Chapter 51

We were demons on the water ... but nothing illegal. Close city but no collisions. We were jockeying at a imaginary starting line between a buoy and a tree onshore with an agreed upon start time when Mr Helicopter pilot himself ... Lieutenant Asshole ... powered the little Guard launch past and started circling. Littles ass ... compared to the 61 the 30 was little ... compared to a Farr 3.7 the 30 was huge and a menace.

The 30 powered up alongside me and the crew grinned. The helmsman ... Mr Shoot ‘em up cowboy himself looked at me.

“What in the Hell do you think you’re doing?” Mr Pilot.

“Having a race,” I said... “and you are in the way.”

“Isn’t she,” he nodded in the direction of Tyche, “kinda young?”

And the alarm went off on my Audemars Piguet Men’s Royal Oak Concept Tourbillon Chronograph rubber wrist banded with the transparent dial ... good to 350 feet and away went Tyche ... the brat.

What? Daddy’s pocket watch? Look at the time in the rain and it rusts. Sure ... it’s solid gold ... the case is ... the works ... not gold ... and NOT rust proof.

So ... the Royal Oak has a timer set and it beeped.

Tyche has a watch too ... it’s not quite the watch mine is but it IS a New Zealand birthday present ... for a nine year old it was a decent timepiece. A Rolex Submariner ... for a four year old it’s pretentious as all get out. And we had synchronized the time.

The brat took off and left me still in the clutches of Mr Lieutenant Asshole.

I could hear her cackling as she sped away.

“This doesn’t count!” I hollered.

“Does. He’s a course obstruction!”

He didn’t turn me loose until she’d won.

No ... wasn’t deliberate ... his chin was on the deck and there were flies laying eggs in his mouth.

The kid can sail ... she learned in the roughest school in the world. New Zealand. Five years in the company of World and Olympic champions ... tough competition. Tyche is cute and has winning ways. Those aggressive sailors taught her every trick they knew.

“Thank you, Mr Lieutenant, Sir.” That was said with all the sarcasm a four year old can muster.

“Doesn’t count!” I said.

“Does ... he could have stopped me.”

“I wouldn’t have gone,” I said, taking the highroad.

“You did in Auckland,” she slapped a hand over her mouth ... and that put her in the water.

It was true ... I raced when half the field ran afoul of the starting boat. The lanyard was already pulled, the gun fired milliseconds later.

And, don’t you just know ... Mr Coast Guard caught her slip.

She climbed over the stern of the self-baling 3.7.

“When were you in New Zealand?”

“I’ll have you know I’m an Australian. New Zealand is just across the water.”

Most North Americans think geography is a crock o shit. Look at any map ... If it’s not in the FedA or the Princessapality it’s just a dot of little repute...

Not Mr Helicopter Pilot ... He’s a ‘college graduate.’ He knows New Zealand is 1400 miles across the Tasman Sea.

“You know, I’ve never checked her paperwork.”

So ... rather than chase the two of us all over Pere Marquette lake, he tossed a couple of lines and towed us home. Hey ... sure it’s a boat ... but it’s home.

And that put the Powers to work.

When we trailered the boats and chained them up to the rest at the Marina, Seven and the girls were on the Flint doing what teen girls do every summer ... tease the male population. It’s called bait.

The Lieutenant checked passports until hell wouldn’t have it. Tyche has three ... Australia ... mother. USA ... father. Princessapality ... just because Junior said.

Her Australian passport had an Auckland NZ stamp ... from when she was two. And the ink was dry ... just.