Free On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks Page A

the bay, a red-painted boat began tacking toward them: on the bow was a woman with binoculars held up to her face, waving her arm. As the boat came closer to them, Charlie said, “Isn’t it that bore from the French Embassy?”
    A man with a blue yachting cap and shining new oilskins called out to them in French-accented English. Edward shouted back some sailing pleasantries and began to tack the other way, but the Frenchman was challenging them to a race.
    “Around the island and back to the point!” he yelled, indicating a small, tree-covered hillock in the bay, about half a mile north.
    “Do we have to, Eddie?” said Katy anxiously.
    “It really doesn’t make any difference,” said Edward. “It’s not like a car. I can’t make the thing go any faster, it’s entirely up to the wind.”
    “Won’t we end up in the wrong place, though?” said Mary.
    “It’s all right. It’s only an hour or so from here back to the car.”
    “Think of the honor of England,” said Frank.
    “Quite right,” said Charlie, who had been nodding off in the stern.
    “Hey, I need you, Charlie. Get up there,” said Edward. He looked at Frank. “And you. Give that rope a yank, or do I mean the other way round? You’re the crew.”
    The two boats carved their separate courses, crossing and recrossinglike folded parallelograms, scrawling their joined lines as straight as the contrary wind would let them. Mary huddled down inside her jacket and rubbed her hands. From time to time she and the other women were required to lean out over the edge of the boat; then, as the boom swung across, they would scurry back beneath it, sometimes encountering Frank or Charlie coming back the other way on their urgent crewing business.
    Edward kept a strong arm on the tiller, his eyes good-naturedly moving across the horizon, making sure the boats did not come too close. As they neared the island, it was clear that the French boat was ahead.
    “Listen, skipper,” said Charlie, “I don’t want to start a mutiny, but shouldn’t you be splicing the mainbrace or something?”
    “Put the bastard ashore,” said Frank.
    “Hear, hear,” said Katy.
    “Poor Eddie, he’s doing his best,” said Sal.
    The wind was picking up further as they rounded the island and headed back toward the point, and it was beginning to rain in small, stinging drops that whipped into their faces.
    “I knew this was a mistake,” Katy whispered into Mary’s ear.
    Mary turned up the collar of her jacket and retied her scarf beneath her chin. The boat rose and smacked its wooden hull down on a rising wave. Sal screamed as the boards of the deck buckled under the impact.
    “Ah, a life before the mast,” said Charlie, taking a swill from Frank’s flask.
    “Did you see the floor bend?” said Sal. “I’m scared.”
    “I think it’s called a deck, isn’t it?” said Charlie.
    “If it didn’t bend, that would be a problem,” said Edward. “How are you feeling, Frank?”
    “Pretty good,” said Frank, whose face was pale even on dry land. He was holding hard to the rail and seemed to have left the crewing work to Charlie.
    As they neared the point, Edward made a sudden tack and caught the wind at its strongest; by the time he turned again, there was no distance between the two boats. For a hundred yards or so they ran along parallel,but as they were on different tacks, it was hard to tell who was ahead when they crossed the finishing line. They waved to the French and turned for home.
    “We won,” said Katy.
    “More like a dead heat,” said Charlie.
    “You can be sure of one thing,” said Edward. “In their history books that’ll go down as a crushing French victory.”
    “Get me home, sweetie,” said Katy. “I’m drenched.”
    It took more than the hour Edward had promised for them to reach the mooring where the car was parked, but it was only a short drive to the cabin, which was at the end of a lane in an area of woodland.
    “God, it’s Walden