The Island of Dragons (Rockpools Book 4)

by Gregg Dunnett

“They’re just friends mum,” David says, in a way that I can tell means he’s mimicking something Lily must have said before. I don’t know how that makes me feel. I have no idea if I’m here as a friend or not. Well I guess I do know now, I guess I just hoped it was somehow something more.

  Not long after we go on deck, and Lily’s dad gives us instructions while he gets the boat ready to leave the mooring. I’ve done this a thousand times, but it’s still a bit tense sometimes, because boats can be hard to move in small spaces. You usually get a sense of how confident the person in charge is, and actually Lily’s dad seems quite relaxed, issuing instructions calmly, and the others do what they’re told equally calmly. But there’s an energy in the air too. It’s not just us leaving the shelter of the marina, there’s a steady stream of yachts leaving, each with crews on deck busily removing sail covers and preparing rigging, and the breeze is fresh too. We motor for a few minutes, but then we hoist up the sails, and immediately begin heeling over at a sharp angle as we cut through the water. Lily’s dad is steering, and he points us towards a moored motor boat. Around us, other boats also put their sails up. Mostly they’re white, but one boat has black mylar sails, to match its black-painted hull.

  “That’s Abigale.” Lily pokes me in the ribs, though the sailing jacket I’ve been lent. “My uncle’s boat. It’s the same boat as this, but he had his made lighter, just so he can beat dad.” She looks at me and raises her eyebrows.

  I look over at the boat just as it changes direction onto a new tack, the great black sails start to spill their wind, until they’re flogging as the bow glides right through the wind, and then fills in from the new side, and they press taut again. The hull surges forward, slicing through the water, now no more than fifty yards away. There’s a man steering, and I see him turn to face us. Only not us, even from this distance it’s obvious he’s staring intently at Lily’s Dad. I glance at him too, looking back, his face unreadable. Again I get the sense this is more serious to Lily’s dad than he’s prepared to admit.

  I realize pretty soon though, that I’m not really here as the expert sailor after all. As we get towards the start line for the first race, David synchronizes his watch with the signals from the start boat, and as he and Lily’s dad exchange instructions and tactics, and they don’t ask me anything. I’m quite relieved actually. All that ‘expert’ stuff was just Lily winding me up. But that doesn’t mean I’m just here for the ride, on a boat this big there’s still plenty for me to do. Every time we change from one tack to another – which is a lot, while we’re jostling for position, one boat among dozens – we have to release the sails from one side of the boat, and pull them in on the other. Lily and me are given one side, and Emily and Lily’s mom do the other. Lily makes me do the winching. That is, I have to crank in the huge genoa sail at the front by winding the sheet around stainless steel winch as fast as possible. Lily helps by leading the rope the right way onto the winch drum, and I just turn the handle as fast as I can until David or Lily’s dad – everyone else calls him Claude, so I suppose I should too – tells me to stop. Emily and Lily’s mom do the same on the other side, and we get into a kind of battle to see which team can do it quicker.

  I should explain about sailing boats here, just in case you don’t know much about them. I didn’t, at least not until Dad taught me. They’re not like motorboats, in that you can just go in every direction you want. The way my dad explained it to me was like this: It’s a bit like riding a bike on a very steep hill. The wind is the hill, and it falls from the top down to the bottom. So it’s easy to go downhill, or even across the hill. But if you want to go up, you can’t. It’s too steep, and you have to go in zig zags. Like switchbacks on a mountain road. Each zig is called a tack. But then when you change from one tack to another – the corners – that’s also called a tack (I told you it was confusing) but really you’re just changing from one switchback to another. If that doesn’t make sense, I didn’t get it either, not until we got out there and started trying it. Then it’s quite easy.

  “Three minutes to the gun.” David calls out, as we tack again and pull the sails tight. My shoulders are hurting from the effort of it, and I’m hot.

  “Bearing off. We’ll go a minute and gybe round then gun for the start.” Claude shouts back. I don’t know that much about what they’re saying, so I just do what I’m told.

  “Get that main pulled in! Going about…” Claude spins the wheel until we’re running with the wind, and Lily pulls on the main sheet so the boom isn’t able to sweep too fast across to the other side. Then he gradually hardens up on the new tack, and with the sails pulled tight, we’re pointing right at the right hand end of the start line. About fifty meters back from it. There’s a log readout on the instrument panel, telling us the speed in real time. It eases up, from six knots to seven. Seven point five.

  “One minute to the start.” David calls out. There are three boats just downwind of us, but another two upwind, positioned just a few meters ahead of us, giving them the upwind advantage. One of them is the black yacht, so close we can see the taut expressions on the crew’s faces. They pull its sails tighter and it accelerates, moving a half boat-length in front of us. Then, amid shouts and noises and David’s countdown alarm beeping, a canon fires on the cliffs on the shore. We see the smoke momentarily before the noise, and then twenty yachts all hit the start line together. For a few minutes I think we’re all going to crash, or at least the race is going to be neck and neck the entire way, but actually we quickly begin to spread out as the faster boats take the wind of the slower ones, and pull ahead. We’re about sixth, I guess – though it’s not easy to say, because of the zig-zag thing I just told you about. David showed me the course we have to race, before we left the berth. We have to sail up against the wind to a marker buoy, then come back down wind again, then do it a second time, only not quite so far, and then come back down to cross the line in the same place where we started. It’s all a bit pointless when you put it like that.

  But it doesn’t feel pointless, not now I’m doing it. It feels exhilarating and quite scary, and just really, really exciting. We’re heeling over, bucking and smashing through the little waves, and there’s spray flying through the air, and there’s still two boats so close you could throw a stone onto their decks, one downwind of us, which we’re beating, and the other upwind, which unfortunately is the black yacht. We tighten and ease the sails, trying to urge the speedometer up. Sometimes it’s as high as nine knots, sometimes as low as six, and we see the difference in how the black yacht eases ahead, or we pull back closer. Then suddenly the black yacht rolls into a tack, faster than before, its sails only momentarily flogging as it changes onto the other angle of the zig zag.

  “Tacking to cover,” Lily’s dad – Claude – says at once, and everyone runs to change the sails so we can go the other way too, following it. Then there’s a moment of noise and chaos as we round up into, and through, the wind, our speed drops to three knots, then the wind presses the sails from the other side and we squeeze forward again. Five knots. Seven. Nine again. The water slipping past the rails beneath us is blurred. But even so, the black yacht is now further ahead, maybe two whole boat-lengths. And these are long boats. We’re looking at its stern now, the name painted in red: Abigale. Then there’s a hiss and a crackle on the radio, and a voice comes through, managing to sound smug even through the static.

  “You need to work on your tacks Claude!”

  David moves to the companionway, where the radio is. “Permission to tell Jacques he’s an arrogant asshole?”

  “Permission denied.” Claude replies, but he looks up at the giant sails, and turns the wheel so we’re sailing just a touch closer to the wind.

  Ten minutes later and we’ve slipped further back. I’ve been watching the speedometer intently, we’re averaging 8.5 knots. Suddenly I’m surprised when Claude talks to me.

  “Don’t worry Billy. We’ll get him on the downwind leg.” I turn to see him smiling
, in a kind of rueful way.

  “I can see you know a bit about boats?”

  “A little.”

  He nods. “You done any racing before?”

  I shake my head. “But I did do some research, after Lily asked me to come.”

  He looks surprised at this. “Research?”

  “Yeah. Just about the racing part of things. So I knew the basics.”

  He chuckles. “Oh yeah. So what’d you learn?”

  “Um.” I’m not sure I can remember all the terminology, so I’m reluctant to try and repeat it all now.

  “Well, obviously in a race it’s mostly about who can get up the beat, or the windward leg first.” I decide I’m not going to tell him my mountain analogy.

  “Because you can’t sail directly into the wind, and you have to zigzag towards it, the boats are actually sailing much further on this leg. But on top of that, the wind is never constant both in terms of direction and strength. So some parts of a racecourse will be windier, which makes you go faster, and some parts will be lighter, which makes you go slower. And on top of that, in some parts the wind will be blowing from slightly different directions, some of which let you sail more directly to the mark, and some of which force you to sail further away from it. So it’s a bit like finding your way through a giant maze, where you have to read all this invisible wind to find the fastest route through. Plus, there’s currents too.”

  I feel both Claude and David Bellafonte turn to stare at me. “That’s certainly the theory.”

  We don’t tack much though, not now we’re actually racing. That’s because the boat is so big and heavy, it takes a long time to get back up to speed when we do it, and because the right hand side of the course is obviously windier, so all the boats have gone this way. But as we cut our way towards the first marker buoy, the black yacht keeps easing ahead, and it makes the turn a full minute before we do. Then by the time we go around the buoy, and ease our sails to run back downwind, it looks miles away. We follow it downwind, putting up a huge spinnaker sail that pulls us back down to the start much more quickly than it took to get up here, and then there’s a few moments of panic while we have to pack it away again. And then we start again, on the much shorter second upwind leg. We’re even further behind now, and the mood on the boat sinks.

  “What do you reckon David? Take a chance on the other side?” Claude says, when we’re steady sailing back upwind again. I can sort of follow the tactics now. The black yacht has gone up the same side of the course as we did the first windward leg, out away from the land where it’s windier, but if we just follow them, then the same thing is going to happen as on the first lap. We’ll both be in the same wind, they’re a tiny bit faster than us, so they’ll stay ahead.

  “We’ve got no choice,” David replies. “We’ll just have to hope they mess up the mark rounding.”

  But they don’t. They go around a full five minutes before we do, and just after we round the upwind mark they cross the finishing line. Seconds later we hear the radio crackle again.

  “That’s one out of three Claude. You wanna give up already?”

  We finish the race thirteenth out of the twenty five boats, which apparently isn’t bad – according to Lily – but obviously no one’s very happy, because the boat we wanted to beat was seven places ahead of us. We don’t go ashore or anything though, there’s another race straight after this one, and we have to sail about a bit while we wait for the final boats to finish, then there’ll be another start sequence. In the meantime, Lily’s mom brings out mugs of hot soup and sandwiches wrapped in tin foil that she had warming in the oven. They’re really nice, but I somehow expected rich people to eat better than this.

  There’s less time than I imagine before we’re starting again. And quickly the pressure builds up again. The start is incredibly important, you have to cross the line just as the gun goes, and moving at full speed – if you don’t, it’s like giving other boats a head start. But also, one end of the start line is a little bit more upwind than the other, so all the boats want to start at that end, at the same time. So there’s lots of shouting and yelling, and boats changing direction. When the gun finally goes we’re not quite so well placed as before, and the black yacht is already a few boat-lengths ahead. Just as before, it tacks off, to sail up the right hand side of the course, further out to sea where the wind is stronger. But this time there’s something different.

  “We need to tack,” David says. “We need to follow them.”

  But this time Claude hesitates, and I can see why, it’s obvious. The wind’s shifted. You can see it on the water, and in the way the birds are flying, they’re hanging in the air, just coasting on the up-currents flowing up the cliffs. The angle they’re making against the shore has changed.

  “OK,” Claude says. “Prepare to tack.”

  “No!” I call out. “The wind’s changed. Stay on this tack.”

  No one talks for a few seconds, because they’re all surprised. Actually, I’m probably the most surprised. I think I was just getting into it more than I realized.

  “It’s windier out to sea.” David replies, part to me, but then more to his dad. “We have to follow them.”

  I’d keep quiet, I really would if it wasn’t so obvious that the wind has changed.

  “But look at the wind inshore. The angle’s better.”

  “You sure?” Claude asks. And suddenly I’m not. Not quite as sure. Because it’s one thing to think all this in my head, and another to have actually said it out loud, now we’re going to make a decision on it.

  “The birds are flying differently to before.”

  Both David and Claude look, but then look back at me, frowning, like they don’t see it.

  “We’re behind anyway. We’re only going to chase them home if we tack. So let’s stick it out.” Claude says, so that’s what we do. And now I’m super tense as we keep sailing left, while the black yacht moves further and further away from us towards the other side of the course. But soon we hit the wind shift, and we’re able to tighten up our angle, and sail much tighter – more directly – towards the windward marker buoy. Suddenly we’re sailing a shorter course than they are. All that’s happened is the wind is bending around nearer to the shore, it did the same thing when we were sailing around Lornea. The wind is still slightly lighter inshore, but not by much, and we’re still averaging eight knots on the log. We have to tack eventually, to sail back towards the marker buoy, and timing it right is crucial. But when we do, and we’re back up to speed, we can all see we’ve reversed the position against the Abigale. Now we’re comfortably ahead, it’s ten boat lengths back. We go around the buoy ahead, and give a cheer as we pass them when we’re on the way back downwind.

  It’s tense after that, but we stay ahead, and on the second, shorter beat back upwind, we make the same call, going to the left. This time the black yacht follows us, but it’s too far back to catch us, and we finish the race fourth. This time Claude gives David the wheel and goes and talks on the radio himself, though I can’t hear what he says. I don’t care though, I have Lily beside me now, handing me more soup and sandwiches. She’s grinning with delight, her hair tucked into a red woolly hat that matches the glow on her cheeks.

  There’s a longer gap between the second and the final race, and we eat more sandwiches wrapped in foil. There’s a bit of a chance to relax now, and I start to wonder if I might be able to find some time to speak with Lily’s dad. It occurred to me before that actually getting to meet him like this, I might be able to tell him about the issue of the sea-dragons – not maybe my campaign to stop his company expanding there, I thought I’d keep quiet about how it’s me behind that – but maybe I could explain to him the reasons behind the campaign, the need to protect the seagrass areas. Before I met him I kind of assumed he wouldn’t be the sort of person who might listen to this, but now I get the idea the opposite might be true. He actually seems a lot more decent and normal than I expected. But still, there hasn’t b
een a spare moment so far. And before I can find a way to broach the subject now, we’re in the start sequence for the third race.

  It seems more tense this time, if that’s even possible. I guess because it’s the last race of the day. Actually, the last race of the whole season. There’s more chatter on the radio, between lots of the boats, and more shouting, and the boats seem to be getting closer than before. A couple of times we have to tack away when other boats are aimed directly towards us. Boats on port tack have to give way to those on starboard, and it’s like being in a parking lot in the summer at the beach, when everyone wants to position their cars to get into not enough spaces. It’s chaos.

  “One minute to go. Jacques’s gone left.” David calls out. Which means that the black yacht has stayed at the other end of the start line to where we aimed for in races one and two. I guess it means they’re going to go up the same side of the course as we did in the second race. Because they’re a bit faster than us, that means we’ll lose our advantage.

  “What side Billy?” Claude asks. “You still think the wind is better inshore?”

  I look at the surface of the water. At the birds, but now there aren’t any. They’ve flown away. Which is odd in itself. I hesitate.

  “Need an answer. Go left or right?”

  “Go left. Follow them left,” David says. “We’ve got to.”

  I hesitate again, and I can see Claude is watching me. I nod. “Yeah.”

  So we do. We hit the line a few seconds after the gun, and quite a few of the other boats have seen the shift now, so the fleet splits. Half go inshore, the black yacht and us among them, the other half still go out to sea. We race on for a bit, but it’s soon clear the black yacht isn’t in a good situation. It’s caught up too close to three other boats, which are all chopping up the water for each other, and disturbing the wind. We’re luckier, out on our own, and this means the difference in our boat speed is evened out. We even creep ahead. So then the black yacht tacks early, abandoning this side of the course, and going for the other. But we stick to what’s working, until eventually we have to tack as well, and sail towards the marker buoy. When we do, we all get to see which half of the course was better, and it turns out there wasn’t really a better side, not this time around. So all the boats are going to arrive at the marker buoy at about the same time. It’s going to be mayhem again, just like the start, as we all try to go around together.