68 Knots (34 page)

Arthur let some silence go by. He wasn't sure he liked what he was hearing. “So what are you saying?” he asked at last. “You want me to step down as captain?”

“There is no ‘Commodore,' Arthur,” Dawn replied. “We're all in this together. I just think you should realize that and stop acting like you're in charge. No one here has to listen to you, and I don't think Crystal is going to go along with this arrangement much longer. Marietta either. But I don't want you to step down as captain. I want you to share the job. What do you think would happen if we took turns being captain? Would the boat sink? Would we get lost somewhere at sea? Maybe. We might just do that to ourselves. But then it would be
our
fault, not yours, and
we
would figure out how to handle it. Together. As a team.”

Arthur pulled the blanket tighter across their shoulders. “But my father—”

“Your father,” Dawn said, “is wrong.”

Early one morning, the
Dreadnought
set sail for Rockland Harbor, just north of Owl's Head. Rockland Harbor was the site of the
Dreadnought
's launch, and the crew had longed to revisit its quaint shops and cozy restaurants ever since the ship had set sail. They had been afraid to go there, though, after McKinley's death, but time was realigning their thoughts.

Joy was enjoying her first shift as the official Captain of the Ship. After the attempt to find Blackgoat's treasure, and after several long talks with Dawn, Arthur had announced that they would rotate the captain's position from now on. He packed his gear, and it took little time for him to move out of the captain's quarters and into one of the bunks in the main room. He expected people to treat him with contempt. He was weak, he thought. A loser. But they didn't. They seemed to appreciate the gesture. Even Crystal looked at him with new respect. He still wasn't sure he understood, but he was beginning to learn that Dawn held wisdom he hadn't seen at first.

Joy stood at the helm and grinned. “
Muy bueno
,” she said. “I'm going to like this.” She planned for the crew an afternoon
of shopping, laundry, and maybe dinner of corn chowder on the deck at sunset. She steered the ship steadily across West Penobscot Bay. Shortly after lunch—Dawn served seafood salad and cornbread, sharing tidbits as she cooked with Ishmael, who rubbed against her legs—a cheerful “Ahoy!” from across the bay changed the day's plans. It was the
Elkhart
, and Richard Turner was at the helm.

“The
Dreadnought
, isn't it?” Turner called out through a bullhorn. “A reasonable opponent in a race, but a bit slow to windward, as I recall.”

Logan jumped up from a vinyl mat and did his best “Queen of England” wave. “The
Elkhart
, isn't it?” he yelled across in a foppish British accent. “A reasonable opponent, a bit clumsy on the tacks, but quite graceful in victory, as I recall.”

Turner nodded with a flourish. The wind was strong and straight out of the east. He gestured to windward.

“A couple of inviting markers out there,” he said, as the ships sailed side by side. The crew of the
Elkhart
lounged along the rails, nibbling on bagels and sipping cappuccino out of tiny cups. The crew of the
Dreadnought
sat along her rails, biting chunks out of an angel-food cake they passed around for dessert.

“Indeed,” Logan called back, wiping the hair from his eyes. “Lovely red nuns, one with a gong. Care for a closer look?”

Turner smiled. “Wouldn't miss it. Shall we say counterclockwise around, the first one back to the breakwater wins?”

Logan smiled. “Winner buys dinner for everyone?”

Turner put on a mock frown. “Again!” he pouted. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were just mooching.”

Logan put on a mock frown of his own. He turned to Joy. “What do you say, Captain?” he asked. “Up for a race?”

“If you are,” Joy said uncertainly. She didn't feel entirely confident as the decision-maker, but she didn't want to squash the crew's fun.

“Awesome!” Logan said. “Hey, everybody—battle stations!”

The crew of the
Dreadnought
was in place in seconds. They had weathered fierce storms, internal bickering, bad food, weird drinks, and unsettling romances. There was nothing they couldn't do together.

Dawn scrambled to stand next to Joy. “We need to jibe,” she whispered.

“Okay,” Joy said. “Please prepare to jibe, everyone!”

“Ready!” Arthur yelled.

“Jibe ho,” Joy said. She turned the wheel cautiously.

The
Dreadnought
turned its stern across the wind. The crew hauled on the sheets and let them out again, positioning the sails with a smart “Pop!” Before the
Elkhart
crew had finished rinsing their cappuccino cups, the
Dreadnought
was tacking through the waves toward the first marker.

The large wooden
Dreadnought
—even with all her heritage, her years at sea, her spirit, and her crew—was no match for the sleek fiberglass
Elkhart
. Turner was an able skipper, and he timed his tacks with experienced precision. The
Elkhart
slowly gained on the
Dreadnought
.

“Are we going to let them win again?” Arthur shouted as he pulled in the mainsheet.

“Hell, no!” Jesse shouted. He joined Arthur and pulled the sheet even tighter, his multicolored biceps rippling as he strained against the rope. The
Dreadnought
picked up a bit of speed. It rose and rocked through the waves, heeling sharply in the wind.

Joy held onto the wheel tightly. The ship cut through the waves as it sped toward the buoy.

“Joy,” Dawn said. “I think we should come about now and get farther to the right. That sound good to you?”

Joy shrugged. “If you say so,” she said. “Ready about!” she called.

“Ready!” the crew shouted back in unison.

“Hard alee!” she shouted, turning the wheel to move the ship's bow across the wind.

The
Dreadnought
's bow cut a graceful arc across the wind. The boom crashed across the decks—and everyone ducked without looking up. The sails puffed out crisply, and Arthur and Jesse hauled on the mainsheet. Crystal and Marietta tightened the foresheet.

“Turner's still gaining!” Dawn shouted. “Joy, try to cut him off at the buoy!”

Arthur glanced up from his mainsheet position and shook his head. “We don't have enough room,” he said.

Joy checked the positions of the buoy and the gaining
Elkhart
. “Arthur's right,” she said. “We won't make it. We need to know where the wind is strongest. It's our only hope.”

Crystal kicked off her shoes. “I'm going up,” she said. “I'll tell you where the wind is.” She grabbed the ratlines and swung out over the water, her feet landing lightly on the rigging. She scrambled to the top of the mast as though gravity were powerless to pull her down. She shouted directions down to Joy, and the
Dreadnought
picked up speed.

“We're almost at the marker,” Arthur called back.

“Ready about!” Joy shouted.

“Ready!” the crew responded.

“Crystal, hold on tight,” Dawn called.

“Hard alee!” Joy yelled. She spun the wheel sharply counterclockwise. The
Dreadnought
pivoted around the buoy, and the sheet crew let the sails swing wide. The ship passed within a few feet of the
Elkhart
, which was still traveling in the original direction and just beginning its turn.

“Impressive,” Turner called over, saluting. “Very impressive. You've been practicing to become sailors.”

Dawn grinned. “We
are
sailors, Captain,” she shouted back. “And we're winning.” She turned to Joy. “We need some kind of magic,” she said quietly, “or he'll pass us on the next jibe. We can't stay ahead of him at this pace.”

Joy nodded. “I know,” she whispered urgently. “I hope Crystal can help us, but I don't want to ask her about the wind until the
Elkhart
makes its turn. The flapping of its sails might keep them from hearing what she tells us.”

Dawn nodded, impressed. “I'll let you know when,” she said, watching the other boat. “Wait . . . wait . . . ready . . . .now!”

“Crystal!” Joy called.

Standing on the rigging near the top of the mainmast, Crystal scanned the water ahead. To port, the waves were rolling and smooth. To starboard, they chopped into angry foam. She pointed to the right. “The wind is over there!” she shouted. “To starboard!”

“Okay,” Joy said. She turned the wheel clockwise.

A moment later, BillFi climbed up from below, holding tightly to the rails as the
Dreadnought
crashed through the waves.

“Wrong,” he said.

Joy looked at him. “
No comprendo
. I don't understand. What do you mean, ‘wrong'?” she said.

“The wind,” BillFi answered. “We should go to the port side. Definitely the port. To the left.”

“Crystal is up in the rigging looking at the waves,” Joy said. “She said the wind is to the starboard. You were sitting in the cabin. How could you know what to do?”

“You're right,” BillFi said softly. “I was below. You're right. But I
know
that the waves to port are calm, and the waves to starboard are choppy. Calm to port, choppy to starboard. I know. I also know that in a few minutes, those calm waves to port will be hit by a blast of air. Warm. Out of the southeast. Warm air. I don't know why I know this. But I do. I really do. The gust won't reach the starboard waters for several minutes—enough time for us to leave the
Elkhart
behind for good. Behind for good.”

“But I can't steer us toward calm water!” Joy said.

BillFi nodded. “Then we will lose the race,” he said.

“Look, I'm . . . I don't . . .” Joy said. “Please just go back below.”

BillFi didn't leave. Dawn stared at Joy. For the next sixty seconds, the only sounds that could be heard were the wind in the rigging and the gurgle of the
Dreadnought
's wake. Astern, the
Elkhart
was twenty yards away and closing.

“Turn harder to starboard!” Crystal shouted from above. “Now!”

“See?” Joy said.

“She's telling you what she
sees
,” BillFi said. “I'm telling you what I
know
. Turn to port. I'm telling you what I know.” Fifteen yards astern, the
Elkhart
began to creep to starboard, chasing the higher wind.

Joy shook her head. “I need some help here.
God
will tell me what to do.” Holding the wheel with her left hand, she dug the coin out of her pocket and spun it smartly on the deck. Dawn and BillFi watched with her as the coin twirled—Saint
Francis, Saint Christopher, Francis, Christopher, Francis—and then with a tiny wobble, the coin lurched through a drainage hole in the deck and plummeted into the sea. Joy screamed. Time froze for a petrified moment.

“I need that!” Joy cried. “I need it to help me decide what to do!”

Dawn put her hand on Joy's shoulder. “I think,” she said, “God wants you to decide this one on your own.”

Joy, her face pale at the thought of her precious coin—her decision-making connection to her Lord—fluttering slowly toward the sandy muck at the bottom of the ocean, looked straight into BillFi's eyes. “You better be right,” she said. Then she turned to Dawn.

“Tell your sea goddess to kick up a storm,” she said. “We're heading toward calm water.”

She spun the wheel hard counterclockwise.

“No!” Crystal yelled. “
Starboard!
” Joy didn't answer.

For a long moment, the
Dreadnought
stalled in a faint breeze. The
Elkhart
, still pressing to starboard, drew even and began to pull away. The
Dreadnought
slowed to a near stop.

“Oh, no!” Joy cried. “We could have won, but instead we're sitting here like a rock. We had the lead, and we might've kept it if we had stayed in front of the
Elkhart
. But no. I dropped my coin overboard, and then I—”

“Here it comes,” BillFi said.

“
Que?
Here
what
comes?” Joy asked.

“The wind,” BillFi said softly. “Tell Crystal to hold on tight.”

“I don't feel anything,” Joy said.

Dawn smiled. “Hey, Crystal,” she called up, “BillFi says you better hold on tight!”

“Aye!” Crystal called back.

The wind slammed the sails. The
Dreadnought
heeled sharply and nosed down into the water. Her bow seemed to snag on a running wave. Then the ship stiffened, gathered the new gale into its system of power, and shot forward like a world-class sprinter. The next waves were mere murmurs beneath her hull; she cut through them with ease. The deck hummed with vibrations from the rigging, and unseen beams creaked and limbered in adjustment to the strain. The surge toppled three members of the crew, sending them sprawling backward and sitting abruptly on the deck. BillFi didn't move—he was quite ready for the wind's arrival—and in the rigging, Crystal tightened her usually casual contact with the lines.