by Kris Webb
As I hung up I realised that at no point had I actually agreed to race. I made a mental note never to try to negotiate with David – he was clearly not a man who heard no very often.
I wondered how David’s girlfriend felt about him calling up strange women and asking them to race with him. She was probably racing on another boat and would be delighted for him to be saddled with a liability like me, I decided.
Despite what I had led David to believe, I had only been in one sailing race in my life and that was in the ten-year-old category in Brisbane. The whole experience was a bit of a blur, but I did have a vague memory of an enormous boat almost running over me after I lost control of my tiny dingy at the first marker. Not surprisingly, I hadn’t been keen to repeat the experience and had taken up hockey instead. I hadn’t exactly made the national team in that either, but I had figured that at least I was unlikely to drown.
I did what I always do when I’m in a tight spot. I called my father. I couldn’t imagine Dad not being on the other end of the phone whenever I called. Although he kept insisting that it had been nothing, his heart attack had made me very aware that he was getting older.
‘Darling. How are you? How’s Sarah?’
One of the great things about talking to Dad was that nothing Sarah did was too minor to be celebrated. The big news this week was that she had rolled over for the first time.
‘How’s my genius granddaughter? Walking yet?’
Having spent quite some time describing Sarah’s latest manifestation of genius, I briefly filled Dad in on my sailing dilemma. I was always grateful that Dad never asked if I’d heard from Max and, true to form, he didn’t ask any questions about David either.
He talked me through a typical race and what I would be required to do. It seemed it was most likely to be a class race, which meant we’d be competing with boats of a similar size.
Apparently, as a new crew member I was most likely to be handling the ropes (or ‘sheets’, as Dad insisted I start calling them).
‘Remember, if you want to look like you know what you’re doing, follow the skipper’s instructions exactly,’ were his last words before we said goodbye.
* * *
So I knew I was in trouble when, during the final leg of the race the following afternoon, I found myself rummaging around in the bowels of the boat unable either to see or hear David.
Up to that point, the race had been surprisingly good fun. David had met me at the marina walkway and given me a rundown on how things would proceed. He assumed that I knew what he was talking about, and my occasional nods seemed to be all that was necessary.
I mentally blessed my father when David asked me if I’d be happy to handle the sheets. I’d figured out without any major calamities what I had to do and, despite the fast pace, actually enjoyed the first half of the race. Completely forgetting I couldn’t actually sail, I started having fantasies of buying my own boat and teaching Sarah to sail. David obviously loved being on the water and his excitement was contagious. Apparently, the deal for this race was that all the losing boats were to pool together and buy the winner a case of expensive champagne. As a result, the rivalry was more intense than usual.
These boats had been racing against each other for years, and the catcalls and heckles echoing across the water only added to the atmosphere. So when David suddenly started shouting instructions at me as we approached the mark around which we had to turn for the final leg, I was brought back to reality with a thud.
‘Okay, this is the bit that separates the men from the boys,’ he yelled. Bearing Dad’s instructions in mind, I didn’t question him about the political correctness of his expression. ‘The wind will be behind us once we’ve changed course, which means we can use a spinnaker to take us in.’
Unable to add anything, I just nodded and tried to look intelligent.
‘We won’t have time to change it once it’s up so we need to pick the right spinnaker now. I can feel a change coming in the wind. I reckon it’s going to freshen and swing around to our port side. What do you think?’
‘Ah … Yes, I think you’re right,’ I said with a conviction I didn’t feel. There was certainly no way I was going to disagree with him.
‘Okay. We’ll need the small spinnaker. Go down to the front hatch and grab it. We need to have it up just as we reach the mark.’
He was back in businessman mode and it was less a question than a command. Reluctantly, I headed down below.
Dad had also warned me that because the wind was so unpredictable, things could change suddenly in a race. I knew that a spinnaker was the big, pretty sail that went at the front (bow, I corrected myself mentally), but why we needed a small one was a mystery. There seemed to be canvas bags of varying colours everywhere and I had no idea which was the right one.
‘It’s the one in the red bag.’ I could only just make out David’s words through the wind, but I could clearly hear the impatience in his voice. He added something else but I couldn’t hear him. I looked around frantically and finally saw an edge of red canvas poking out from behind some other bags.
When I emerged from the cockpit, I saw that the competition had changed dramatically. About half the boats in the race had dropped behind us, but three were well ahead and were just about at the mark.
As I watched, the first boat made the turn and I could see its spinnaker unfurl, creating a beautiful splash of colour. As soon as the big sail filled, the boat leapt even further ahead.
‘We need the spinnaker up now!’ David was almost shouting, the frustration showing on his face. ‘Here, you take the tiller and I’ll do it – I’ll be quicker.’
As he glanced down at the bag I saw him wince. ‘This is the wrong spinnaker,’ he shouted through the wind. ‘It’ll be too big. When the wind picks up, the whole thing will blow out.’
The mark was now only about six boat lengths away and closing fast. There was no time to find the other spinnaker even if I’d known what I was looking for – I’d obviously blown it. All the fun had gone out of the afternoon.
Suddenly David turned, hauled the bag up to the bow and attached the spinnaker.
He turned to me and with a wicked smile shouted, ‘Here we go. It’ll either kill us or cure us!’
I tried not to think about how much a new spinnaker was worth and managed a tense smile back.
As we reached the mark, David called, ‘Ready about – leeho!’ (At the earlier marks I had once again blessed my father for preparing me for this.) I pushed the tiller away from me, which brought the nose of the boat around so that the wind was behind us.
The spinnaker filled with wind and it felt as though Moby Dick himself had come up behind us and started pushing. Our spinnaker was at least double the size of those of the other boats and we quickly overtook the one in front. Within about another twenty boat lengths, we overtook the next yacht and suddenly found ourselves in second place.
There was no time for celebration, though, as Aslan was travelling at a very precarious angle and felt to me like she could flip over at any second. Suddenly, just when I was sure we were going to be tipped into the water, the wind eased a little and the boat slowed, returning to a healthier angle.
David’s triumphant cry made the crew of the boat ahead turn around. The lighter wind meant that their smaller spinnaker wasn’t able to keep pace and we edged past them just before the finish line.
David’s ear-to-ear grin didn’t look like dimming any time soon as he pulled the spinnaker down. ‘That was fantastic! I have to confess, though, I really thought we were going to go over.’
I nodded. I’d been prepared for absolute disaster – a ripped spinnaker, capsized boat and a very annoyed business colleague – and I hadn’t quite taken in the abrupt turnaround of events.
We motored back to the marina in the midst of the other boats, whose crews shouted their grudging congratulations, some asking whether they could recruit me, figuring I was David’s secret weapon. If only they knew, I thought,
trying to look as though I’d expected no other result.
As we tied up in the berth, David looked at his watch. ‘Our timing couldn’t be more perfect. The club bar opened ten minutes ago – fancy cracking open some of our champagne with our opponents?’
I looked at my watch with regret. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. I need to be back by five so that Karen can get away – I’m already running late. Have a glass or two for me.’
For an instant I resented having to go home and miss the celebrations, then immediately felt guilty for feeling that way. ‘I’ll do better than that,’ David smiled, then added, ‘how about we catch up sometime to share some of the champagne? After all, I certainly couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Sounds great.’ I felt a small stab of excitement. Surely his interest couldn’t just be business, but then how did his girlfriend fit into the picture?
‘Excellent,’ David replied. ‘I’m off to Hong Kong next week for a trade show but I’ll give you a call when I get back.’
At his mention of the trade show, my stomach dropped. We should have realised David would be there too. But it would look pretty strange if he ran into Debbie when we were supposed to have our suppliers all sorted out.
‘You might see Debbie while you’re over there,’ I replied as casually as I could. David looked surprised and I hurried on, making it up as I went along. ‘Our supplier has to be there, so it seemed the logical place to meet them and finalise the shipment of the covers.’
‘That makes sense,’ David acknowledged. ‘Well, anyway,’ he flashed that smile at me again, ‘thanks for helping out.’
He refused my offer to help clean the boat down and I headed for the car park, relishing the feeling of the salt in my hair and the sun on my back.
NINETEEN
‘Debbie, tell me you’re kidding,’ I exclaimed into the telephone the following morning. ‘You can’t have chickenpox. You’re thirty-one, for God’s sake. No one gets chickenpox at thirty-one.’
‘Do you think I’d joke about something like this?’ Debbie replied. ‘I have itchy red spots all over my body, a headache that rivals those of some of my hangovers and I feel like I could sleep for a week. The doctor told me that when adults get chickenpox they have a much worse time than children do. He said I should smear some disgusting white cream all over myself and stay in bed for at least the next five days. He nearly jumped down my throat when I asked if he thought I’d be all right to fly to Hong Kong on Tuesday.’
‘This is an absolute disaster,’ I said in despair. ‘The pages are looking great but if you can’t find the covers there’s no way we’ll be ready for the meeting with David.’
‘You’re right, Sophie, which is why you have to go,’ Debbie said forcefully.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Be serious, Debbie, you know I can’t leave Sarah.’
‘So take her,’ Debbie replied. ‘I know it’s not ideal, but if we can’t line up those covers in the next week we may as well kiss the deal with Handley Smith goodbye.’
‘Debbie, it’s not just “not ideal”, it’s a nightmare – just picture me trying to get around Hong Kong and do a deal with a manufacturer with Sarah in tow.’
‘I really think it’s possible,’ Debbie insisted. ‘The trade fair is at the big conference centre in the middle of town and I’ve already booked a room at the Grand Hyatt, which is right next door – using my frequent flyer points, before you ask. You could go straight from the airport to the hotel and just walk to the trade fair. If you don’t want to you don’t have to go anywhere else. Sarah already has a passport so you can take her to visit your father. Just think of this as a warm-up for the flight to London.’
Much as the thought of a buying trip to Asia with Sarah daunted me, I had to agree with what Debbie had said. We were both excited about the prospects for this deal and it would be hugely disappointing to see it slip by.
‘You’re right,’ I decided suddenly. ‘I’ve always said that I wouldn’t let a baby dictate my life. We can’t let this all fall apart now because I’m too scared to try.’
Now that I’d made the decision, I felt a touch of excitement. It was years since I’d been overseas and I realised that in less than forty-eight hours I would be in Hong Kong, a city I’d wanted to visit since reading James Clavell’s Noble House. David would be at the trade fair too, and I couldn’t suppress a feeling of anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.
Pushing the prospect of an overnight flight with a small baby to the back of my mind, I focused on what I would have to do before I left.
‘All right, Deb,’ I said. ‘Can you stop scratching for long enough to tell me who I should talk to and what I need to do?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Grab a pen.’
For the next thirty minutes Debbie gave me a rundown on what I needed to do at the trade fair. After finishing our final topic – what I should wear – I called the airline to cancel Debbie’s ticket and arrange new ones. Knowing that Debbie would never ask for help, I also made a quick call to Andrew, letting him know what was happening and that Debbie would be on her own. He lived near Debbie and promised to check on her while I was away.
Sarah had been watching all of this from her play gym (which wasn’t quite as active as the name suggested). ‘Well, darling,’ I said, picking her up and waltzing her around the room in time to the music on the radio. ‘You and I are off to Hong Kong!’
* * *
As I struggled down the plane with Sarah in one arm and my overstuffed shoulder bag banging against each seat, I noticed that none of my fellow passengers would meet my eyes. I could almost hear the silent chant, ‘Please don’t let her sit next to me, please don’t let her sit next to me.’
I paused beside one seat to pull my boarding card out of the back pocket of my trousers and check my seat number. As I moved on, a look of pure relief spread over the face of the man I’d stopped next to. Finally I found my seat, which was by the aisle in a row of four. Everyone in sight (other than the three people already sitting in the row) visibly relaxed, while the lucky three next to me immediately craned their heads to see if they could spot a spare seat to escape to.
As I sat down, Sarah decided that it would be an appropriate time not only to dirty her nappy but to do it at a volume loud enough to be heard at the back of the plane. All those heads that were busily looking elsewhere suddenly snapped back towards us. Everyone had obviously concluded that such a loud noise could not possibly come from a being as tiny as Sarah and that, as well as my social ineptness at daring to take a baby on an overseas flight, I also had serious personal hygiene issues.
After briefly toying with the idea of standing up and showing the whole plane the evidence in Sarah’s nappy, I decided to pretend that it hadn’t happened and deal with getting myself sorted out for the flight. As I did so, a passing flight attendant saw the bag at my feet and picked it up to put it in the overhead locker.
‘No!’ I yelled in panic.
She paused with the bag in midair. Pulling myself together, I said as calmly as I could manage, ‘I’m sorry but I need some of the things in there for the takeoff.’
‘Fine,’ she said frostily as she replaced the bag on the floor, and I cursed myself for having managed to get her offside before we’d even left the ground.
Balancing Sarah on one knee, I rummaged around in the bag with my spare hand to try to find all the things I might possibly need. Karen had told me that feeding a baby during takeoff and landing was the best way to avoid a screaming session caused by the pressure on their ears, and I’d spent the whole day working towards timing Sarah’s feed for takeoff. Thankfully, we left on schedule and Sarah fed happily during the whole process, only finishing as we levelled out and the seatbelt sign was switched off.
I decided that I could no longer ignore Sarah’s nappy and, standing up, grabbed my bag from the overhead locker where the flight attendant had put it just before takeoff, after very pointedly asking me if I had finishe
d with it. Sarah, the bag and I just fitted through the narrow toilet door and I pulled down the baby change table that hinged onto the wall over the toilet and laid Sarah across it. After changing her nappy, I tried to figure out exactly how I could go to the toilet myself, given that the change table would have to be folded up, which meant that I would have to hold Sarah at the same time.
IQ tests have never been one of my favourite things, but after a couple of minutes pondering the situation, I managed to figure out a way to execute the manoeuvre, discovering as I did so the evolutionary reason why women’s ligaments and joints become looser during pregnancy. It is not to facilitate childbirth, as is commonly believed, but actually to enable a woman to perform the otherwise physically impossible act of going to the toilet in an aeroplane cubicle with a baby in her arms.
By the time I returned to my seat, a flight attendant had hooked a baby bassinette onto the bulkhead in front of my seat. I settled Sarah into it and, to my delight, the hum of the plane and the vibrations seemed to soothe her, as she immediately closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Resisting the urge to high-five the flight attendant walking past, I instead took two of the Hong Kong immigration forms she was distributing. The ‘occupation’ section on the form gave me some problems. There was no way that I could see to fit ‘I used to be a high-powered executive but am now caring for my daughter and investigating business opportunities,’ into the space for twelve characters. After chewing the end of my pen for a few minutes, I became aware that the man next to me was peering at my form, obviously trying to figure out what was causing me so much trouble. Reminding myself that the Hong Kong immigration officials weren’t going to be making judgments on my lifestyle choice, I quickly wrote ‘mother’, before signing the form and putting it away in my handbag.
After glancing through the entertainment section in the in-flight magazine, I decided that sleep was more important than having an uninspiring airline meal and watching a movie I didn’t want to see. I pushed my chair back, closed my eyes and drifted off, only dimly aware of the noise as the flight attendants served and collected drinks and meals.
