Strait of Juan de Fuca, USA
“Nadia and Sydney, you spot!” He called out orders in a loud commanding voice, “Ready to come about. Marshall, throw floats. Irina, ready the headsail. Hold it fast.”
As they tacked into the wind with the headsail aback, the yacht's forward momentum slowed.
“Marshall, get the boat hook and lower the aft swim platform.”
Marshall didn’t throw the floating cushions, but other than that, he did what his dad commanded. The twins maneuvered around the deck, keeping vigil as designated spotters. Irina stood poised, ready to furl the headsail. Olin’s head was on a pivot checking distances, sail trim, and boat position as if it was a matter of life and death. The yacht sailed farther away from the victim. Hank smiled at the master yachtsman. Olin had the skill to judge the course and place the vessel right where he wanted it.
“Prepare to jibe.” Olin didn’t wait for a reply, “Jibe ho.” He steered the stern across the wind.
The vessel entered the last leg of the figure-eight, and the mainsail spilled a gulp of air. The boat decelerated as it came upon the unfortunate victim. It stopped just as Marshall reached out and hooked the pair of inflated fenders tied together. Irina had drawn a sad face on one of the white plastic floats and dubbed the effigy Bob for the drill, but now everybody was smiling.
“Good job! Any rescue that ends with everybody aboard and safe is a success.” Hank congratulated the crew and looking at Olin, he said, “Nice job.” He turned and said, “Nadia and Sydney, you guys did a great job keeping your eye on Bob’s location. Next time, I want to see spotters pointing to the victim with an outstretched arm. That way, the skipper doesn’t have to anticipate your gaze. Nadia, you handled that big sail well, but from now on we’ll do it old-school. Power fails at the worst times. From now on we’ll grind those winches. Marshall, you were right where you needed to be at every step of the drill. Good job. You followed each of your dad’s instructions. Except throwing stuff into the water to provide the victim flotation options. You need to shout out what you would do and pretend to throw cushions. Don’t make a debris field but go through the steps. One other reminder. Everybody needs to always keep a handhold on a secure part of the boat. One hand for yourself; one hand for the ship.
“Today our victim, Bob, is only two fenders tied together. Someday you might have to pull in a grown man—maybe your dad. I’ll show you how to make that as simple as possible, but for now, the winds are freshening. Marshall, you’re next. Every able-bodied sailor needs to skipper through the man-overboard procedures.”
“Can you run the kids through their paces?” Olin asked Hank.
“Absolutely,” Hank replied. He waited for him to drop out of sight before he gathered the young crew to discuss the next drill.
Hank watched his charges operate the sophisticated sailing yacht on multiple points of sail. The boat was a technological marvel, an enormous spread of canvas, but easy to handle. Each of the kids knew their way around the boat and showed a respectable aptitude for sailing it. Being the private instructor for Olin Ou and his family proved to be easier than he’d imagined.
Several hours later, when Olin popped back up on deck and shouted, “How’s the training going?” Dressed in plaid shorts, blue canvas boat shoes, and a light blue windbreaker, his outfit said, “It’s time to play!” The jaunty captain's cap and the excited grin punctuated the message. Balanced on his outstretched palm, like a waiter, he held something that looked like a white cutting board with a silver cover on it.
“Ava, take over the helm. Get us to the starting line. Come on, kids, I’ve got a surprise.” Olin lowered his hand onto the central tabletop in the cockpit and pulled it out from underneath the cold-stone serving platter. “Wow, freezing! I hope I still have skin.” He shook his hand to get the circulation back and added with a smile, “I think my fingerprints came right off.” Olin cleared his throat. “My quest to find the world's best paletas is complete, and you’ll never guess where I found them. Balard! A stone's throw from the Nordic Heritage Museum. In the neighborhood where you can still find lutefisk on menus, I found a small Mexican taqueria. And—oh-yeah-you-betcha—they have the most amazing paletas in the world.” With the other hand, he grabbed the handle of the silver lid and lifted it with a flourish. “Mexican popsicles.”
A dozen popsicles fanned out on a cold-stone platter. Sydney reached in first and grasped the flat wooden handle of a bright red paleta with raspberries embedded into the translucent frozen juice. Olin smiled as each child picked up the one that enticed them. They all thanked their dad and started in on the treat.
“Hank, grab one and let's head down below. I have to get you off the deck before we race.” He glanced ahead and gave a nod. “Some of our competition.”
Two sailboats held their bearing off the bow. They were tall masted, but distant enough that the dark sails they carried seemed to come straight out of the water. Hank needed more time aboard boats. His sea senses were dull. Those sails had been converging—longer than Olin’s distraction with the popsicles, but he missed their approach and never even glanced at the radar.
“I just want to say thanks for all your instruction. But now, it’s time for the kids and I to cut loose and have fun.” Olin returned the lid and hefted the platter. “Let’s go below. You can take a break.” Olin led the way.
“Wait, Dad.” Marshall sprang toward his dad and lifted the lid. He pulled out a second paleta. It was bright white with coconut shavings curling around the edges. “Thanks. You’re right. These are the best.”
“Hank, I’m sorry you have to stay below deck during the race. We have a few rules… no professional sailors.” Olin detoured to the galley and returned the leftover paletas to the freezer. “It’ll take a couple of hours. This race is a make-up. A tropical-storm in the Bahamas exceeded our race guidelines, so we canceled it.”
“Why would a storm in that part of the world cancel your race?”
“Oh, yeah,” Olin replied, “you wouldn’t know about that. There are twenty-two identical yachts that race in this one-design series. The two boats joining us are the only ones close enough to campaign head-to-head. Most of our competition is on the East Coast and in the Mediterranean. We can all race in real time. The AI provides the corrections and handicapping. It equalizes for local winds, currents, tides… even the barometric pressure and moisture in the air. The whole world becomes an equal course that way. It takes getting used to… like penalties. It feels funny to do a three-sixty-penalty for contact with a competitor's boat half a world away. But that’s the way we play, and it works.
“I’ve got another surprise for you, but it’s printing. Just go into my stateroom when Ava says it’s done. Open the 3-D printer, and you’ll find it. Until then, relax.” Olin sprinted up the stairs.
The surprise piqued his curiosity, but he shoved that down and retired to his own suite to read. An intriguing title stood out: The Everlasting Man. He had read The Invisible Man, and enjoyed it, but soon found G.K. Chesterton’s work was not a sequel and he fell asleep.
“Hank. Wake up, Hank. You have completed an optimum nap cycle. Your hormone levels are ideal and neurological system, including heart rate variability, is in coherence. I suggest you drink water and use the washroom.”
“Ava, must you use that sexy voice of yours when you’re being clinical? It’s disconcerting.”
“How would you like me to sound?” Ava asked.
“Never mind. I’m awake now. Just leave me alone. Okay?”
“Okay, but Mr. Ou asked me to alert you when the 3-D printing is complete. I’ve unlocked the door to the stateroom, and you may collect your surprise at your convenience.
The GalaxSea was heeling hard to port, but he moved around the cabin with little effort. He appreciated the muffled sound of waves slapping against the hull. The low window on the left side of the boat was not underwater, but the occasional wave rolled across it. His senses woke up and memories of speed blazed a nostalgic grin across his face. Hank wanted to get up on the deck and see how the race was going but would settle for his surprise.
The printer was bigger than Hank expected. It was the size of a coffin. Its clean white exterior and stainless-steel trim was in keeping with the rest of the large room. He stood at the lid of the printer and glanced around the private stateroom. It was larger than Hank's with a full bath behind him and the bedroom section included a king-sized bed. A screened-off sitting area with a built-in desk rounded out the accommodations. Hank expected more opulence. For a family cruiser, it was luxurious but not pretentious. He turned his attention back to the printer. The lid needed to be unlatched, and it took a couple of tries to figure out the mechanism.
Inside sat a model of a sailboat. It was Frugal, an exact miniature copy of his own racing sailboat… the one that sat at the bottom of the ocean. He didn’t know what to think as emotions competed for his attention and the heel of the GalaxSea challenged his balance. He pressed his hand against the wall to catch himself from falling. Without him holding it open, the lid shut, cutting off the view of the model. This time, he opened the lid and secured it into the open position. For a long moment, he stared at the model, then released it at the base and lifted it toward him.
The hull was about the size of one of his sandals but lighter. He treated it as if it would break until he realized it was not delicate. All 3-D printing amazed him, but this was exceptional in every way. The controls in the cockpit moved the corresponding hydrofoils and rudder. Even the paint matched the original perfectly, bold cherry-red stripe over a canary-yellow hull. Its sails looked and felt like the real thing, the mainsail and headsail curving in an imaginary wind. The only thing missing was a figure of himself at the helm.
“I see you found it.” Olin smiled. “Well, what do you think?” He leaned against the doorframe of his stateroom.
“How?” Hank asked.
“There’s a lot we need to talk about. I thought this would get the conversation going. But first, join us on deck. The winner is about to cross the finish line and we’re in the back of the pack. We won’t get any points with our position, so come up on deck. See how we race.”
Hank set the model back into the printer, closed and latched the lid, and followed Olin out into the bright sun.
“Here, wear these.” Olin handed Hank a pair of sunglasses.
“No way!” Hank exclaimed. The glasses dampened the bright glare of the sun, but they also showed vibrant images of sailing yachts at close quarters. All with colorful spinnakers pulling the racers down the last leg to the finish line. Irina stood at the helm, and Marshall kept an eye on the mainsail while the twins looked like champs managing the billowing asymmetrical spinnaker. A single yacht sailed behind… like a specter converging on the GalaxSea, trying to steal her wind and gain precious yards.
“Tap either temple on your glasses,” Olin said.
The pursuing sailboat disappeared, but a smile revealed Hank's impressions of the virtual reality glasses.
“Tap twice,” Olin chuckled.
“These are awesome,” Hank said. The racers returned, this time with annotations hovering against the backdrop of the respective sails, including the boat name, geographic location, and a flag representing nationality.
“Now look straight ahead.”
Even with the large downwind-sail blocking the view, he could see a dozen boats in front. The one farthest away overlapped dead ahead, the others fell off to either side. Two boats in the lead caught his attention. The words written over their respective sail areas read GalaxSea II, Strait of Juan de Fuca and GalaxSea III, Strait of Juan de Fuca. Both with American flags.
Hank tapped the glasses again, and the fleet disappeared. He worked his way to a better vantage point, looked under the sky-blue spinnaker and saw only the sister ships far ahead—side by side. He tapped again, and the fleet reappeared, and he noticed a person yelling from a boat off the starboard bow. In heavily accented English, the heckler said, “Maybe next year, friend.”
Hank directed his attention to the monitor showing a bird’s-eye view of the entire fleet as they sailed down the last leg of the course. He turned to Olin and said, “It looks like a tight finish. I’ll bet the GalaxSea will win. How many are there anyway?”
“As many as I say.” Olin’s eyes locked into nothingness and his shoulders rolled forward with arms hanging inward, forcing his palms backward. Hank had witnessed seizures and strokes, but this was different. What he saw was emotional, not physical. Fortunately, the catatonic posture did not last. Olin's distant facial expression remained, but he wrestled his body back to normal and trudged off, down the companionway.
Hank tried to think through what he had just witnessed. The change in character and countenance was extreme. Could winning be that important to him? These were expensive boats and, judging from the repeated name, he owned at least three. The tech used in this race was not that of a hobbyist. The sophistication and the boats involved showed the owners were serious about racing. Hank wondered what a gentleman’s wagers would look like in this fleet. He couldn’t imagine the zeros that a billionaire might find acceptable.
Still, things didn’t add up. Olin had been upbeat when he brought Hank up on deck. He couldn’t be disappointed with the crew. The morning's lessons showed that the Ou kids were decent sailors, but not comparable to an experienced racing crew. The billionaire sailing enthusiast, father of four, got all he could expect out of his family. It would be easy for Olin to muster a crew of amateur sailors that far exceeded his children's sailing prowess. Plus, who races heavy with full water and fuel tanks? It made no sense. Something else turned Olin from the master of ceremonies to the grim reaper.
Hank often misread people and people misread him. He had not intended to be irritating or insulting. He wondered what it was that flipped the switch in Olin’s behavior. Was it the question about the number of sister ships? Or maybe he didn’t respond to the gift the way Olin expected him to? It wouldn’t be the first time his comments spiked a mood. His stomach growled, reminding him of his own hummingbird metabolism. Olin might have low blood sugar. Hypoglycemia could cause a change like that or just a simple case of the hangries.