Fly felt the temperature drop against his face, slight but real.
He noted it, cataloged it, but kept the boat fast and tight. Bridge called out spacing from the bow. Joss stayed tight on the jib. Than shifted when Fly needed him to without being told. Mei stayed locked in, eyes flicking between sail and skipper, tuned to the same frequency.
They crossed another mark first.
Hollis’s voice crackled over the radio, pleased and sharp. “That’s it, Gallagher. Keep pressing. Don’t let them breathe.”
Fly acknowledged with a brief, “Aye.” Then he logged it. “Conditions changing,” he said into the radio, voice level, controlled. “Pressure building under the surface. I’m reading offshore influence pushing into the bay.”
There was a pause. Just long enough to register dismissal forming.
“Copy that,” Hollis said. “I don’t see anything on the horizon. You’re reading ghosts.”
Fly kept his eyes on the water. “Negative, sir. It’s not visual. Timing’s off. Swell’s stacking underneath the chop.”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“Stay the course,” Hollis replied. “We’re ahead. Finish the leg.”
Fly didn’t argue. He logged the response, adjusted his grip on the tiller, and let Valor run. Winning still mattered. He knew that. He also knew when to start paying attention.
The storm was still far out to sea, but conditions in a bay could change drastically and fast.
Star closed the gap on the next leg, clean and aggressive, their corrections sharp now, no longer sloppy. They weren’t panicking. They were racing. Fly respected that. A bad team collapsed under pressure. A good one adapted.
Valor answered anyway.
Fly held his line and let her run, adjusting by inches, not feet. Mei stayed with him, trim tight and responsive, sails breathing when he needed them to. Than shifted weight in sync, Joss matched him, Bridge calling distance and chop from the bow in a steady cadence.
They weren’t just winning. They were sailing better.
“There you go,” Hollis crowed over the radio. “That’s how you put Harvard in their place. Keep pressing them.”
Fly didn’t respond. His attention had narrowed.
The water ahead had changed color, the blue dulled. The chop heavier, surface texture tightening into longer, deeper sets that moved with purpose instead of rhythm. The wind gusted hard, then cut out entirely, leaving Valor sliding through a hollow pocket before the next push hit from a different angle.
He looked up.
The horizon had finally given itself away. A low, dense band stretched wide across the distance, darker than cloud, darker than sky. Mass and momentum, advancing faster than it should. That wasn’t a squall. That was a storm pushing its energy ahead of it.
Fly felt the temperature drop across his face, sharp and immediate. The bay rolled beneath Valor, deeper now, the timing underneath her no longer polite.
Rogue wave conditions, he thought. Plain as day. Opposing wind. Incoming swell. Sets starting to synchronize. It didn’t mean a wave would form. It meant it could, and that was enough.
Fly keyed the radio.
“Sir, conditions have escalated,” he said, voice firm, controlled. “That storm is driving long swell into the bay. We’re seeing opposing wind on top of it. This is how rogue waves form in shallow water.”
Hollis laughed, sharp and exhilarated. “You’re telling me the bay’s going to throw a unicorn at us now?”
Fly didn’t take the bait. “Negative. I’m telling you the probability has shifted. We’re exposed if we keep running the leg.”
Harvard surged again, close enough now that Fly could see their bow spray kicking high, their crew working hard to match Valor’s pace.
Hollis’s voice rose. “They’re trying to rattle you. Don’t let them. You’ve got them right where you want them.”
“This isn’t about Harvard,” Fly said, insistence threading into his tone. “It’s about angle and timing. The sets are lengthening. If we round with the swell stacking like this, we risk taking it broadside.”
