Naples he would face the monotonous drive north on I-75. After another hundred miles, he would be home, soothed by his comfortable sloop on the peaceful bay.
At dark he pulled off the interstate at the third Sarasota exit and drove though the quiet town toward the beaches. May and a Sunday night, traffic was sparse. He arrived at the Sarasota Sailing Squadron on City Island and stopped at the chain-link gate. After punching in the code, he drove past rows of dry-docked boats. He found an empty slot and backed his newly acquired boat into the narrow space.
He unhooked the trailer and placed a call to Kate. Tired from the long day, he was glad she didn’t answer. He grabbed a flashlight from the SUV and wandered though the small, breezy park of Australian pines to the bay.
His dinghy sat on grass, just beyond a narrow beach where large broken clamshells and dried seaweed had come to rest. He flipped the small boat over, shoved it into the water, and soon was paddling toward
The Princess
, a forty-eight-foot Morgan that was moored a hundred yards offshore.
I can’t wait to hit that bunk
.
The bay was several miles across, sandwiched between the barrier keys and town. A slight chop reflected the sparkling lights of the surrounding high-rises as the moonlight guided him past other anchored sailboats. In the distance to his left, he heard the blowing noise of the local bottle-nosed dolphins.
He reached his broad sailboat, built more for comfort than speed, and tied the dinghy to the ladder off the stern. In the darkhold, he stripped off his clothes and crawled onto the bunk, grateful to finally be home. What a journey it had been over the last several days. Listening to the whistling wind, the halyards clanging against the aluminum mast, and the waves lapping against the hull, he quickly forgot his worries: the horses, racing, and his sick father as
The Princess
gently rocked him to sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
Over the next few weeks, Christian’s life returned to normal. During the day, he rented out his small boats and WaveRunners, sometimes giving private sailing lessons. Jake, his freckled-faced employee, bused dishes at night in a seafood restaurant and worked for Christian on weekends and afternoons. Since the easy job involved the water and boats that attracted plenty of female customers, the poor, red-headed kid probably would have worked for free, desperate to find a girlfriend.
On weekday evenings, Christian restored the McGregor that had been moved to the boatyard area. With the promise of free beer, he enlisted the help of friends and, together, they managed to remove the eight-hundred-pound lead keel. After Christian sanded, added new fiberglass, and gave the keel a fresh coat of paint, the men set it back inside the boat with new cables.
Christian next started on the gutted cabin, rebuilding the kitchen cabinets, replacing the counters, cold storage, and adding a small sink. After the cabin work was done, he planned to overhaul the motor and varnish the outer wood trim. To restore a boat, one had to be a carpenter, painter, and mechanic—a jack-of-all-trades.
When finished and sold, the McGregor might net him four or five grand, not much money considering all his time and effort, but for Christian it was a labor of love. If he hadn’t purchased the McGregor, the old girl surely would have been stripped of her sails and motor and ended up at the dump. He now breathed new life into her, giving her a second chance to adorn the seas.
Although inanimate objects, boats, he felt, had a persona, andto save one was a worthy cause. Like other sailors, he could cherish, curse, or plead with a vessel as if it contained a soul. He reflected that no horse could compete with his love for boats and the water.
Christian’s weekend nights were reserved for Kate, for partying with her friends and sex. He could never find the opportunity to discuss his mounting frustration with their relationship.
He told Kate that his father
At dark he pulled off the interstate at the third Sarasota exit and drove though the quiet town toward the beaches. May and a Sunday night, traffic was sparse. He arrived at the Sarasota Sailing Squadron on City Island and stopped at the chain-link gate. After punching in the code, he drove past rows of dry-docked boats. He found an empty slot and backed his newly acquired boat into the narrow space.
He unhooked the trailer and placed a call to Kate. Tired from the long day, he was glad she didn’t answer. He grabbed a flashlight from the SUV and wandered though the small, breezy park of Australian pines to the bay.
His dinghy sat on grass, just beyond a narrow beach where large broken clamshells and dried seaweed had come to rest. He flipped the small boat over, shoved it into the water, and soon was paddling toward
The Princess
, a forty-eight-foot Morgan that was moored a hundred yards offshore.
I can’t wait to hit that bunk
.
The bay was several miles across, sandwiched between the barrier keys and town. A slight chop reflected the sparkling lights of the surrounding high-rises as the moonlight guided him past other anchored sailboats. In the distance to his left, he heard the blowing noise of the local bottle-nosed dolphins.
He reached his broad sailboat, built more for comfort than speed, and tied the dinghy to the ladder off the stern. In the darkhold, he stripped off his clothes and crawled onto the bunk, grateful to finally be home. What a journey it had been over the last several days. Listening to the whistling wind, the halyards clanging against the aluminum mast, and the waves lapping against the hull, he quickly forgot his worries: the horses, racing, and his sick father as
The Princess
gently rocked him to sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
Over the next few weeks, Christian’s life returned to normal. During the day, he rented out his small boats and WaveRunners, sometimes giving private sailing lessons. Jake, his freckled-faced employee, bused dishes at night in a seafood restaurant and worked for Christian on weekends and afternoons. Since the easy job involved the water and boats that attracted plenty of female customers, the poor, red-headed kid probably would have worked for free, desperate to find a girlfriend.
On weekday evenings, Christian restored the McGregor that had been moved to the boatyard area. With the promise of free beer, he enlisted the help of friends and, together, they managed to remove the eight-hundred-pound lead keel. After Christian sanded, added new fiberglass, and gave the keel a fresh coat of paint, the men set it back inside the boat with new cables.
Christian next started on the gutted cabin, rebuilding the kitchen cabinets, replacing the counters, cold storage, and adding a small sink. After the cabin work was done, he planned to overhaul the motor and varnish the outer wood trim. To restore a boat, one had to be a carpenter, painter, and mechanic—a jack-of-all-trades.
When finished and sold, the McGregor might net him four or five grand, not much money considering all his time and effort, but for Christian it was a labor of love. If he hadn’t purchased the McGregor, the old girl surely would have been stripped of her sails and motor and ended up at the dump. He now breathed new life into her, giving her a second chance to adorn the seas.
Although inanimate objects, boats, he felt, had a persona, andto save one was a worthy cause. Like other sailors, he could cherish, curse, or plead with a vessel as if it contained a soul. He reflected that no horse could compete with his love for boats and the water.
Christian’s weekend nights were reserved for Kate, for partying with her friends and sex. He could never find the opportunity to discuss his mounting frustration with their relationship.
He told Kate that his father
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