It seems to be only minutes before we’re sailing back toward the twin piers at Amble harbor. By “we,” I mean me, Wayland G., and the two other guys that Jasper sent for a swim. The inflatable rescue boat is towed behind us.

At the wheel of our boat, Wayland G. gives the command to lower the sails, and he starts up the engine for an easy steer back to the marina. He is not being friendly. “Get down there, son, and stay there till I tell you,” he growls, pointing to the inside quarters of the yacht. The storm seems to be blowing out. At any rate, it’s stopped raining.

I overhear him talking with the other two.

“Scramble the helicopter from Bamburgh…Boy in immediate danger…Theft of HM Coast Guard vessel…”

He comes down the steps and glares at me. “Does this thing work?” he says, pointing at the boat’s radio.

“I…I don’t know.”

He flicks a switch. The same music blares out.

“Alleluia!”

He swears under his breath and switches it off. “No point in radioing,” he says. “We’re two minutes from the harbor anyway.” He turns to me and says through clenched teeth, “I hope for your sake, lad, you’ve got a good explanation for all this.”

I swallow hard.

I have an explanation, but whether it matches anyone’s idea of a “good” one is doubtful.

There’s a police car waiting at the harbor when we dock. A small crowd has gathered. As I get off the boat, a policewoman comes forward and takes my arm gently.

“Come on, young man. Into the car with you.”