don’t want Dad to be telling them any of this. It’s our boat, our race. I look out at the shelving pebble bay and the sheer cliffs of Gull Rock and feel an ache deep in my chest. This is our special place. It could be the last time we ever come out here.
    ‘Pasty, anyone?’ says Dad.
    The smell of cooked meat and onions drifts across the boat.
    He holds one of the squashed pasties out to Felix. ‘Are you up to this?’
    Felix nods. ‘I’m starving.’
    Dad pours out lemonade into plastic cups, balancing them on the wooden seats.
    Mr Andersen takes a mouthful of pasty and leans back with his feet up on the seats. He pulls his hat over his eyes and smiles. ‘I have to say, this has to be the best meal I’ve had in years.’
    I don’t touch my pasty. I can’t imagine watching someone else sail Moana in the regatta race. I want to forget about Felix and his dad. I want to forget about Jake Evans too. All I want is to escape.
    ‘Can I have a quick swim, Dad?’ I say.
    Dad nods, and I reach into the locker for my mask and snorkel. I peel my shorts and T-shirt off to my swimming costume underneath.
    Mr Andersen looks at Felix. ‘Why don’t you go too? You could do with cleaning yourself off a bit.’
    Felix’s shorts are patterned with crusted sea salt and flecks of dried vomit. He looks down at them and shrugs his shoulders. ‘OK.’
    I stare down at my feet. I want to swim by myself, not have Felix tagging along.
    ‘Is that OK, Kara?’ says Mr Andersen.
    ‘There can be strong currents out there,’ I say.
    ‘You’re only swimming to the rocks,’ says Dad.
    ‘Felix is a good swimmer,’ says Mr