While Jill was lost in the vision of putting on herXanadurecord and sprawling on the living room couch with a Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bar, Allison appeared by her side.
“Ready?” she asked in her hushed library voice.
In her Bar Harbor T-shirt, black Ray-Bans, and scuffed-up docksiders, Allison almost looked cool. But the smear of white cream on her nose ruined the look. Jill imagined someone pushing Allison’s face into a bowl of sunscreen the way a Dairy Queen worker would dunk a soft-serve cone in a vat of vanilla dip.
It’s not even sunny, Jill thought with disdain.
She saw Aaron heading down to the dock. He was taller than the other thirteen-year-old boys and a few of the high schoolers, too. If Jill got a seat next to him in the launch, they could talk some more. If not, she wanted to sit where she could see him. She wanted to watch the wind blow his hair off his forehead and ripple his T-shirt.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” she replied.
Jill didn’t get a seat near Aaron. She was stuck sitting with Allison and one of Allison’s friends instead. Both girls ignored her as the launch motored through the harbor.
Jill watched Mrs. Smith’s house, then the empty lot, then her own house slide by. Next, they passed a cluster of moored sailboats and finally, the jetty of rocks that stuck out into the water like a wart-ridden finger.
The rocks were the boundary between the harbor and the bay. Beyond the bay was the Sound. The bay was much deeper than the harbor, and the currents rushing in from the Sound made the water choppy and unpredictable.
Jill glanced at the wake behind the launch. The bubbling white trail led back to the dock. To safety. Like the breadcrumbs inHansel and Gretel, the path home would soon disappear, leaving the kids to face the wind, the tides, and all the creatures they couldn’t see.
A yacht club employee had towed their Blue Jays to the middle of the bay. The sailboats were tied to each other and to a lead line securing them to a motorboat. The launch pilot cut the engine and shouted for the kids to exit over the port side.
“Sailors in the lead boat go first. Go in order so the sailors in the boat closest to the launch leave last.”
Having done this before, the kids scrambled over the side into the first Blue Jay. Holding on to the mast for balance, they picked their way to their assigned boat.
Jill looked for their boat number and was relieved to see that it was close to the launch. She and Allison climbed over the side and half crawled to their boat. Heather and her skipper exited last, and then the launch slowly pulled away.
Their first task was to separate from the other boats, raise the mainsail and the jib, and head to the starting line. They’d wait there until the sailors from the competing yacht clubs were also ready to begin.
The Cold Harbor sailing instructors had reviewed the racecourse with the skippers, but Jill wished she’d seen the chalkboard drawing, too. She was relieved they were in the second heat and could follow the boats in the first heat.
Suddenly, several air horn blasts cut through the kids’ chitchat like a guillotine blade.
Jill thought Allison said, “Here we go,” but she couldn’t be sure.
She watched the boats in the first heat maneuver to the starting line. J.J.’s, Aaron’s, and Heather’s boats were all in the same heat.
Jill wished she was with them. Too many skippers in her heat were losers. Allison was timid and indecisive and had never even placed in the top ten. Then there was Charles Bernstein’s skipper, Tony Pulcino. Tony sailed like he was driving a bumper car. He always got too close to other boats, angling for a collision. And Kim Lahey’s skipper, Leslie Feldman, never wanted to stay on course. She thought she knew better than the instructors and was always getting lost.
Four short horn blasts sounded. This was the warning for the sailors in the first heat to prepare to cross the starting line. Twenty seconds later, a long blast meant their race was underway. It was also a signal for the second heat to sail toward the starting line.
When Allison steered their boat toward the two buoys without much difficulty, Jill felt a glimmer of hope.
She knew it was illogical to be scared. Teachers and parents from all three yacht clubs patrolled the water around the racecourse in power boats. They kept their distance so as not to create too much wake for the sailors but stayed close enough to rescue anyone in serious trouble.
Still, the fog hovering around the shoreline was thicker than it was in the harbor, and without the sun to burn it off or a brisk wind to break it apart, fat bands of diaphanous gray seemed to be oozing toward the sailors.
The four short horn blasts sounded again, followed by the long blast. The bow of Jill’s boat kissed the stern of a boat from another yacht club and the skipper threw them a glare. When Allison steered into their boat a second time, the boy shoved them off with his paddle. “Back off, bitch!”
Allison turned crab-red and muttered, “Sorry.”
Ten minutes later, Jill was ready to shout at her, too. Most of the boats had pulled ahead while they were still floundering in the rear.
“Where’s the first buoy?” Jill asked. When she couldn’t hear Allison’s reply, she lost her patience. “Talk louder! I don’t know when we’re tacking because I can’t hear you.”
“Tack!” Allison yelled.
The boom swung from port to starboard and Jill switched seats while trimming the jib. They picked up a little speed, but not much.
