27

The Orchid’s tender, a seven-meter luxury launch with 260-horsepower stern drive, powered across the bay, leaving a foaming wake in its trail. As Ling opened up the throttle, the wind whipped through Connor’s tousled brown hair, and he had to grip the armrest for balance.

“Steady as she goes,” said Brad, keeping a careful watch for other craft in their vicinity. “She’s not a racing car.”

But, judging by the grin plastered across Ling’s face, she clearly thought it was. Connor had already received full instruction on how to start, steer and dock the tender. Now it was Ling’s turn to get some practice. As she swung the boat around for another run, she hit an unexpected wave, and Connor was bounced out of his seat so hard that he tumbled over the side.

“MAN OVERBOARD!” Brad shouted as Connor hit the water, skipped once across its surface, then plunged beneath.

The sea, warm as it was, still shocked Connor’s system, and the rushing thunder of water in his ears and eyes momentarily disoriented him. Brad had warned them both that any man-overboard situation was potentially fatal. Drowning, exposure, hypothermia and impact injury were all very real risks, especially if the person wasn’t wearing a life jacket. Fortunately, Connor was, and he rapidly floated back to the surface. By the time his head cleared the water, Ling had cut back on the throttle and was starting to make a controlled turn toward him.

As the tender approached, Ling tried to keep a fix on his location. He’d already drifted farther out to sea with the current, and it would be easy to lose sight of a head bobbing in the water, even in a little swell.

“Slow down,” Brad warned Ling. “You’re approaching too fast.”

Ling cut back on the throttle, but it was too little too late.

“Careful!” said Brad. “You’re going to run over him.”

Ling tried to correct the tender’s direction, but without enough power, the rudder responded too slowly. The fiberglass hull cut through the water on a direct collision course with Connor’s head.

“Go astern,” Brad ordered as Connor, unable to dive because of the life jacket, held up his arms to shield himself.

“Astern? What’s astern?” cried Ling, her voice rising in pitch as the tender plowed toward Connor.

“Reverse!”

Connor could no longer see what was happening, but he heard a crunch of gears. When it came to piloting a boat, Ling was clearly more adept at speed than steering. The tender’s engine roared, and the hull stopped within a fraction of Connor’s head.

“Switch off the engine,” shouted Brad, “before the propeller chops him into sushi.”

He leaned over the bow rail and offered Connor a broad grin. “That was a close shave in more ways than one, wasn’t it?”

By the time Ling appeared to help pull him aboard, the boat had drifted and Connor was once again beyond reach.

“You’ll have to make another pass,” said Brad.

Ling let out an exasperated sigh. She returned to the helm, started the engine and put it into reverse.

“No,” said Brad. “If you go astern, you’re in danger of butchering him.”

“Why can’t he just swim to us?” said Ling, her jaw set with frustration.

There was another crunch of gears. Brad raised his eyes to heaven, and Ling caught him in the act.

“Don’t you dare say anything!” she muttered, hammering at the gears.

“Heaven forbid,” replied Brad with his most guileless expression.

After three further attempts, Ling finally managed to pull alongside Connor and safely haul him aboard single-handedly.

“Well, we got there in the end,” said Brad, patting a seething Ling on the shoulder. “But I think we need a bit more practice at the man-overboard drill, don’t you?”

He raised an eyebrow at Connor, who stood dripping wet on the deck.

“Are you willing to throw yourself over for another drill?”

“Sure,” said Connor. “But only if Ling promises not to try to run me over again.”

Ling narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, hotshot, maybe next time I’ll leave you to the sharks!”