On a Starlit Ocean

by Charlotte Nash

  The triage nurse wandered over with a yawn, stirring sugar into her third black tea since midnight. She peered at the screen. “They only digitised the files a few years ago. Maybe they missed this one.”

  “Why’s there blood results in it, then?”

  “Bloods went digital earlier. If you want the file, you’ll have to go down to the stacks.”

  So that was how Alex found himself in the dusty basement, trolling through curling folders in a room that smelled like an old gym sock. After ten minutes, he had to admit the file wasn’t there. Ten other Jacobs, but none for Bryan.

  “Couldn’t find it,” he explained, when he returned empty handed.

  “These bloods are interesting, though,” Wendy said, clicking through the screens. “Low albumin, elevated lipase, liver function’s a bit off, too.”

  Alex leaned in and flipped through the screen. “CA’s up too,” he said grimly.

  “That’s a tumour marker, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Wendy glanced at the top of the screen. “This the same Jacobs you were asking about a few weeks back?”

  Alex closed the file down and made a non-committal sound. Fortunately Wendy shrugged and went back to her tea. But Alex knew he had stumbled onto something. Dr Jacobs had been sick before his mysterious accident at sea. Where her father was concerned, he knew Erin didn’t want to talk, and Alex had crossed the line: he’d used his position to get information she hadn’t volunteered. Maybe she hadn’t even known.

  Alex sighed. Either way, it wouldn’t help make things right with her.

  Chapter 20

  The week of the big race arrived with disturbing speed. For Erin, the shift in focus was a relief after six days of the whole village talking about what had happened with Helmut. Even absent on the mainland, Alex was the hero of the hour. Some in the village had started a petition to offer Alex a full-time position, and some kind of role for Travers, too. They might complain that Helmut was aloof, but the village knew how important he was to the island, and the incident had reminded everyone of their own mortality. No one liked to think of something similar happening again when the doctor was away.

  Erin quietly watched these developments with some alarm, because Tristan was irritated by the constant focus on someone other than him. At the same time, she dearly wanted to know how Alex was.

  After his abrupt and dramatic departure with Helmut, she’d received only second-hand information from Sandy. She wanted Alex to call her, to hear his voice, to take up from where they’d left off at the jetty. She kept looking at her phone all through the long meetings. The reception was fantastic, but he didn’t call. Maybe their tentative reconnection had been too brief. So she had no choice but to bury herself in the frantic work of the last week.

  She did have one piece of good news – Ivan, as a potential mega sponsor, had agreed to meet her after the race was over. For the moment, she kept it to herself. Meetings weren’t meetings until they happened.

  On the Friday evening, the team closed out the last check before the big day. The island had been steadily filling with people, as it had before the last race. Space in the bay was scarce, with many yachts seeking out vantages in the other protected bays around the island, then zipping into the jetty in their tenders for supplies.

  Cut adrift with nothing to do, Erin wandered up the beach towards Travers’ cabin, seeing the jetty and beach covered in tinnies, the owners either eating in the cafe or taking advantage of the store’s extended trading hours. She hoped for another smooth success.

  She found Travers on his porch, gear spread out before him and a frown in his face.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Have a look at this. Tell me what you think,” he said, handing over a regulator assembly from his dive gear.

  Erin turned it over in her hands. It resembled a giant, black, four-legged spider. “What am I looking at?”

  “The tube, down at the regulator end.”

  Erin peered, seeing tiny splits in the hose. “It’s perished?”

  “Nope,” Travers said. “That reg was new this year, and I take very good care of my gear. Someone did that deliberately. I’ve also got a cut weight belt here. Two of my tanks have been bled dry, and they murdered the shoes I was going to wear for the land-leg.”

  “They got your shoes?”

  In response, Travers held up an expensive pair of trainers, which had been slashed from the tongue to toe.

  “I think someone’s trying to knobble us.”

  “People aren’t that competitive,” Erin said. This behaviour didn’t fit with the sailing world she knew. “Anything else damaged?”

  “One of my walking poles was snapped. And do you want to know where all this stuff was, Erin?”

  “Where?”

  “In my goddamn house.”

  Erin didn’t know what to say after that. Crime on the island was unheard of. It made sense that if someone had done this, it might be someone coming in for the race. But she still couldn’t believe someone would do it maliciously.

  “Maybe it was just some kids, mucking around.”

  Travers made a dismissive noise, then took the gear back inside, muttering about installing cameras. Erin steered him to Gus’s, where they were able to replace his shoes, and find an aluminium tube section to replace the broken pole. After that, Travers pulled Erin towards the jetty. “And we’re going to check everything on your boat, too.”

  An hour later, satisfied that all the safety gear, ropes and sails were intact, they sat on the deck eating another round of fish and chips from the cafe.

  “I’ll sleep on the deck tonight,” Travers said finally, as he polished off his ginger beer. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “What? No you won’t,” she argued. “This has gone far enough. Go home and sleep in your bed. We need you in top condition tomorrow, not bleary-eyed from squashing your man-frame onto a deck cushion.”

  Travers just shredded some of the chip paper. Erin peered at him, wondering. Travers was always intense, but not jumpy. “What’s this really about? You have a fight with Skye or something?”

  He grunted. “You say that like I was in with a chance to begin with.”

  “Oh,” she said softly, realising that Travers must have had his heart handed back to him, and in quite a battered state. “I’m sorry Travers. I thought she really liked you.”

  “Yeah, me too. But that was before poncy boy started inviting her to meetings again. It’s hard to compete with a millionaire.”

  “Tristan?”

  “Unless you know any other millionaires around here.”

  Erin’s stomach dived. So Skye was still pursuing Tristan.

  “Dammit, I hoped that was done,” she said, her chest feeling as if she was pinned to the bottom of the ocean.

  “I have to tell you, Erin, I’ve done this before and it doesn’t get any easier. I’m just glad I’m not on the boat with her tomorrow. I don’t think I can keep a civil tongue in my head. I’m not a gentleman, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  To Erin, the land-sea race had a different atmosphere to the pilot event: more intensity, less fun. The pilot race had set expectations for success and big prize money was on offer. So despite the short notice, the field was huge.

  Travers went off to the land-race briefing in an old army shirt and compression leggings, his mouth a tight line, a three-litre water pack on his back. Erin and Skye headed out to the start line well ahead of time. Skye complained the whole way out, and didn’t let up as they had to sit waiting, the only boat to have come out so early.

  “Quit whining,” Erin snapped. “It’s not like there was anything else to do. And I wanted to see what the wind pressure was doing out here.”

  “Same as what it is in the bay. I could have gone down to the sponsor’s tent for another half an hour. Tristan—”

  “Wow, just to moon over Tristan for a few more minutes?”

  Skye gave her a dirty look. “Don’t ge
t stuck into me about that. You had your chance.”

  Erin stared into the water. The ocean rolled under the yacht, the sky an open and endless blue. Her sister was leaving herself open for hurt, but Erin held her frustration tight, so she wouldn’t say anything worse, not when they were about to race. She went below and pulled two cans of soft drink from the cooler.

  “I’m sorry about what I said,” she said, when she re-emerged, handing across Skye’s favourite passionfruit flavour. “It’s just ... Skye, you and Tristan, is it serious?”

  “What if it is?”

  Erin closed her eyes, feeling a stab of worry. Skye’s eyes were shining, her smile pure and sunny. She didn’t know what Erin did.

  “Skye ... Tristan might not be the kind of person you think he is.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just be careful, okay?”

  Skye stood. “Oh, I see. You can’t have him, so I can’t either?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying!” Erin screwed her hands into fists, focusing on the green blob of Great Haven, the golden strip of sand capped with crowds. “Look, Skye, I’ve never told anyone the reason that Tristan and I broke up, but I think you should know.”

  She glanced up to see Skye had perched on the cabin edge, her long brown legs disappearing into her boat shorts, her drink balanced between her feet. Listening.

  Erin puffed a breath. Out under the sun, the sounds of the rigging wire tinking against the mast, she was too exposed to speak of these things. But if she didn’t now, perhaps she never would.

  “I won’t deny we used to fight a lot,” she began. In fact, that had probably been part of the attraction. Tristan liked sparring with her. At least, when he was in a good mood. “We had some bad arguments. Once, I locked him out of the hotel for an hour. But when I let him back in, he was laughing. That was how it used to go. Fight first, then he’d laugh and say how much he’d enjoyed it.”

  “So what?”

  “Something changed, that first year he was starting his business. He wasn’t in such a good mood anymore. Pickier too. The arguments we’d always had used to start over small things, but then nothing particularly would start it. And then he began finding reasons to kick off a fight. If I’d left a race shirt on the bath, or eaten the last biscuit.”

  “This story going somewhere?”

  Erin looked her sister in the eye. “He hit me, Skye.”

  Skye jerked. “When?”

  “One night, when I left a tea bag in the sink. I’d never seen him that mad. That was over six years ago.” Erin rubbed the centre of her chest, remembering what that moment had felt like. The shock and dismay of seeing Tristan as someone she didn’t know. “He tried to apologise, but I knew that was the end. Dad always said—”

  She cut herself off. Her father had given her strong convictions about how men were supposed to behave. The moment Tristan crossed that line, she’d known they were done.

  She glanced at Skye. “ I just don’t want you to have the same experience. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  Erin saw the flash of doubt in Skye’s expression before it hardened. “I can look after myself, thanks very much.”

  Skye prowled up to the bow to check the spinnaker pole. Erin sighed. Just as it was with her mother, it seemed so many years since she and her sister had felt a bond. And now, Erin knew she’d poisoned their sail.

  Skye entered brooding mode, every action executed with unnecessary vigour, not speaking unless it was necessary. Even as the number of yachts grew, and began to circle the start line. No matter what Erin said, she couldn’t recover the collegiate tone they’d had in training runs. Without Travers, there was no buffer between them, no one to lighten the mood with stupid jokes. So when the starting guns finally fired, the cheer from the shore sounded hollow.

  They made a reasonable start. Erin knew the round-island racers would be starting up the hill climb past Bella’s Leap, then across past the Helmut’s studio. Poor Helmut – he’d only just come back to the island, but would probably have a canvas out ready to capture the boats hurling around the headland. As they rounded the artist’s point, Erin caught a glimpse of runners on the island trail, just flashes of red and orange and pink.

  “Doing pretty well. We think you’ll find extra pressure ahead,” came the strategist in her ear. After the last race, the guys on shore had backed off with their advice. Erin could already see the darkening surface of the water ahead. They were in for a blustery race.

  Blustery became gruelling. The moment they were out of the island’s shadow, the wind roared across the beam, until Erin could barely hear the voice in her ear. By the time they were turning at the next mark, both she and Skye were salt crusted, their arms aching, the good position they’d fought for beginning to slip.

  “Keep it tight on the next turn,” Skye yelled.

  Erin tried, but another yacht was chasing them on the inside, putting them in a wind shadow. Desperation set in when the strategist crackled in to say that Travers was pacing well on the land race, keeping in touch with the top ten. But Erin couldn’t avoid the fact that they weren’t as fast as the boat alongside, who streaked into the tighter turn, the name Gale Abandon scrawled down her hull. Erin had to round the mark wider, losing momentum, and she fumbled the mainsail trim while Skye was working on the headsail.

  “Chrissakes focus!” Skye yelled.

  Then, just when the wind snapped back, the Fair Winds lurched. The stern dug in, then she pitched forward, sending Skye and Erin both sprawling. Erin watched the rear winch rush up into her face. A heavy thunk stopped her, and she tasted blood. Her mouth was numb. Dazed, Erin scrambled to her knees knowing something was badly wrong, fumbling for the wheel to maintain control. Pain came pounding into her cheek as she tried to regain footing. The mainsail dropped down. What was Skye doing?

  But Skye was screaming, “The halyard! We lost the halyard!”

  Erin looked up and saw the top of the mainsail slipping down the mast, ragged end of its rope was whipping like a cut snake. Worse, the foresail’s halyard was also gone, its canvas crumpling to the deck, too.

  Erin let the wheel go as she registered what had happened. There was nothing to do now but come around into the wind and drop what was left of the sails. They’d just lost the race.

  They limped back into shore hours later, after the motor had failed to start and they’d had to radio for a tow. Skye had wordlessly tried to patch up her face, but Erin shook her off. The swelling was tight and painful, but it wasn’t bleeding. She’d deal with it later.

  By the time they’d managed to moor and find a lift back to the jetty, the prize ceremony was already under way. Still, a few reporters were waiting, and Erin found herself with fluffy microphones under her chin.

  “Disappointing result, Erin. Any words about the race?”

  “Looks like you copped quite a hit. Can you tell us what happened?”

  Erin fended them off, mumbling that it was the nature of racing. But speaking pulled painfully at her cheek and her words slurred, making her sound drunk. As a featured entrant, she didn’t think it could be worse than not finishing, but this was.

  Tristan said as much as soon as they reached the marshalling tent. “This never would have happened if you’d done what I asked and raced one of the corporate boats. At least their gear is in working order.”

  “It was just bad luck, Tristan. Come on, when do two halyards break at once?”

  But she couldn’t look him in the eye. She could feel other people’s attention on her like the scorching sun, fingers pointing at her face.

  “For god’s sake go and get cleaned up. We need you back at the sponsor’s party.”

  Erin couldn’t face it. Instead, she slipped away, desperate to find Travers and apologise for letting him down.

  “Like I care about winning,” he said, when she eventually found him drinking beer in the public section of the beach, an ice pack on his knee. He gently took her elbow and stif
fly steered her away from the crowd, towards the old water sports hut, which had been roped off. Ignoring the cordon, he pulled her into the shade of the awning. “Let me look at your face.”

  She stood still, wincing while he gently probed her cheek.

  “You didn’t knock out any teeth?”

  “No, thank crud.”

  “You going back down to the party?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, put some ice on your face. Alex is tied up with a guy who had a heart attack on the beach. You can watch while I sort out your yacht, but you need to show him your face after that. You might have broken something.”

  “Watch, hey?”

  “Supervise. Give orders, if you must. I know how these things go.”

  Erin looked down the beach, a tiny thread of goodwill stitching itself back into her attitude. The crowd at least seemed to be having a good time. People were swimming, inhaling Dagwood dogs and fairy floss, and a frozen slushie cart Sandy had hired was doing spectacular trade. She turned back to Travers.

  “How good are you at going up a mast?”

  “You remember finding me up a coconut tree, right?” He looked down at himself. “Erin, I weigh close to a hundred kilos. I’ve seen the guys they winch up to the top. They’re air on bones.”

  “Then we’re just going to have to get creative.”

  In the end, Erin was the one who went up the mast, hoisted on a spinnaker rope. She wanted to see if the halyards had frayed on something sharp at the mast top. The view from up there was spectacular and dizzying. Erin felt as though she were flying, and could glide right across to Bella’s Leap on a wingbeat. It would have been nice to escape her problems so easily; she could find no issues with the mast. Nothing that could explain the gear breakage, especially on the main halyard, which had been brand new.

  “You realise you’re being held up there by the same kind of rope that you broke today?” was all Travers said.

  As the sun was going down, Travers left, hauling the torn jib with him to Gus’s. The two broken halyards had been looped onto the deck. A late mainland transit boat was just leaving the jetty, packed to the railings with spectators. Erin turned away. Her cheek was painful now, a pulse snapping in her skin with each heartbeat. It made her feel sick. She’d never be able to sleep like this. Besides, she’d promised Travers she’d get it checked.