Fox Bay, British Columbia, Canada

The family had their own seating assignment and Hank sat at the far end of the bench, in the space which normally separated the twins. At the head of the table, Olin gave a short blessing and served up everybody’s plate. Marshall’s crock-pot chicken cacciatore and fresh green salad disappeared from every plate and soon seconds were offered. Hank’s attention went to the commotion above their heads, but everybody else ignored the noise as if it were background music. 

The deck muffled sound well, but Hank could make out footfalls and clanking. It wasn’t Jen with her ninja slippers, and it sounded like more than one person. He had a direct view across the salon to Uncle Willy. He appeared unconcerned and slowly got up from his seat at the nav station. Hank saw the grip of a gun protruding under his left shoulder. Willy moved across to the galley, set his empty plate down, and exited up the companionway. 

A second later, three women scurried down. One had a bucket, another a vacuum cleaner, and the third had a spray bottle and rags. Each of the children asked their dad if they could be excused from the table and bolted to their berths.

Olin lifted the half-full bottle of wine from the table. “We don’t want to stay here. Let’s get some fresh air and enjoy this.” Holding the bottle by the neck, he bounded up the stairs.

Hank’s eyes took time to adapt to the darkening sky. A large motorboat floated alongside with Willy talking to a man across the rail. The pursuit boat idled close enough to wave to No-Name and a pair of jet skis maneuvered along the shoreline. The drivers wore helmets and flotation suits. They looked ready to pull surfers into enormous waves, but they were there to keep an active eye on the bay and its anchorage. 

Marshall popped up on deck carrying a small gym bag. “Bye, Dad,” he said. Then he held up his hand in the Gunn Salute. Pointed it toward Hank and popped off a round with a smile. The man talking to Willy offered to help him into the motorboat, but Marshall declined and deftly hopped across.

Irina came through the companionway next and headed toward them. She had changed into a light-colored sweater, white capris pants and boat shoes. She reached her hand out to shake Hank’s and said, “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Hank. Thank you for the sailing instruction. Good luck with Daddy.”

He noticed that tonight her handshake was all business, quick and efficient, and not at all like the initial princess-like greeting when they first met. Hank returned a smile but did not know what to say. Fortunately, Irina turned her attention to her father.

“Take it easy on him Daddy, I think he’d be perfect for Jen.” She gave her father a kiss on the cheek and a slight hug and said, “I love you.” Irina set off across the deck ignoring the twins as they made their way towards Olin and Hank.

The girls looked sullen and maintained an uncharacteristic silence. The only sound was the noise from the wheels of their hard-sided suitcases as they swiveled and rolled. Sydney looked like she was trying hard to smile and Nadia looked content with her grim appearance. As if out of habit or duty, each chose a different cheek and kissed their dad goodbye. Sydney shot a smile to Hank as she pushed her suitcase handle into Willy’s outstretched hand, then reached across to the other man to help her cross onto the waiting motorboat. Nadia also turned her attention to Hank just before leaving the sailboat, but her surly glance never left the corner of her eye. Tossing her suitcase ahead of her, she jumped across the boat’s rails and onto the waiting motorboat.

The cleaning staff emerged grinning and speaking rapidly. Hank could not understand a word. Olin got up and walked over to the ladies before they disembarked. He spoke to them in their own language and made them laugh. They looked at Hank and laughed as one of them said, “Goodnight, Hank,” in perfect English.

“I’ve traveled around the world, but I’m still not good at figuring languages. What is that?”

“Vietnamese,” Olin said. “My mom was a refugee. The Boat People were my people.”

“Boat People?”

“I suppose you’re too young. Look it up some time, but now we have to talk.” Olin held up the bottle of wine. “This is the finest Cabernet Sauvignon money can buy—for thirty bucks, that is. Would you like a glass?” 

He filled the glasses with a reckless pour. “So, Hank, tell me what happened.”

“When?

“When you lost Frugal.”

“Olin, you know everything else about me. I’m sure Ava has told you what happened.”

“It’s my hope you’ll come to realize I have your best interests in mind. I hired you because I understand you. But your report is missing something about the incident. You need to fill in the gaps before I decide how I might be a part of your future. I understand you want to sail. Not just sail, but on the edge… flying a sailboat around the world.” He grinned. “I can make that happen. But first, I need you to be honest with me.”

Hank’s dream, the only one he had ever had, was to become a pro sailor. The way some boys aspire to be a major league baseball player, he had it for sailing greatness. While his friends checked box scores, he studied how weather systems squeezed the fastest sailors around the globe. He knew how they got there. It had little to do with club sailing or even Olympic qualifiers. The token scholarships for collegiate sailing seldom translated into anything other than a discounted Ivy League degree and a forever job behind a desk. The men and women who set the records and took home the Rolexes and the trophies had one thing in common. Money. Rich people, like Olin, backed them.

His Marine buddies never stopped harassing him about his desire to become a professional sailor. Deployed in the desert, they would say things like, “Dude, just re-enlist. The Navy pays you to be a sailor.” Or, “If you wanted to be a sailor, why’d you get a job with jarheads?” The first four years were like that. A constant reminder that the Navy was a long-term solution to a rash decision.

But time changes attitudes and an extra two years of service seemed like the logical adult choice. The raise and the bonus were a plus and the promise of hospital training that would integrate better into civilian life helped. But it was the breakup with his girlfriend a month before he had to sign on for two more years, which tipped the scales. It seemed like the only logical choice at the time and two extra years was not much. Without a girlfriend, every penny would go into his success account. With a little luck, he would resume on his tack toward his dream of earning fame and fortune as a sailor. Just after his twenty-fifth birthday, he’d be free to live his own life again.

Since then, few things turned out like he planned, but now Olin seemed to throw him a line. The thought of salvaging his dream thrilled him. A vision of being the skipper of a funded sailing campaign flashed through his mind. He studied Olin’s dark eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You first. Answer my question. What happened?”

Hank’s heart sank. How many times did he have to relive it? But he pushed on. Deep down, he wanted this conversation. He needed it. “You know the facts. Where do you want me to start?”

“Start where you stopped with the official report. Complete the interview you gave to Sarah Walker. There’s something missing. What is it?”

Hank’s stomach roiled, and his field of vision narrowed. “I need to hit the head.” He hurried down the stairs, shut the door to his private bathroom, and opened the small hatch for some air. The blood ran out of his head, and he grabbed the counter and tightened his legs to keep from passing out. His eyes filled with tears. “Shit.” He slapped some water on his face. The Pacific Northwest was no place for a tan in April, but his reflection was worse than pale. With the low light, his eyes looked sunken. He looked dead. Hank took a deep breath, reminded himself, I’m not dead, and spoke the words, “I am not dead.” Either he was getting used to the dimness, or he was getting some color back into his face as he repeated, “I am not dead.” 

When he felt life return, his composure followed, and Hank reappeared on the quiet deck and checked the horizon out of habit. 

Olin was alone, sitting at the wheel on the port side, holding his glass of wine in one hand and the wheel in the other. 

Hank didn’t wait for more talk. He admitted, “It was a miracle.”

Olin stared across the bow. His eyes squinted tight, completing an ecstatic smile. Time stopped. Olin froze in space, a statue. Hank sat in the starboard helm’s seat and rested a damp hand on the matched wheel. Olin sat like a happy Buddha but without the potbelly. The transfixed man appeared more like a holographic projection than flesh and blood. A rolling motion passed into the steering wheel. Olin was steering. No movement in the man, but the wheel rolled with purpose. No perceivable current and no breeze, not even a swell passed under the anchored boat. But the movements into the twin wheel communicated enough. In his head, Olin was sailing, and his expression declared it to be a wonderful journey. Hank looked off over the bow, trying to experience what Olin felt. He smiled and felt better—much better.

“Got any of that wine left?” Hank broke the silence. 

Olin allowed himself out of his open stare and laughed. He reached the bottle across and tipped it. Hank caught the dark liquid by directing the rim of the glass under the stream. A little spilled onto the teak and Olin didn’t seem to notice or care. “Take the helm,” he joked. “I’ll get another bottle. We need to talk.”

When he returned, he held up a bottle with a picture of a baby on it. “Larner 2010 Dedication Syrah.” Olin was enjoying himself. He pulled the cork and poured a tiny splash into a fresh glass and handed it to Hank. “Please, you first.”

“Tastes like wine.” Hank shrugged. He never understood the subtleties that connoisseurs seem so interested in sharing. Tastes like wine was the best he could do. It should have been clear to him Olin was a believer, trying hard to share his faith, and this wine was holy. Maybe all wine was, but this wine was holier than the thirty-dollar bottle from the table. He said, “I mean, it tastes like a great wine.” 

Olin moved past the moment by going through the sacred practice of testing the wine for himself. This time his pour was careful and delivered an equal amount into both glasses. A chemist might have been as exact. “A toast. Miracles!” Olin beamed into Hank’s eyes as the glasses clinked.

Hank drank and grinned. “Okay, it tastes good.” He laughed. “It is better than that last bottle.”

“You’re not just saying that. You believe it, don’t you?”

“I cannot lie.”

“I know better than that. You lie all the time. We all do. The problem is when we lie to ourselves. Hank, you lie to yourself about miracles. You’re convinced there’s no such thing as miracles, so you never see miracles. If you were open to possibilities that miracles exist, your perspective would shift. You would see miracles, big and small, all around you—constantly. But you’re blind to it because, in your mind, miracles cannot be true. I think you’re wrong but respect the consistency of your logic. You cannot see something that does not exist.”

“When someone says, make up your mind. It’s perhaps the truest thing anybody can say. We all get to make up the beliefs of our mind every second of every day. Most people limit their life…and strive to become unexceptional. Lack, loss, and limitation become the norm, and the norm supports the lie. And the cycle continues.” Olin held his hand up. “Forgive me. I didn’t bring you here to talk philosophy.” 

Hank shook his head and said, “No, I would guess not. I’m just the sailing instructor.”

“And a good one. My kids responded well to your methods. As you’ve seen, they each have different learning styles. I can’t recall anybody connecting with my kids in such a short time. But as you suspect, the job as a sailing instructor was just my way to get you here.”

“I figured there was more to it when I saw the model of Frugal pop out of your 3-D printer.” Hank set his glass down, sat back, and crossed his arms over his chest. His watch slipped half the way around his wrist, but he ignored it and waited for Olin’s explanation.

“Hank, some people think big decisions with big consequences require colossal risks. In my experience, that’s the excuse of terrible gamblers. It justifies lazy odds-making. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in math. And when the math doesn’t add up, I believe in miracles. In my mind, the only thing that trumps math is the Creator. The only reason you’re still alive is because God’s not done with you yet. And the only reason you’re on this boat is because I need your skills. Plus, having someone on my boat that God is not done with seems like good math.”

Hank expected Olin to continue, but he fell quiet. Hank broke the silence. “Here’s the thing. Maybe it was a miracle. Maybe that’s just the word we use for odds that are beyond our mind’s ability to fathom. But it’s still just extreme math. And besides, I don’t believe in God.”

“What you believe isn’t the issue.” Olin’s eyes steadied as he turned his gaze toward the water side of the bay. Again, silence.

“That’s it? What about the part where you tell me what does matter?”

Still looking away, Olin said, “You overestimate me, Hank. I’m working that out, just like you. Everybody is still working that out. I know what I feel in my heart. Not a day goes by where I don’t ask questions, study, and learn more. But it still comes down to a journey of faith. Faith is the thing. Everybody has faith. You declare you don’t believe in God. That is a statement of faith. In your heart, God does not exist.” He turned back, facing Hank, concerned. “I believe in God. That is my statement of faith. One of us is right. One of us is wrong. But here’s the thing. If God does not exist, we’re reduced to biology. If God exists, miracles make sense.”

Hank erupted in nervous laughter. 

“I didn’t realize what I said was so funny.”

“No, no. It’s just an image that popped into my head.”

“I have time,” Olin said.

“I have some friends. They’ve cruised around the world and ended up in Port Townsend. They found God while sailing.”

“People find God in every situation. Why is that funny?”

“No. You don’t get it. They found a rubber ducky.”

“You’re right. I don’t get it.”

“Did you ever hear of that shipping container washed overboard in a storm? The one full of rubber duckies. Thousands floated the currents for years. Legend says they still are.”

Olin nodded, showing he knew of the story.

“Well, my friends Benjamin and Kiki found one. Out in the middle of the Pacific. They rescued it and put it on their nav station shelf. They decided they needed a name for it and decided on God. That way they can say, ‘We found God while sailing.’” 

Olin smiled and managed a chuckle. “Okay, that’s a story you need to tell Sydney. She’ll love it. But what made that pop into your head?”

“Ducks on the water. But that’s another story for another day. I was a little anxious, but now I’m fine, focused, and relaxed. Please, go on. I want to hear what you have to say. There must be a reason you got me here. I doubt your purpose is to drink expensive wine and chat about metaphysics.” 

“Look, Hank, these types of conversations can be uncomfortable, so I’ll get straight to the point. I wanted the kids off the boat, and Jen, too. Willy does whatever he needs, but he’s not listening. Here is a great place to give you this offer.” Olin scanned the tranquil bay just a few kilometers from the activity of Victoria Harbour. “Hang on and I’ll let you in on all the mysteries. Would you like more water or food or anything before we begin?”

“No. I’m good.”

Ava’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere and said, “May I suggest you both take a moment and address your washroom needs.”

Hank considered his bladder and realized Ava must keep track of ingoing and maybe even outgoing fluid consumption. He smirked. “Ava’s worse than my mother. Next she’ll tell me I need a sweater.”

Olin smiled, “Hank, she’s right. Always is.”