by Nell Stark
Just a few years ago, sailing this particular boat would have been a luxury. She’d been completely focused on training in the 470, a two-man Olympic racing craft. Back then, sailing had felt more like work than pleasure. The regattas every weekend, the time trials, the relentless jockeying with other sailors for position. That’s over now, she reminded herself, leaning out even further as the hull reacted to a gust of wind. For several months after her failure to win a spot in the Olympics, Corrie hadn’t been able to make herself go anywhere near a boat. She had worried that she would always associate sailing with Denise’s betrayal and Will’s gloating. Even just looking out at the water had hurt. But all of that was in the past. Sailing was in her blood and the tide had called her back. This was her slice of ocean, her club, her boat. Not his. She smiled broadly at the morning sun. Now, finally, I can just enjoy it.
Content to hold her course for the present, Corrie sailed east toward the narrow inlet that connected the pond to the ocean. In less than two hours, the Sailing Center would be swarming with new students of all ages—some frightened, some arrogant, some comically eager. But for this one small part of the day, all she had to answer to was the wind and the water. She tossed her head back, enjoying the taste of the salt spray on her lips, and she let instinct take over.
*
An hour later, Corrie boosted herself from the cockpit to the wooden slats of the pier. She looked up at the willowy redhead who had secured her boat and now stood shading her eyes against the bright glare of the morning sun.
“Hey, Jen.”
“Hey, you. How was it out there?” Jen’s Brooklyn accent was more pronounced than usual—a testimony to the fact that it was still morning and she wasn’t ready to be awake. After last night’s party, Corrie wasn’t surprised.
She got to her feet, undoing the Velcro straps of her sailing gloves in the process. “It’s nice. Decent wind and steady for now. Only a few little gusts. Should be a good day for the rookies.”
Jen laughed. “They’ll still be scared to death.”
“You know me, I live for the girly shrieking.” Corrie squinted at the boathouse. “Looks like some of them are already here.”
“Yes, and they’re all asking for the head of instruction,” said Jen as they began to walk back. She looked pointedly at Corrie, who groaned. “You can run, but you can’t hide. I gave them a very precise physical description.”
“Thanks,” Corrie grumbled. “Thanks a lot.” She took a deep breath. “You ready for this?”
Jen shook her head. “I am going right back inside, where I belong. You’re the social butterfly.” She veered off toward the equipment shed with a little wave as Corrie sighed and reluctantly picked up her pace. She loved sailing and enjoyed teaching, but fielding a barrage of half-anxious, half-demanding requests was not her idea of a good first day.
After a solid half hour of reassuring concerned or confused students—and in one case, the overprotective mother of a twenty-year-old guy whose face had been flaming in embarrassment—Corrie found herself alone and with a few minutes to spare before she would be required to officially open the instructional season with a welcome speech. A knot of instructors had gathered just outside the boathouse doors, chatting idly about their plans for the night.
“Hi, Cor,” Brad said, reaching out to squeeze her left shoulder.
“Hey,” she said, but was careful not to return his touch. It wouldn’t do to have him getting the wrong idea, after all. A night of fucking was exactly that—no more, no less. She looked away and immediately noticed Jen’s raised eyebrows from across the circle.
When Corrie shrugged and put on her innocent face, Jen couldn’t help but roll her eyes. There she goes again, she had to laugh to herself. I must be almost the only friend she hasn’t seduced at one point or another, and that’s only because I’m as straight as they come. It had been that way for a while now, but somehow Corrie managed to keep them all friends. Take Brad, for instance—by the half-smile on his face, a little wistful but resigned, he apparently knew the drill.
“We’d better head inside, guys,” Corrie called, effortlessly taking control of the group. “Almost time to get this show on the road.” But just as she was about to lead the way through the double doors, she caught sight of Frog racing full tilt toward two people nearby.
*
“Remind me again why I’m doing this?” Quinn asked her companion as they turned the corner and saw the mass of people gathered outside the University of Rhode Island’s Sailing Center. Big crowd. That’s just great.
“Because you can’t study all the time,” said Drew. It was the same answer he’d given her twice already this morning. “And because it’ll be good for you to get outside. You’re way too pale.”
“Pale is healthy.” Quinn wondered why she kept letting Drew persuade her into situations like this. She pinched his tan forearm lightly. “What part about the risk of skin cancer don’t you understand?”
Drew sighed and shook his head. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Q. You need to get out. Loosen up. Go with the wind for a while.” He caught sight of several of his fellow instructors gathered in a loose cluster in front of the boathouse and pointed them out to Quinn. “Look, there’s the gang. I’ll introduce you to everyone before we get started.”
As they approached the group, a large gray dog came bounding out of the surf directly toward them, wagging its skinny tail. It stopped just short of Drew and Quinn, shook itself vigorously, and shoved its nose against Drew’s hip.
“Ugh,” said Drew, looking down at his water-splattered T-shirt. “Thanks, Frog. You’re a pal.” He reached down to pet the dog’s head anyway, but Quinn had beaten him to it. She knelt on the ground, one hand rubbing behind Frog’s ears and the other patting his sleek, barrel chest. He whined deep in his throat at the attention and happily licked her face. Quinn laughed.
“Hey, buddy,” she crooned. “You’re one fine looking Weimaraner. Who do you belong to, hmm?”
“That would be me,” Corrie said as she came up alongside them. “Sorry for the impromptu bath, guys.”
Drew shrugged. “Not like I wasn’t expecting to get wet today anyway.” He looked down at Quinn, who didn’t seem to realize Corrie had joined them. He tapped her on the shoulder. “Earth to Quinn. I’ve got someone you need to meet here.”
Quinn got to her feet reluctantly, giving Frog one last pat on the head and turned toward his owner. At a few inches taller than Quinn, Corrie looked the part of an all-American athlete. Her slim, muscular legs, toned arms, and tightly rippled stomach were already darkly tan. Freckles liberally sprinkled the bridge of her nose, above which two green eyes studied Quinn intently.
“This is Corrie Marsten,” said Drew. “Head of sailing instruction this season and a legendary sailor ’round these parts. She’s my crew when we race the two-man boats, though I bet we’d do a lot better if she skippered.”
Corrie rolled her eyes and scratched behind Frog’s left ear. “Whatever, Harris.” What Drew didn’t know, of course, was that skippering one of those boats made her think of Denise. And besides, she would have never admitted this to him, but sometimes it felt really good to just relax into the rhythm of the boat and let someone else make the tough calls.
Unperturbed, Drew carried on. “Corrie, Quinn Davies. She’s an old buddy from college who’s in vet school here. And my roommate for the summer so she can escape her crappy landlord.”
“Hi,” Quinn said as she shook Corrie’s hand. Rough calluses slid across her soft palm. “Great dog you’ve got there.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Corrie, reaching down to stroke Frog’s head. “He’s my best buddy.”
“Why ‘Frog?’” Quinn asked.
“He looked like one,” Corrie said. “Back when he was a tiny puppy—just like a little gray frog.” When Quinn laughed, she shrugged. “Fortunately, he grew out of that. So hey, did you sail with Drew up at Dartmouth?”
“Oh no,” Quinn answered
quickly, shaking her head for emphasis. “I’ve never sailed a day in my life. We lived across the hall from each other freshman year. That’s how I know him.” She nudged Drew with an elbow for emphasis, and he poked her back playfully.
“Ah. Cool.” Corrie smiled—an easy, open expression that Quinn felt herself return—and adjusted the rim of her baseball cap. “Welcome aboard, then.” She looked up at Drew and nodded toward the boathouse. “See you in there.”
Quinn watched her jog off, feeling her involuntary grin slowly fade. For some reason, she felt warm, as though she’d been on stage in a spotlight that had just been turned off.
“...that’s Corrie,” Drew was saying as he opened the boathouse doors for her. “What do you think?”
“She’s very charismatic, isn’t she?” Quinn said, still struggling to sort out her own impressions. Corrie’s easy confidence was intriguing, but her effortless and completely natural beauty had also triggered more than a few of Quinn’s familiar insecurities about her own body. I could look better if I worked at it, she thought for the millionth time. But there’s nothing I can do with my hair, and my face is always going to be too round. Quinn’s slightly wavy, nearly shoulder-length brown hair always felt unruly, and on particularly humid days, unkempt. And each time she looked in the mirror, it was easy to see that she’d inherited the roundness of her father’s features without his defining cheekbones. Dropping a few spare pounds wouldn’t fix that.
Realizing the pointless trajectory of her thoughts, she forced herself to look around as she took a seat next to Drew in the chart room—a large, open space that took up most of the first and second floors of the boathouse. A full bar extended along half of the right wall, while a huge fireplace was centered in the left. A small stage shared the far wall with a long sliding door leading out to what looked like a deck.
“Nice space, huh?” Drew asked proudly. “We have socials in here every Friday after the weekly races, sometimes with a DJ and sometimes a live band.”
Quinn nodded absently, then stiffened as the shrill whine of a microphone echoed through the room. When it cut off just as abruptly, the chatter in the hall stopped. As Corrie stepped gracefully onto the stage, the young guy sitting to Quinn’s right leaned over to his buddy and murmured something emphatically. Quinn caught the word “hot” and shook her head. If looking like that meant being drooled over, maybe she was better off.
“Welcome to the summer program, everyone,” Corrie said, her gaze sweeping across the room. “I’m Corrie Marsten, head of instruction. You can call me Corrie, or Cor, or Mars...but anything that sounds like ‘Ms.’ or ‘Miss’ Marsten is off limits.” She waited for the small current of laughter to subside before moving on. “This year is especially exciting since we’re hosting a regatta this year in early August—the Rhode Island 470 Invitational. We’re expecting it to be a big race, and we’ll need a lot of you to participate in some way.”
As she continued to discuss the specifics of the regatta, Quinn found herself wondering yet again whether it had really been a good idea to give in to Drew’s insistence that she take sailing lessons. She needed to study hard this summer if she was going to pass the qualifying exam on her first try, and she blatantly refused to cut down on her volunteer hours at the humane society. Drew was just trying to help, as always—to get her to meet people and have fun—but these lessons could easily turn into a significant time sink. Well, she considered resolutely, if they do, then I’ll just quit. No harm in that. Drew won’t give me a hard time if I try it and don’t like it.
She tuned back in to the proceedings just as the instructors finished introducing themselves. Emboldened by her recent decision, Quinn turned to face Drew.
“All right, Drew,” she said firmly. “Teach me how to sail a boat.”
*
By the end of the day, Quinn was exhausted. Her arms and legs ached, her palms hurt from gripping the mainsheet, and she had a mottled blue-black bruise on her left knee where she’d whacked it against the thwart during one of her first tacks. But as she sat in safety position just inside the mooring field, she only felt exhilarated.
Drew had spent the morning teaching his small group the basics of sail theory, as well as the safety rules of the club and the procedure for checking out equipment once they received their ratings on the tech dinghies. Then, they’d spent the hour before lunch practicing in the “simulator”—an old, beat up tech on wheels that could be turned in a full circle so as to allow beginner sailors to experience tacks and jibes before going on the water. After lunch, they rigged up several boats and took them out, and the afternoon was filled with “follow the leader” maneuvers, capsize drills, and finally, landing practice.
The best part of the day had been when Drew had pushed Quinn’s boat away from the pier—when she’d finally been on her own against the waves and the wind, alone and free. Sure, she’d messed up a few times at the very beginning, and she’d very nearly capsized after letting go of the rudder during her first jibe. But she’d gotten better after that. More comfortable. I love that I’m the one doing it all, she thought. No one to answer to, no one else to rely on. Just me.
She watched intently as Cindy, a middle-aged English professor, approached the pier for her last landing of the day. Drew supervised from the edge, offering the occasional tip but mostly allowing his students to make their own judgment calls. As Cindy successfully turned up alongside the dock, Quinn took a deep breath and grabbed the tiller extension tightly, ready to maneuver out of her head-to-wind position.
“All right, Quinn!” Drew hollered. “Bring it on!”
After a few fumbling moments, Quinn got her boat moving and sailed as close to the wind as she could, toward the leeward side of the pier. She watched the distance close, chewing nervously on her lower lip as a small gust caused her speed to increase. Almost immediately, she stopped trimming the sail and allowed it to flap in the breeze. When in doubt, let it out. The boat slowed and she exhaled in a relieved sigh.
“Nice,” said Drew. “Way to counteract that puff.”
Realizing that she still had several boat lengths to go, Quinn pulled on the line just a bit until her sail stopped flapping and the wind propelled her forward once more. She repeated the process several times, before the bow settled gently against the side of the dock.
“Great job!” Drew said as she secured her boat to the pier. “You rocked that one, Q. If we could give ratings the first day, you better believe you’d have one.”
Quinn let out a shaky sigh and forced her tired fingers to undo the cleat hitch that tied off the main halyard. “No way am I ready to go out on my own yet.” She somehow managed to let the boom down gently into the bottom of the boat, then turned back to Drew. “But thanks. That was really fun.”
“Do you mean it?” he asked as they carried their sails back to the equipment shed. “You had a good time out there?”
“Definitely,” Quinn said, amused by his earnest tone. “I love how it’s both academic and athletic. How you have to be thinking about wind physics the whole time, even while you’re shifting your weight and holding on to the lines.” She smiled at him over her shoulder as they pushed through the door. “I like your sport, Drew.”
“Glad to hear that,” Corrie’s voice rang out from behind the counter in front of them, where she was helping Jen manage the influx of sails and lifejackets. As they put their stuff down, Corrie reached out and plucked a strand of seaweed from behind Quinn’s left ear. She held it up between them. “You’ll start a fashion trend.”
Quinn laughed self-consciously. Trust me to come in looking like some kind of sea monster. Great.
“First social’s this Friday, right?” Drew asked as he signed their equipment back in.
“Oh yeah,” Corrie said. “Should be a blast.”
Drew poked Jen in the shoulder, hard. “You gonna be there, Jenny?”
Jen tried to smack him with a nearby towel, but he leapt back out of range, smirking. “How many time
s, Harris?” she asked menacingly. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”
Corrie rolled her eyes at their familiar antics and turned back to Quinn. “How about you, Quinn? You coming?”
Quinn shrugged, surprised at the question. Why would she care? “Oh…I don’t know. I have a lot of studying to do.”
“Just come once,” said Drew, still keeping a cautious eye on Jen and her towel.
Corrie smirked. “Cheap drinks, good music, and warm bodies. Everything a sailor needs.”
If Quinn could have stopped herself from blushing, she would have. Yeah, she thought, embarrassed. That sounds right up my alley. “We’ll see,” she said. “Thanks.” And then she hurried out the door before any of them could say anything else.
*
Corrie stretched and massaged the back of her neck, wincing when she encountered a sunburned patch of skin. The infernal paperwork was finally done. Every student who had joined today was entered into the system, and it was past time to go home. She looked out her window at the dark sky and sighed.
Frog’s tail suddenly thumped against the floor just as someone knocked at the door. Corrie looked up, blinked, and frowned deeply. What the fuck?
“Will,” she said, trying to keep her voice flat. No need for him to realize just how much he rattled her. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hi to you too, li’l sis,” he said, sauntering into the room and settling into one of the spare chairs. He propped his feet up on Corrie’s desk. When she glared at him, he winked back. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Thrilled.” She couldn’t resist drowning the word in sarcasm. “Why aren’t you in Newport?”
“What, a guy can’t visit his sister? Not to mention his alma mater—”
