by Nell Stark
“Oh,” said Quinn, trying to visualize the scenario in her head. Drew called out the thirty-second warning, and both Will and Corrie began to tack back and forth furiously.
“They’re trying to find the best line of approach without sailing over the line before time’s up.” And then Drew began the ten-second countdown, and Quinn caught her breath as Will and Corrie each turned their boat on a course that could only end in a collision with each other.
“What are they doing?” She grabbed Drew’s arm. He shook his head and continued the count. When he reached “Go,” both boats were mere feet behind the starting line, and in less than ten seconds, their bows were going to crash.
“Starboard!” Corrie shouted at the top of her lungs. Quinn squeezed Drew’s arm so tightly that he winced. “Starboard! You’d better fuckin’ duck me, asshole!”
At the last possible instant, Will turned sharply downwind to avoid Corrie’s boat, his bow passing within inches of her stern. Quinn sighed explosively.
“Ow,” said Drew, gently trying to dislodge her grip.
“What’s going on down here?” Jen asked from behind them. “What’s with all the yelling?”
“Was that legal?” Quinn exclaimed, outraged at Will’s close call.
“Ladies, ladies, jeez,” Drew said. “One question at a time!” He turned toward Jen. “Will challenged Corrie to a duel. They’re single-handing 470s with chutes.” When her eyes widened and her mouth opened, he wagged one finger at her. “I tried to stop her, okay? I tried. And yes,” he said, looking over at Quinn and massaging the finger marks on his skin, “that move is legal. It’s called a ‘duck.’ Corrie had right-of-way because she was on starboard tack, but Will would have only been in the wrong if he’d actually hit her.”
Quinn looked past them both to where the boats were wending their way upwind, matching one another tack for tack. Corrie had extended her body as far out from the boat as possible. She was probably hanging on to the hiking strap with her toes.
“I don’t know what their deal is,” Jen said, “but whenever he’s around, Corrie’s not right in the head.”
“It’s just a brother/sister thing,” Drew said dismissively. “They’re competitive people, y’know?”
“Yeah, but...” Jen trailed off, shaking her head. “I feel like there’s more to it than that.”
Quinn didn’t chime in, but she agreed. Granted, she’d only spoken with Corrie a few times, but Will had always come up frequently, and never in a good way.
“They’re about to round the buoy and raise their spinnakers.” Drew crossed his arms over his chest. “This should get interesting.”
Quinn hesitated as she debated whether to reveal her ignorance, then decided to bite the bullet. She tapped Drew on the shoulder. “Would you mind explaining what a spinnaker is, real quick?”
“Oh, sure. So, the spinnaker is this sail that looks like a parachute—which is why it’s also called the chute—that gets rigged around every other sail and line and stay on a boat. When you go downwind, you raise the chute and it catches the wind that’s coming from behind you, and it pulls you along.” He gestured toward the ocean. “Watch. They’re about to raise.”
Quinn flinched as both boats jibed around the buoy. Jibing was still more than a little scary. The sail went from being all the way out on one side of the boat to being all the way out on the other in a matter of seconds, and it was easy to lose control and capsize. But, although Corrie’s craft rocked from side to side, she never lost control. In fact, she was several feet ahead of her brother, and Quinn surreptitiously crossed her fingers that she’d stay that way.
“See?” said Jen, pointing. “She’s pulling on the spinnaker halyard. Here it comes!”
As they watched, a bright red and white sail ballooned out in front of each boat, its edges dipping and curling like a kite. “Now they have to steer with their knees,” Drew told Quinn, leaning forward in his excitement. “Because trimming that sail properly takes two hands.”
Quinn could hear the concern coloring his voice. “What’s dangerous about it?”
“For one thing,” said Jen, “look how damn fast they’re going! I don’t know if they have enough wind to plane, but they’re going to get close.” She shook her head in admiration. “God, I wish I could sail like that. If Corrie keeps this up, there’s no way he’s going to catch—”
“Fuck, she’s broaching!” Drew shouted, as Corrie’s boat suddenly swung hard upwind and tilted precipitously. Quinn could see her struggling to regain control of the tiller even as she threw her weight to the high side, and the 470 hung there for several seconds, plowing through the waves on one gunwale before finally tipping completely and spilling Corrie into the water.
“Shit!” Jen was immediately running alongside Drew toward the end of the pier. “They’re both in trouble.”
Sure enough, Will’s boat had reacted to the puff of wind in the same way, but he was slowly managing to bring it back down to a stable position. Quinn didn’t realize that she’d followed Drew and Jen until she too was leaning out over the edge of the dock, trying to see if Corrie had surfaced. “Is she all right? Where is she?”
For one agonizing moment, there was nothing to be seen, but then Corrie’s red lifejacket flashed brightly in the sunlight and the breeze carried over the sound of her coughing. “You okay, Cor?” Will called, his bow pointing directly toward the wind. His spinnaker fluttered like a dying red butterfly, flopping half-heartedly as he pulled it down into the boat.
Whatever Corrie said in reply was unintelligible, but she quickly splashed her way over to the centerboard and began to yank it down into the waves. Will expertly spun his boat back toward shore and completed the race a few minutes later, pulling up to the pier with a gentle bump.
“What a crazy gust,” he said as Drew tied off his boat. “I haven’t broached that badly in years!”
Quinn ignored Will completely, keeping her gaze fastened on Corrie as she sailed slowly toward them, her spinnaker hopelessly tangled up in her stays. Quinn took it upon herself to grab for the line that trailed off the front of Corrie’s boat. “Hey,” she said in the soothing tone she reserved for injured animals. “Are you really all right?”
Corrie turned to her with a scowl, but the fierceness faded as she recognized Quinn’s concern. “Yeah, I’m fine.” For one awful second, Corrie felt like bursting into tears. She bent over to raise the centerboard so she wouldn’t have to meet those kind eyes.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“S’okay,” she grunted as she pulled down hard on the sticky main halyard. “I want to do all this myself—make sure it still works right.” She paused before managing a crooked grin. “But, thanks.”
“Okay.” Quinn gave a small wave before retreating. That’s one thing we have in common, she thought as she slowly walked the length of the pier. She understood very well the desire to be left alone with frustration.
Will, apparently, did not. “Tough luck, sport,” she heard him say. “Want a hand with that mess?”
“No.” The monosyllable was clipped. Sharp enough to cut, but he seemed impervious.
“All right then.” His tone was genial, but then again, he could afford to sound that way. He had won. “Nice racing out there. You mighta clinched it if you hadn’t gone over.”
Corrie didn’t answer, and Quinn felt a sudden and totally uncharacteristic urge to trip Will as he passed her. That’s it, she thought, I’ve been out in the sun way too long. It was time to take a break from these crazy sailors with their intense mood swings and daredevil antics, and get back to her safe, rational books.
Side Slipping
Eight days later, Quinn steadied herself in the small cockpit of the Laser before stepping out onto the uneven wooden slats of the pier. She let out a deep breath. During her first lesson on the tiny racing boat, she’d managed to dunk herself in the pond just trying to climb out. Lasers were tippy in the extreme, but, as Drew had put it, their sensit
ivity was the very trait that made them so exciting to sail.
“You all set, then?” asked a young man who had helped tie off her painter. He was shuffling back and forth impatiently as he waited to take over the boat.
“Yes,” Quinn said. “Have fun.”
She waited around long enough to give him a push out to sea, before heading back toward the boathouse to turn in her lifejacket. A slight gust of wind ruffled the strands of hair that had escaped from her hat. What a perfect day and what a perfect sail. It was warm but not hot, and the breeze was light and steady, save for the occasional puff. She’d done well out there. The boat hadn’t capsized once, and her arm and stomach muscles were pleasantly tired from the exertion.
As she made her way inland, a bout of raucous laughter suddenly erupted from what appeared to be an impromptu party in the picnic table area. A large cooler was open on the ground between two tables, both of which were crowded with people. As Quinn got closer, she could see Drew gesticulating wildly from his position on one of the benches, while the others watched him.
“...and then, as we pull alongside the mark,” Drew was saying, “there’s this spectacular crunching noise as the keel hits bottom, and the boat just stops!”
“It was fucking hilarious,” said a lanky blond-haired man seated at the other table. Quinn thought his name might be Brad, but wasn’t sure. “All of a sudden—bam!”
Drew glared at him. “So while these bastards are laughing their heads off, we’re scrambling, right? Just trying to get the damn keel off the sand. We’re all on one side, so heeled-up the boom is almost in the water, but nothing’s working—”
“And meanwhile,” Brad interrupted again, “we’re taking the lead—”
“Completely ignoring the fact that we’d beached ourselves,” Drew said loudly. “Who knows how long we would’ve stayed that way, if it hadn’t been for Corrie?”
When everyone turned to look at the person lounging on top of Drew’s table, Quinn realized that she hadn’t recognized Corrie in the glare of the afternoon sun. A few more steps forward put the bulk of the boathouse between herself and the light, and Quinn watched as Corrie, wearing frayed cargo shorts and a navy tank top, raised her beer bottle in a sort of salute before tipping her head back and taking a long swallow. Her ponytail swished lightly with the motion, and Quinn was suddenly aware of just how disheveled she herself must look. She removed her hat and combed hasty fingers through her unruly hair, hoping it looked windswept rather than like a rat’s nest.
“What’d she do?” asked someone who clearly hadn’t been a part of whatever activity they were discussing.
Drew reached out and gave Corrie’s ponytail an affectionate yank. “She climbed out onto the boom! Can you believe that shit? Just like a goddamn monkey. And sure enough, the boat heels a few inches more, and all of a sudden we’re in motion.”
“It was something to see,” said one of the sailors on Brad’s boat, grudgingly.
Quinn watched as Corrie’s lips quirked in a smug little grin. She’s like a different person when Will’s not around. Easygoing, confident, secure to the point of being annoying. She shook her head.
Perhaps it was that slight motion that caught Corrie’s eye and made her turn, but when she saw Quinn, she sat up straighter and beckoned her over. “Hey, Quinn. Come join us.”
Quinn didn’t know whether to feel pleasure or dread at the invitation since she didn’t know half the crowd, but she dutifully approached the picnic tables. “Quinn Davies, everyone,” said Corrie. “An old friend of Drew’s from college and one of our students.” She paused and cocked her head slightly as she took in Quinn’s windblown appearance and the battered lifejacket that dangled from her left hand. “Just out sailing?”
“In a Laser.” Quinn smiled. “It was fantastic.”
“I’ll bet,” Brad said.
“Perfect day for one of those,” said Jen.
“Come sit, Quinn,” said Drew. “Want a beer?”
Quinn sat in the place he made for her, but wrinkled her nose when he tried to hand her a bottle. “No, that’s okay.”
“Not so fast, D.” Corrie reached out as he tried to put the drink back into the cooler. “I’ll take that.”
“Lush,” he said affectionately as he handed it up to her.
Corrie winked at Quinn and mouthed, “Thanks.” Quinn couldn’t help but smile back, and found herself idly speculating about the source of Corrie’s nearly palpable charisma. It must be in her sweat or something, she thought, barely managing to suppress a giggle.
“So, c’mon, who won the race?” asked Megs.
“Who do you think?” Drew said. “We put up our chute and blew right by ’em.”
Jen thumped Drew on the shoulder. “Watch that ego, boy! You lost the second one, as I recall.”
“Well,” Corrie began, “I—”
But she was cut off by the sudden, high-pitched yelp of a dog, which tapered off into a barely audible series of whining yips. She frowned and craned her neck, searching for the source of the pitiful sounds until she finally caught sight of Frog, limping gingerly away from the strip of rocks bordering one side of the beach. She jumped to the ground.
“C’mere, Frogger,” she called out, her voice slightly higher than normal. “Come on, bud!” Instead of obeying, the dog stopped where he was, whined even more loudly, and sat down. Corrie began to move toward him at a brisk jog. Quinn instinctively slipped off the bench and followed her, noting that Frog was favoring his front left paw.
“C’mon, Frog, you’ve got to let me look,” Corrie was saying as Quinn approached. Her voice was tinged with desperation, as the dog shied away from her for the second time. His tail was tucked securely between his legs, and his ears were lying flat against his head—all signs that he was in pain. And Corrie, though she was trying, wasn’t helping.
“Corrie,” Quinn said softly, crouching down to rest one hand gently on her shoulder. Her freckled skin was hot to the touch. “He’s frightened right now. You need to calm him down, first.”
Corrie spun around, her face a study in anxiety. “Can you do something for him? Please, Quinn? I’ll pay you if you want, just—”
“Oh, hush,” Quinn said firmly. Crouching down before Frog, she let him sniff her hand before briefly petting his nose. “Did you manage to see whether he’s hurt anywhere other than his paw?”
“His haunches, on the right side,” Corrie said, her voice low and urgent. “There’s a…a cut. I’m not sure how bad it is.”
Quinn nodded, moving her hands to massage the scruff of Frog’s neck. Slowly, she craned her head around to survey his right side. Sure enough, a red gash several inches long slashed angrily across the sleek gray coat.
“It’s not much more than a scratch,” Quinn said soothingly. “Looks like it’s caked over already.” Keeping one hand firmly but gently on Frog’s neck, she ran her other hand down the injured leg and raised his foot a few inches higher into the air.
He whined softly and shook his head. “Shhhhh. It’s okay, buddy.” She leaned down for a quick glance.
“What is it?”
Quinn sat back on her heels. “He’s got something stuck in his paw. I’m not sure what it is, but it doesn’t look too serious. I can take it out and sterilize the cut, no problem.” For the first time since she’d seen Frog limping along the beach, she felt a little insecure. “Unless you’d rather take him to the real vet, that is.”
“I trust you,” Corrie said immediately. “So, what now?”
Quinn stood briskly and dusted the sand off her knees. “Do you have iodine at home?” she asked. “And some gauze? Or something similar?”
Corrie nodded, and Quinn continued. “Okay then. Just stay right here with him. Pet his head and speak to him softly, and I’ll bring Drew’s truck around. We can take him back to your house to get cleaned up.”
Corrie had the presence of mind to call out a “Thanks” as Quinn jogged away, but immediately turned back to her wounded d
og. “It’s all right now, Frogger,” she said, reaching out hesitantly to scratch behind his ears. “Quinn’ll take care of you.”
“What’s going on?” Drew asked as Quinn pulled up in front of the table and extended her hand.
“Need your keys. Frog’s got a hurt foot, and I’m going to take care of it at Corrie’s place.”
“Want help?” he asked as he handed over the key chain.
“No, it’s okay,” she replied distractedly, already turning away.
Quinn pulled the truck up to the edge of the sidewalk in front of the boathouse and returned to where Corrie was stroking Frog’s head. The dog looked much more relaxed, though he was still keeping that left paw clear of the sand. Corrie, on the other hand, was frowning and clearly quite tense.
“All set,” Quinn said, resisting the sudden urge to reach down and touch her shoulder again. “Can you carry him to the truck, do you think?”
“Sure thing.” Wrapping one arm around Frog’s chest, she slipped the other under his belly and lifted him into the air. Quinn blinked in surprise at the fluid motion—the dog had to weigh at least seventy pounds.
“It’d be best to put him in the cab,” she said, breaking into a jog to keep up. She ran ahead to hold the door while Corrie deposited Frog on the passenger’s side. She squeezed herself in next to him as Quinn carefully backed out onto the road.
“Where to?”
Corrie guided Quinn to her house, then carried Frog through the front door and placed him on the kitchen floor. When he whined a little and tried to stand up, Quinn moved in to hold him down gently but firmly. “Stick around, buddy,” she said softly. “I’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy.” She looked up at Corrie. “I need some warm water, a disinfectant, a towel, and that gauze.”
“Okay,” she said, spinning around so fast that she whacked her elbow against the kitchen counter. “Fu— ow!”
