FOR THE FIRST time in just over a week, James breathed in uncontaminated ocean air. Even on Brenton, there was always another odor—honeysuckle, marsh mud, coffee, drying seaweed. Motoring outside the breakwater, he could smell nothing but salty freedom.
An hour ago, when visiting yachtsman Dean Moreland had sauntered up onto the Bean’s deck and invited him out for a sail, James stood up so fast he’d almost knocked over his unfinished coffee. Anything to get off this damned island. He’d overslept for once, so by the time he arrived at the Bean there were no more bagels.
Didn’t matter now—sailing would be sustenance enough.
Dean was in advertising, somehow able to take off most of each summer and still afford very expensive hobbies—like a beautiful new race boat. He led James down the dock to a small inflatable dinghy, and ten minutes later James climbed up the ladder onto MoreSea, the only dark blue boat in the harbor. Twenty minutes after that, they were motoring out through the harbor entrance.
“Why don’t you take over, James?” Dean nodded down at the huge wheel. “I’ll hoist the main.”
The carbon wheel was much smaller and smoother to grip than the Homer’s, but so big in diameter the bottom disappeared down into the deck. James checked they were clearing the Bird Island nun even with the flood tide setting them toward it, while Dean removed the sail ties that kept the main flaked on the boom. He was the same height as James, but he seemed taller—it was the swagger.
James would swagger too if he owned a boat like this. Custom-built for offshore racing, and enough interior to cruise comfortably too. Dean said he was still learning how to sail her. It didn’t seem that complicated, but maybe James was missing something.
“Put her up into the wind, would you?”
James spun the wheel—and almost lost his balance when the boat turned quicker than expected. He couldn’t wait to shut off the rattling engine.
Behind him came the blast of a familiar horn. Instead of looking astern—where he’d see the Homer, just leaving the dock for the afternoon run to Newport—James kept his eyes forward and watched white mainsail creep up black mast. Once it was at full hoist, he bore away onto starboard tack, trimming in the mainsheet as much as he could by hand. Wow, speed and power—and they hadn’t even set a jib yet!
Dean called his boat the Ferrari of sailing. James had never driven a Ferrari, but this boat sure cornered way better than any other he’d steered. And an afternoon sea breeze was already flicking whitecaps across the ocean to windward—classic June.
“You can shut down the motor,” Dean said. “Throttle back all the way, then press—sorry, you probably know already.”
As soon as the vibration under his feet stilled, James grinned. Nothing was quite so satisfying as making miles under sail—so different than powering anywhere. If only there was a sail-powered ferry in need of a captain. . .
Dean pulled a line, unrolling the jib like a window shade. James watched the digital speed readout almost double.
“She’s fast!”
“And two of us can sail her. My last boat, I needed a crew of six just to get it off the dock.”
“More like a lot of paychecks.” Dean climbed to windward again and punched a button on the aft side of the cabin house. “GPS’ll tell you when we can lay the Brenton bell. We’ll—”
“The gong, you mean?”
“Yeah, whatever. We’ll tack then, maybe sail around the island?”
Five minutes later, James called “Ready about,” and Dean moved to the leeward winch. “Tacking!” He spun the wheel two spokes— plenty. Dean cast off the old jib sheet and wound on the new one. They barely lost any speed.
Ahead and to leeward was the lighthouse, white with a red top, standing tall on the southeast bluff. James hadn’t seen it from this angle since he left for his last Caribbean delivery, the winter before he’d taken over the Homer. The green buoy slid by, bouncing and clanging away, so there was plenty of sea room between him and the island’s south side. Especially since the boat was slicing through the mixed-up waves so effortlessly.
James sat down on the windward deck and found a foot rest, right in the perfect place. “Forty-two foot dinghy.”
Dean nodded. “You’re driving her really well.”
James focused on steering, occasionally glancing up at the sails and around the horizon. No other boats in sight—everyone else was working, or maybe still waiting to launch. The breeze still had a bit of spring nip to it, and he hadn’t brought a jacket, but even so it was great to steal away from all the questions of his land life for a few hours.
Last summer, Dean had rented a big house on Brenton and ridden the ferry every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, taking his ten-year-old son ashore for day camp; sailing, lacrosse, horseback riding.
“We’re in Newport this year,” Dean had explained on the dinghy ride out to the boat. “Tried to get the same house again—the mother had actually agreed to sell to me, or so I thought. Once she died, her kids started fighting. . . and everything got too complicated.” He shook his head, then forced his frown into a smile again. “That’s okay, I rented a mooring instead. And I’m looking into building out here, if I can sort out the details.”
“Where?” To build a house on Brenton, you’d probably have to tear one down.
“We’re still working that out. And I know the locals can be quite touchy about new construction. . . so I’m also thinking I might donate Bird Island.”
“You own Bird Island?”
“Been in my family for years. We were going to build a place out there, but the architect couldn’t find a flat enough piece of rock.”
“I thought Bird belonged to Brenton property owners.” That’s what the real estate agents promised, anyway.
“My father was willing to set that up, and there was a lot of talk,” Dean said, “but nobody came forward to actually make it happen.” What a missed opportunity.
Running the ferry, James had felt so connected to the island. But it was all trivial stuff, he realized now; he’d never paid any attention to the really complicated issues, like saving open space from development.
“Maybe you and I should talk about Bird Island sometime,” he said now.
“Maybe we should.” Dean grinned back at him.
He could’ve kept steering forever, but once they passed the monument—so square and man-made against the rolling vivid greens of West Brenton—he handed back the helm.
“Wait till you see how fast she is downwind!” Dean said, spinning the wheel so fast James was almost knocked off his feet.
Dean hadn’t grown up on boats; he steered like it was a mechanical problem, instead of a rhythmic dance with the waves. James itched to show him how it should be done, but it wasn’t his boat so he focused on the distant line of smoky mainland. Point Judith, bright blue water tower. . . all the landmarks he’d taken for granted for so long.
To leeward, the six gray-shingled cottages of the Narragansetts’ village were still just visible against West Harbor’s steep bluff. He’d meant to check for smoke coming out of Joe’s chimney, but he’d been too busy enjoying the feel of this boat.
“You in a hurry?” Dean asked.
James shook his head.
“Me neither—and this is way too much fun.” Dean grinned. “We’ll round the Beavertail gong before we head back.”
That one was a bell, but James let it go and settled back against the cabin. Salt air, the glare of sun off whitecaps, and the roll and pitch of sailboat. The guy had no feel, but still—he loved this. If only. . .
“How’re you adjusting to life ashore?”
“I’m not allowed—oh, you mean on Brenton. Sucks. But that girl won’t last the summer. Late every single—”
“I chatted with Lloyd at the yacht club a few evenings ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And let’s just say, your name ain’t exactly bringing a smile to his lips right now. Even if Courtney keeps screwing up, he’ll find someone else. Apparently, there’s history.”
James clenched his jaw, scar pulsing. Joe had said something similar. Maybe he should talk to Mayor Frank.
A wave picked up the transom, begging to be caught. Dean turned the wheel a few seconds late and it rolled underneath them. Another missed opportunity. . .
“I could probably talk Lloyd around,” Dean was saying. “Making people believe I know what’s best is as easy for me as steering a boat is for you.”
“Pays better,” James muttered.
“Yes it does.”
The red bell buoy off Beavertail was coming up fast. They’d made good time.
“Jibing or tacking?” James asked.
“I’ll leave it close to port, then tack. Like we’re racing.” Dean was smiling as usual, but James sensed uncertainty. Probably scared to jibe in the mixed-up waves off this rocky point that stuck so far out into the ocean. The inefficiency bothered James—a two-hundred-seventy-degree course change that could’ve been only ninety—but what the hell; more time sailing before heading back to jail.
He trimmed the jib through the tack. Dean aimed for the Brenton lighthouse, steering with two fingers, bow knifing into waves. Somehow no water made it back to the cockpit—what a great boat.
“Kind of a screwed-up world,” Dean said.
Huh?
“I make way more money than you, and all I’m good at is convincing people to buy things they don’t need.” He was continuing their conversation, James realized. “You’ve got an actual skill. Which is pretty much wasted, running that ancient ferry.”
“You a life coach too?”
“No, but I do have some career advice if you’re—whoa!” A puff hit, the boat heeled over, Dean headed up so much the jib luffed, and then he overcompensated—making the boat heel over too much again.
Once he’d managed to stabilize his steering again, Dean finished his thought. “I think you should take us sailing.”
Us? Wait—was Dean offering him a job?
“Last June I started the Bermuda Race, right over there.” Dean pointed off to port, at the squat white and black of Castle Hill Light. “Great boat, brand new sails, all pro crew. Halfway there we were winning our class, until the GPS crapped out. The yard had stepped the mast on the antenna wire. Third time I’ve sailed that goddamn race, and I’ve never won it.”
All that money, and there were still things Dean wanted that he couldn’t get.
The bow was pointing between the two islands, Brenton and Bird, which looked like open water but wasn’t. “We need to bear off,” James said, already letting out the mainsheet to encourage a course change.
“What, you don’t think we’d make it through your shortcut?” Dean was grinning again, white teeth against tan skin. “I couldn’t believe it when you took the ferry through there that time.”
“Homer’s keel is a lot shallower than this boat.” He shuddered, remembering the sunset run years ago when he’d scraped the ferry on West Rock. Eleven minutes shorter than going out around Bird Island, but not safe below half-tide—or in low visibility.
When Dean rounded the tip of Bird Island, he headed up again to close-hauled and a sluice of spray splashed James in the face. “Sorry,” Dean called. Then, “Tacking!”
Back to jail again.
They covered the distance to the end of the breakwater almost as fast as the Homer. James rolled up the jib; Dean started the engine and beelined for his rental mooring. Once the mainsail rattled down and the engine shut off, the only sounds were a rope halyard dinging the mast and water slapping the bow.
After they’d cleaned up the lines and put on the mainsail cover, Dean headed down the steep companionway and came back up with a beer in each hand. The can was unexpectedly ice-cold; must be a nice galley down there.
James sat down on the starboard side, putting his back to the shoreline. He was supposed to be spending the afternoon replacing rotten decking on the dock in front of his house, which would be just visible in the northwest corner of the harbor. Instead he was sitting in a rich man’s cockpit, drinking beer.
Think of it as an interview.
“Cheers.” Dean raised his beer to James. “I enjoyed that—we work well together.”
James nodded.
“You’d be a great addition to my team.”
“Not much of a racer.”
“I don’t need more racing experience—I need someone who can teach a bunch of overpaid yachties how to sail this boat properly. Which is why I’ve decided to hire you.”
“But I don’t have any management—”
“You trained that pissant deckhand, didn’t you?” Dean laughed. “I hear he wants to name his first kid after you.”
“First? Jesus. Billy’d better grow up a bit, before they have another one.” Beer on an empty stomach—brought out his cynical side.
“He will,” Dean predicted. “Ainsley got pregnant our senior year at Brown. Twins—we had to grow up in a hurry. Twelve years later, she wakes up all bloated—figures she’s starting menopause early, but instead we get Peter. Had to start all over again. . .”
Dean was only a few years older than James. Three kids, successful ad agency—and a fantastic boat.
He could get off the island, go sailing like this all the time.
“When would this job actually start? I’ve got a lot going on at the—”
“Like what? Critiquing your ex-girlfriend’s bagels?”
Beyond the breakwater, the Homer’s radar and life raft appeared. Only a few minutes late for once. “The dock in front of my house needs a bunch of work. Decking’s rotten—”
“Hire a handyman. Waste of your talents.”
“What talents? Half a semester of college, charter boat deliveries between here and the Caribbean, running the Brenton Ferry. Not much of a résumé.”
Dean snorted. “I can make anyone look good on paper.”
Maybe they could do a barter.
“Jeff Denton says you were the best shipmate he ever sailed with,” Dean continued, flicking the tab on the top of his beer can.
“Twenty years ago!”
“You never forget how to think on your feet. And going sailing would be way better than sitting on your ass at that coffee shop all summer.”
As the ferry’s white bow entered the harbor, the engines stepped down from 2200 to 1000 RPM. Two diesels, slightly out of sync; there’d be a vibration in the wheel and underfoot. Didn’t she feel it?
“Ah, here comes the sweet young thing driving your ferry,” Dean said. “Right on time for once. She’s getting better every day.”
James drained the beer, crushed the can, and stood up.
Dean emptied the rest of his own can overboard. “Ten percent over your ferry salary. I’ll even pay cash, at least until you’re allowed back on the mainland. Whaddya say—”
“For a summer sailing job?” The guy must have more money than God.
“Oh, I’m talking year ‘round! We’re already behind, if we’re gonna win next year’s race. How does Christmas in the Caribbean sound?”
Jesus, the guy was serious.
“Where do I sign?”
Dean grinned. “Handshake’s fine with me.” His long-fingered grip was firm. “How about taking Ainsley and Peter and me sailing tomorrow afternoon? They can take the ferry out here—that’ll give me an excuse to spend the night on the boat.”
“Doesn’t he have school?”
“They got out last week. Besides, sailing teaches life skills.”
“Sounds good to me,” James said, feeling his lips stretch into a smile almost as wide as Dean’s. A sailing job again! The Homer’s wake washed the inflatable dinghy against the stern, but now that he had a better offer it almost didn’t bother him to see Courtney standing behind his wheel. (Could she even see over the Homer’s bow?)
They talked through a few more details before Dean chauffeured him back to the dinghy dock. “Nine o’clock tomorrow? We can go through the boat, before the ferry comes in.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you right here.” They shook hands again.
Courtney was walking up the gangway, so James ducked behind the fish shack. “Afternoon,” he heard Mack say as she walked by the small doorway. Time to celebrate, James decided, so once Courtney was safely up the hill and he’d stolen one more glance out at the dark blue sleekness that was his new job, he ambled around the front of the small building and stepped inside.
Mack and Fisher Marty had already cracked open their after-work beers and sat themselves down on a couple of lobster traps. The shack smelled of dried mud and the tiny fridge stank of bait, but the top shelf held two full six-packs. Clinking bottles with both men, James took a seat on a nearby upended bucket and told them about his new job. Though he made sure to downplay the best part of all: escape from his island jail.