Free The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) by Chris Thrall

’screw visited a hypermarket on the outskirts of Brest, to find the enormous
store, the size of several football fields, packed with aisle upon aisle of discount
food and drink.
    “Chocolate, Papa!”
    Jessica zeroed in on a shelf stacked with supersized bars.
    “In the cart then, greedy pants.”
    Hans smiled as she heaved a two-foot-long slab onto the
growing pile of beer, wine, coffee, canned meats and other treats. He picked up
a bulk pack of mini-firecrackers, figuring he would have a bit of fun with them
at some point.
    “Say, is anyone else hungry?”
    “I thought you’d never ask,” Penny replied, her appetite boosted
by the surrounding delicacies.
    “I thought you’d never ask.” Jessica stood mesmerized by a gigantic
stack of Toblerones.
    They took up seats in what had to be the smartest restaurant
Hans had ever seen. Furnished in rich mahogany, with cream satin tablecloths,
mirrored alcoves and pastel-painted murals depicting folk scenes from all around
the world on every wall, it truly was a gem, the view of the Château de Brest a
bonus. Hans marveled at Penny’s competency in French as she ordered from the
menu, delighted to find out they shared an appetite for the exotic when frog
legs and escargot arrived for their starter.
    “Escargot, Jess?” Gripping the mollusk’s shell with a set of
tongs, Hans eased the slimy morsel from its home with a cocktail fork.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a snail, like we have in the yard at home.”
    “ Urrrh !”
    No, this one’s real nice, cooked with garlic butter and
parsley.”
    “Hmm?” She frowned, not convinced and looking alternately at
her father and Penny.
    Hans popped the snail in his mouth, and Penny followed suit,
both making a pretense at enjoying the dish – although in truth escargot didn’t
taste too great. Never one to be left out, Jessica nodded her approval, but as
she chewed on the rubbery offering her grimace said otherwise.
    After two days in port they got the five-day weather window, as Old
Bill had insisted. Hans and Penny were well aware that the Bay of Biscay between
Brest and La Coruña in northern Spain was not a body of water to mess with.
Storms out in the Atlantic sent waves barreling in to meet shallows created by
the continental shelf, forming mountainous breakers. Along with cargo ships and
cruise liners, the Biscay had claimed many a yacht with its cantankerous bent.
Keeping well out to sea, they agreed, would be the key to a successful passage.
    On Future ’s last night in the marina, Marcel invited them
aboard Sietske for a barbecue. By now this kindhearted Dutchman had made
quite an impression on them, so they happily accepted.
    Having grown up on her parents’ wooden yacht, Penny was
thrilled to spend an evening aboard Sietske ,but as they stepped over
her coaming, the scene greeting them was something of a shock. Empty beer cans,
cup noodle pots and potato chip wrappers littered the cockpit floor, along with
valuable items of equipment.
    “I guess each to their own,” she whispered to Hans.
    Sensing their unease, Marcel made his excuses. “Ah! You know
us Dutch. Anything for a pardy!”
    He shoveled a load of litter into a pile with his foot,
picked it up and disappeared into the cabin, reemerging with his mammoth grin
and a tray of Tequila Sunrises.
    “So, princess, when you marry me, we can tidy this place up
together, you know?”
    “Uh-huh.” She nodded, her little eyes sold on the idea.
    As the sun dropped below the horizon and an amber blaze
spread out through burnt-red wisps tinged with pinks and blues, the evening
turned into one to remember, Marcel supplying them with copious drinks and
burgers and hilarious anecdotes from his experiences sailing the coast of
Europe and North Africa.
    “So, I’m in the Casbah, right? And I got a liddle drunk and I
bought a monkey.”
    “What’s a Cashbar?” Jessica asked.
    “A Casbah . . . It’s like a marketplace, you know? In Morocco
they sell everything