68 Knots (35 page)

On board the
Elkhart
, Turner looked over at the
Dreadnought
just in time to see her leap ahead in water that had been calm just an instant before. “What the hell!” he shouted. He snapped out a few orders—tighten that halyard, let out that sheet, ready the spinnaker—but nothing mattered. His ship, lolling along in a pleasant breeze, was powerless to catch the gargantuan
Dreadnought
with a full head of steam.

The finish wasn't close. The
Dreadnought
thundered into Rockland Harbor, and Joy turned her smartly into the wind. The crew, leaping to the task with the get-it-done speed of experienced sailors, lowered the sails and stowed them below. The anchor dropped with a confident splash. By the time the
Elkhart
tied up alongside, Joy was leaning casually against the wheel.

Turner looked impressed. He nodded solemnly and raised his martini glass in salute to the victors.

Dawn smiled at Joy. Then she turned. “Hey, Arthur—let's make one heck of a banquet!”

Dinner that night on the decks of the
Dreadnought
was the most elegant meal the crew had ever put on. The storage chests were covered with sheets, sails—anything that would pass for tablecloths—and each one gleamed beneath small flickering candles. Candlewick Imports, Freeport. Eight dollars apiece. Arthur was actually glad the crew had bought them.

For the first course, the two crews enjoyed crackers and artistically sliced vegetables, offered with both a hummus and a bleu cheese dip by waiters BillFi and Jesse, although the
Elkhart
crew was somewhat unnerved by Jesse's homemade tattooing. The colorful lines now covered every inch of skin that could be seen, including his face and even his eyelids, and he drew strange and unsettled stares as he wandered among the crowd with his tray of hors d'oeuvres.

Everyone was scattered throughout the main, fore, and aft decks, standing in small circles, leaning against the rigging, staring out to the moonlit sea, or clustered around the candlelit tables. Ishmael even ventured out on deck, staying close to Jesse and keeping an intent watch for dropped bits of seafood. Once the glasses had been filled, Turner called everyone together on the main deck and offered a toast.

“I offer these friendly challenges because they put a bit of spice into life,” he said. “And I believe that spice is important. But it should be noted that until today, only one ship had ever beaten us, and it was a Navy vessel full of hot-headed cadets. I raise my glass to the fine crew of the
Dreadnought
. The sea is a talented teacher, and you have learned her lessons well.”

All on board raised their glasses in salute, and BillFi, after a quick drink, busied himself with the capture and demise of a fly. Despite the ruse, however, he could feel Arthur's stare. When he
looked up, he saw Arthur raising a glass to him in salute. BillFi nodded, raised his own glass again, and finished his wine.

The clanging of a ladle on a pot signaled the start of dinner. Marietta and Logan ate with the
Elkhart
's first mate, a middle-aged cousin of Turner's who owned a large chain of movie theaters across upstate New York. Named Elwood Richardson at birth and called “Woody” since his college days in the late 1970s, he was a meticulously flat-stomached man who wore a meticulously tailored outfit consisting of a blue blazer and a light-blue shirt over khaki chinos and leather Top-Siders. He meticulously combed his hair over his bald spot and meticulously hoped no one would notice. Marietta found him attractive in a moneyed sort of way—wealthy, stiff, flattered by a young woman's attention. Also at the table were the
Elkhart
's cook, a somber man with tense features and nervous habits; the meteorologist, a loud and bawdy woman who delighted in shocking the people around her with off-color words and foul puns; and the “rigging mate,” a nine-year-old boy whose title and position were manufactured to give him a place on the boat. The group chatted and laughed at the meteorologist's tales of the strange and irreverent characters she had met at sea.

Joy, Crystal, Arthur, and Dawn ate with Turner and other members of the
Elkhart
's inner circle. To Turner's left was his navigator, Jim Greenfeather, a young, ruggedly attractive Shawnee man who was attending the University of Maine. He had recently borrowed money from his father to launch a new enterprise in the Oklahoma oilfields, and he talked with excitement about the prospects. After Greenfeather came the Hennessey sisters, twenty-six-year-old twins who were slightly old-fashioned in appearance but who carried an air of mystery
and depth, as though they had just stepped out of an old novel and were withholding a profound and magical secret; Garrison Chevalier, the
Elkhart
's tremblingly sensitive “poet laureate”; and Heather Heath, an actress who had landed a few supporting roles in major movies and who had received some positive murmurs of critical and public attention.

The rest of the
Dreadnought
's crew was scattered among the remainder of the
Elkhart
riche. At the head table, Turner smiled formally to Arthur. “So,” he said, “you've come a long way since we last met.”

Arthur nodded. “We've been sailing every day, so we were bound to get better at it.”

“But your captain,” Turner continued, raising his glass to Joy, “is not the same one I raced against last time.”

“We take turns being captain,” Joy said. “It seems important that we each get to see what it's like.” Arthur smiled a halfway smile and took deep delight in the sparkle of pride in Joy's eyes.

“Smart,” Turner said. “You don't know what power and responsibility feel like until you try them on.”

Arthur nodded, and he raised his glass to Dawn.

As they ate, Turner told a long and lively story about his adventures in Borneo. “I took an extended visit there,” he said between mouthfuls of ham and scalloped potatoes. “Looking for new sources of timber. The jungle was dense, and the insects and leeches were all over us. I got a leech stuck inside my ear once, and we had a devil of a time getting it out.” He told them about hacking through the jungle with machetes, climbing slippery rocks as they worked their way up waterfalls, and encountering wild boar and enormous snakes. He told them about the people he met, the young native woman
he had fallen in love with, the tearful departure at the end when she decided to stay with her family. Arthur listened attentively. He couldn't tell how much of the story Turner was making up, and how much—if any—was true.

While Turner was talking about Borneo, Crystal and Jim Greenfeather, the young oil entrepreneur, slipped away from the table. They stood in the bow of the ship, talking in low whispers.

“I've been working on this oil project for two years now,” he told her, “and I think it's finally beginning to go someplace.” He paused and stared out at the moonlight. “So, what kinds of stuff do you like to work on?”

Crystal felt a solid wall spiral up around her. Nice try, but no dice. “Nothing,” she said. No one was going to catch her opening up. She was too tough for that. Too hardened. Too cool. She wasn't about to—

She looked over at Jim. He seemed like a nice guy, and he was certainly good looking. Athletic. Energetic. Great smile. She shook her head. “I'm going to get some dessert,” she said, turning toward the tables and lights and conversations.

“Wait,” Jim said. “Don't run off like that. What are you afraid of?”

Afraid! Crystal glared at him with blazing blue eyes. I'm afraid of nothing, she thought. Nothing at all. Who the hell does he think is? All I'm trying to do is keep out of some stupid, sticky relationship with some guy who—

Relationship. Isn't that what I've been wanting? Crystal asked herself. Well, here's a chance. So what's my problem? Why don't I just see what happens?

She took a deep breath. “I like to swim,” she said. She glanced at Jim's face. He smiled gently. She took another deep
breath and told him more about herself, her dreams, and the challenges she felt she faced.

After dinner, as the
Dreadnought
and
Elkhart
crews stood around on deck sipping champagne or ginger ale, Turner faced Arthur. “Tell me,” he said. “The last time we met, you explained that the fellow in charge of your sailing camp was down below and not to be disturbed. Surely he's available this evening for some conversation with your guests?”

Arthur took a slow breath. “No,” he said carefully, “he's still unavailable. He's been rather reclusive for the past several weeks.”

“Reclusive?” Turner said. “Nonsense. Surely he'll tolerate a quick hello. Please take me to him.”

“I don't think that would be a good idea,” Arthur answered.

“Why not?”

“It just wouldn't, that's all,” Arthur said.

“Ridiculous,” Turner replied. “I gave you a tour of my ship, and I expect you to give me a tour of yours. And when I reach the room where this odd hermit is holed up, I'm going to pop in and introduce myself.”

He stood up.

Arthur stood up to his full towering height.

“You can't do that,” Arthur said in a dark voice. Shit, he thought. I'm doing it again. Taking charge. Not asking the others for advice or help. Still, there are times when decisive action is—

“Why the hell not?” Turner asked. “He is on board, isn't he? He is capable of communicating, isn't he? He is
alive
, isn't he?”

Dawn stared intently at Arthur. Joy fidgeted with her spoon nervously, rubbing it back and forth across a small span
of tablecloth with rapid movements. Arthur put his hand firmly on Turner's arm.

“Captain Turner,” he said, looking him straight in the eye. “I'm going to have to ask that you drop the subject. If you are unable to do so, I will ask you and your crew to leave our ship.”

Turner returned his gaze. “Like hell. Nobody is going to—” Turner began, but the sentence was cut short by a shriek from high overhead.

Everyone on deck looked up. High in the rigging, faintly visible against the evening sky, were two human shapes—tan, slender, and totally naked. One of the figures leaned off to starboard, crouched, and leapt out into space. She was followed by the other. They knifed headfirst through the cool air, arms outstretched and feet together, and cut through the surface of the water with a pair of crisp splashes.

“It's Crystal!” Dawn said.

“It's Jim!” Turner said.

Both crews rushed to the starboard rail. The water was smooth, barely showing a ripple where the two had entered.

A moment passed in silence. Then a splash and some whooping laughs sounded from the port side, and Crystal and Jim Greenfeather clambered up the ladder and scrambled high into the rigging once again.

“They swam under the keel!” Arthur said.

“Good God, he's lost his mind!” Turner said.

Crystal and Jim flung themselves back out into the sky, two naked cannonballs laughing for forty feet straight down and crashing into the sea with enormous splashes.

“My navigator,” Turner said with a tight smile. “Ordinarily, quite a respectable young man.”

Jim and Crystal swam through the waves in an endless game of tag, tussled with each other amidst splashes and laughter, disappeared beneath the dark waves for long counts, surfacing far away but always near each other. When at last they tired, they climbed the rail, scrambled up the rigging, and dried off in the chilly air before getting dressed. Eventually, they returned to deck.

“Have fun?” Turner asked coolly.

“Yes, sir,” Jim answered. He was tall and wiry, and he gave Turner a playful grin. Crystal did the same for Arthur.

“Nice dive,” Arthur said with a small smile.

“Thanks,” Crystal said, still catching her breath.

“Nice dive?” Logan shouted, his cheeks a crimson red. “That's all you can say? ‘Nice dive'? It was crazy! It totally was suicide! Crystal, you could've gotten yourself—”

Crystal held up a hand. “But I didn't, did I?” she said. “And taking chances is what it's all about. But you wouldn't know about that, would you?”

Logan's face went ashen. I've just taken a huge step toward making you like me, he thought. Didn't you notice? Doesn't that count for anything? He opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned and stormed down the gangway to the dining room below. Ishmael followed hopefully behind, her gray tail held high as she darted down the steps.