Chapter 2

Most American designed 12 foot sailboats are set up for a crew of two. The steersman who also handles the main sheet and the hiker, he’s the centerboard and jib handler, and the lookout. The crewman just aft of the mast is the ‘jack of all trades.’

The steersman is the captain.

The Farr is a single-hander ... lots to do ... awful lot for a nine year old to keep track of ... standing up. It’s a lot for a teen ... and that 73 year old man in New Zealand? He has one of Surprises’ first boats ... Hold on ... I’ll ask.

Out the door and down to the Basilisk.

I knocked on the hull first, “mom ... you home?”

“Yes, Tyche, she said. “I’m checking things.”

“That Farr you sold in North Island?”

“Yes,” she thought for a moment, “Gosh, Tyche. That was 14 years years ago. Hobsonville ... the old guy ... he was fast. Taikata Sailing Club ... I think. My first 3.7. Gods ... he’d be 91 now. I wonder...”

She unlimbered her I-Phone, scrolled through and pressed SEND.

“Mags?”

“Surprise.”

“Any entrants from New Zealand?”

“One?”

“Representing?”

“Taikata Sailing Club.”

“Does his name happen to be Murray?”

“Not a him ... a her?”

“Rose Murray ... Shit! ... that’s his great grand daughter.”

“Is she bringing a boat?”

“Registration?”

“Flintkote #1.”

“Worse and worse ... I built that boat ... my first ... and fastest.”

“Thanks.”

She pressed END and scrolled again. She mumbled to herself. I have great ears...”I can’t believe I still have the number.” SEND.

“Rose Murray, please.”

“Rose? Surprise Flintkote in Pentwater, Princessapality. I built your boat.”

“When do you get to Ludington?”

“Don’t bring your trailer ... I have one for you.”

“You can cancel your reservations.”

“You’ll be staying with me.”

“And my daughter.”

END

“Tyche ... you are in trouble. That little girl is 16 now ... and I KNOW he taught her every trick in the book. Tomorrow we’ll get your boat in the shop. You ... little high schooler ... are going to work your tiny butt off.”

“Mom ... it’s three weeks away. Do I haveta?”

“Yes, you haveta.” She said.

“Why?”

“Remember when you hit the buoy?”

“Which time?”

She looked shocked.

“How many times?”

“I don’t keep count.” I did but I wasn’t admitting to a thing.

So ... instead of me going to the beach ... we took the trailer to the Farr and loaded it. It shed an awful lot of water.

She pointed at the running water. “That’s why.”

We, the two of us, backed the trailer and boat into the basement of her new old shop ... the theater ... the boat was still dripping. She pushed it ... Slosh slosh slosh.

She wheeled on me. “How MANY times?”

“Maybe 30.” I practice everyday. “I never hit the buoy hard enough to sink it ... the boat ... I might have sunk the buoy a couple of times.”

“I’ll be right back ... don’t go away.” She glared at me.

My, “Yes ma’am,” was a little shaky ... she’d never spoken to me like that before.

I stood and worried.

The boat still dripped ... er ... streamed. There was a gurgle and a hiss and the water mostly stopped.

Well ... swimsuit time ... I WAS going to the beach ... I was wearing it. I stripped out of my street clothes and grabbed a mop and yellow wringer bucket.

The floor was pretty much dry when the rollup door rolled up and the boat-shop pickup backed in and the crew unloaded a complete boat ... incomplete ... umh ... not even started. Well ... laser cut but just pieces.

It was all there ... plywood parts, MDF forms, fiberglas and resin ... and all the tools and a box of brass tacks. They set up the MDF forms and grinned at me ... and left. It was a grin of, ‘I’m glad it’s not me.’

“Get after it ... you got three weeks ... actually 20 days.” Surprise said, “I have things I need to finish in the catamaran.”

Thank the Powers That Be ... I’ve done this before.

<You’re welcome.>

You guys here to help?

<Wasn’t planing on helping.>

Help or leave.

Silence. Just the breeze of the door shutting.