Free A Matter of Time by David Manuel Page B

Rules, she should say what she was thinking.
    But there was one subject that by mutual unspoken assent neither of them had mentioned. Them.
    And somehow
Care Away
was in the midst of them.
    Inevitably the day came, when conditions were ideal. “We’re going,” he announced at breakfast.
    “When?”
    “Soon as you can get your kit together.”
    “My kit?”
    “Whatever you’re going to need–windbreaker, deck shoes, sun-screen.” He looked at her red knees. “Long-sleeved shirt and pants.
     You don’t want to fry out there. The sun reflects off the water–”
    She cut him off. “I
have
been on boats before, you know.”
    She was ready in fifteen minutes.

11      two ladies
    It had been calm at breakfast, scarcely a breeze. But the wind had picked up, and now there was distinct chop in St. George’s
     Harbour as he rowed them out to
Care Away
, in the Convict Bay anchorage.
    Amy eyed her rival and had to admit she was—stunning. Her hull was royal blue, with a thin red line of trim at the waterline,
     matching the red Bermuda ensign at her stern. Her deck was teak, her bright work polished stainless steel. Her rolled mainsheet
     was covered with a tight canvas sheath, also royal blue.
    Amy’s heart sank. How could she possibly compete against this—nautical
gleama
?
    Colin tied the dinghy to the mooring buoy, then swung easily aboard her and put down a three-step ship’s ladder for Amy. When
     she, too, was aboard, he cast off, and they were under way.
    At first, she loved it—the wind in her face, the broad white sail on its gaff rig, the sound of the waves thrumming against
     the bow. Best of all was watching the shoreline recede swiftly behind them, smaller and smaller. They, too, were Longtails,
     leaving all cares behind.
    Once they had cleared St. George’s Channel, he headed her south in the Narrows, running before the wind. As the sun rose higher,
     the breeze moderated, and he put on all her canvas—mainsail, staysail, jib, topsail, mizzen—showing her off, in all her glory.
     Under full sail they were soon surfing atop each wave that passed.
    It was fun, at first, whooshing along, and then settling a bit, only to be picked up by the next wave. Such fun that she looked
     around, half-expecting a school of flying fish to adopt them.
    But this was not a ride in an amusement park, which was over after a few exhilarating minutes, setting you back on
terra firma
, laughing about how much fun it had been. This ride kept going. And going.
    And after half an hour of whooshing and settling, she began wishing she’d had something sensible for breakfast. She could
     feel the greasy fried eggs and two shiny sausage links sliding around down there and sloshing up the walls of her stomach.
    Think of something else! She concentrated on the knotted end of the mainsheet, dangling from the stainless steel grommet,
     as it swayed with the motion of the boat, this way and that. Find something else! She turned away, but a little burp brought
     up the brown taste of sausage.
    She closed her eyes, and guessed she’d be able to keep eggs and sausage down for five more minutes, then she would be puking
     her guts out over the boat’s leeward side. She’d prefer the privacy of the tiny head, but then she’d have to clean up the
     mess afterward, and—Oh, God! This was a terrible mis–
    “Amy,” he said gently but firmly, “open your eyes. Keep them on the horizon.”
    She did as she was told, and smiled weakly.
    She concentrated on the horizon. Hard. And burped. Sausage again, but this time some orange juice, too.
    “It’s not working,” she gasped.
    “Then come over here. There’s one thing that always works,” he said cheerily, adding under his breath, “if anything’s going
     to.”
    He hadn’t meant her to hear that, but she had. Nevertheless, she did as he instructed, taking the place he’d just vacated,
     at the tiller.
    “Now keep her headed roughly one-six-five,” and he pointed to the