Free SYLO (THE SYLO CHRONICLES) by D.J. MacHale Page B

crowd to get as close as we could to the seawall. The race was nearly done, so there were lots of people crowding in to see who would win. Or hurl. Or both. A huge orange float was moored about twenty yards offshore to mark the finish.
    “Just in time,” I declared.
    Several boats had rounded the final buoy and were headed for home.
    “Oh, man,” Quinn said. “It’s a close one.”
    There were three boats in contention, all with their mainsails up and their jibs full. That wasn’t always the case. Usually one sailor took a huge lead, probably because he was the least drunk. But this year was going to be different and the crowd sensed it. This was a real race. Everyone started shouting, cheering, and blowing ear-splitting air horns.
    “You know anybody racing?” I called to Quinn over the noise.
    “Yeah,” he yelled back. “The guy in second place in the Catalina. He’s a friend of my dad’s.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “C’mon Mr. Nelson!” as if Mr. Nelson could actually hear him.
    The boat in the lead was a hundred yards from the finish, but Mr. Nelson was closing fast, which made the crowd scream even louder. I don’t think anybody really cared who won, they just wanted to see an exciting finish and this had all the makings of one.
    Mr. Nelson cut aggressively inside of the lead boat, looking like he was trying to steal the wind from the leader and then edge him out at the last possible moment.
    “Nice,” Quinn commented.
    The crowd saw the maneuver and went wild. They sensed a last-second lead change and roared their approval.
    Mr. Nelson’s boat picked up speed. The sailor in front tightened his jib, trying to grab every last bit of energy from what little wind he had left, but he was going to lose.
    “Any second now,” Quinn said. “He’s going to hang back until the leader loses all of his speed and then cut across his bow.”
    That’s exactly what happened. The leader’s boat lost its inertia and Nelson’s boat surged forward. He cut the wheel hard and turned to slip in front of the leader.
    “Yeah!” Quinn exclaimed, then suddenly froze. “Whoa. Too hard.”
    The crowd realized the same thing. As one, their cheers turned to shouts of warning.
    “No! Cut back! Drop your sails!” Everyone was yelling advice that couldn’t be heard.
    “They’re gonna hit!” I shouted.
    A second later Nelson’s boat collided with the bow of the leader’s boat, knocking it toward shore.
    The crowd groaned.
    “Jeez, what’s he doing?” Quinn said with a gasp.
    I expected Nelson to come around and try to get back on course, but he kept turning. To get to the finish line, he had to travel parallel with the shore. He didn’t. Nelson continued across the bow of the leader’s boat and headed toward the line of floating docks that were strung out from the pier.
    “He’s out of control,” Quinn yelled.
    The crowd started shouting at him and waving him off, as ifthat would do any good. Nelson’s sails were full and he was headed directly for the first line of floats.
    Someone blew an air horn as a warning, but the boat kept coming.
    Several race officials were on the pier, waving frantically, trying to get Nelson to steer off. It was useless. If anything, the boat picked up speed.
    “He’s going to crash!” I exclaimed, stating what everybody already knew.
    The race officials bailed, scrambling desperately to get off the float and out of harm’s way. The last terrified official leaped from the float onto the pier moments before impact.
    Nelson’s boat hit the long float at full speed, its bow raising up like a breaching whale, revealing the underside of the hull. The two structures jackknifed, the bow rising into the air while pushing the float up onto its side. The boat would have kept coming up and over but the keel hit, stopping its forward momentum and twisting the doomed boat until the starboard side of the hull slammed into the float.
    There was a horrific wrenching