recommend that you return to Victoria. If you proceed through the High Risk Area, please take precautions to avoid attack and keep this office regularly informed of your course and position.
Daniel felt a burning sensation in his gut. He read the warning a second time and plotted the site of the attack on GPS. They were 150 nautical miles away, but their current course would bring them within fifty miles of the last known position of the second pirate skiff. Mahé Island was 140 nautical miles to their north. They could reach Victoria by sunrise at top speed. But where would the pirates go in the same period? They were hunting for a ship in the Seychelles. What was more perilous: sailing closer to the inner-island group, with its high density of shipping, or farther out to sea?
He stood up and paced the length of the cabin, wracked by frustration and guilt. He saw Quentin lounging in the cockpit, typing away on his iPhone—likely sending Ariadne an email about the storm. By some miracle, the girl had turned him into a conversationalist. Damn it all to Hell! he thought, remembering Vanessa’s words and the vow he had made when she agreed to the circumnavigation.
“I’m not concerned about you,” she had said, standing on the terrace beside the swimming pool, her arms crossed to ward off the cold. “Whether or not you come back is your decision. But if you put my son in danger and he gets hurt, I’ll never be able to forgive you.”
“You have my word,” he had promised. “I’ll keep him safe.”
At once, Daniel returned to the nav station with an idea. He used the laptop and GPS to collect some information and ran a few calculations. The nearest landmass was the island of Coëtivy, home to a shrimp-processing plant and 250 residents—exactly the kind of place the pirates would avoid in their search for a valuable target. He went topside and took the helm.
“Change in plans,” he told Quentin, starting the engine and turning the yacht to the west. “Somali pirates attacked a container ship a hundred and fifty miles to the southeast. They’re still out there.”
Quentin blanched, his mouth agape. “Shit,” he said, then: “Sorry.”
“You’re not kidding.” Daniel pushed the throttle to the stops, and the rumble of the engine drowned out the sounds of the sea. “We need to get the sails down. They’re too visible.”
He took the main sheet in hand and brought in the boom. After a pause, Quentin followed his lead, retracting the headsail and lowering the main. When they finished, Quentin took a seat again.
“Where are we going?” he asked, his tone nervous and uncertain.
“Coëtivy Island. We’re going to find an anchorage and figure out what to do.”
Quentin was still for a long moment. Then his expression transformed, his jaw clenching and his blue eyes darkening. Almost unconsciously, he brought his knees to his chest. It was a posture Daniel had seen countless times but never since they had sailed out of Annapolis harbor. It was a protective mechanism, a shell Quentin deployed whenever the world spun out of control.
Daniel felt a spark of anger. The confidence his son had gained in their months at sea was genuine. Yet it was also fragile, like sea turtles hatching beneath the predatory gaze of gulls. He made a promise then to Quentin and to himself: You’re a new person. You’re not going back. I’m not going to let you.
They reached Coëtivy just before sunset. The wind had died down to a whisper, and the water around the island was as tranquil as glass. Daniel made the approach from the west, keeping his eyes on the depth gauge and aiming the bow toward a beach lined with palm trees. They didn’t have a chart for these waters, only cryptic comments in a nautical book. He saw waves breaking on a reef to the southeast, but here they were breaking on the sand.
When they reached a depth of thirty feet, he put the throttle into neutral and nudged his son. “Are you going to
Daniel felt a burning sensation in his gut. He read the warning a second time and plotted the site of the attack on GPS. They were 150 nautical miles away, but their current course would bring them within fifty miles of the last known position of the second pirate skiff. Mahé Island was 140 nautical miles to their north. They could reach Victoria by sunrise at top speed. But where would the pirates go in the same period? They were hunting for a ship in the Seychelles. What was more perilous: sailing closer to the inner-island group, with its high density of shipping, or farther out to sea?
He stood up and paced the length of the cabin, wracked by frustration and guilt. He saw Quentin lounging in the cockpit, typing away on his iPhone—likely sending Ariadne an email about the storm. By some miracle, the girl had turned him into a conversationalist. Damn it all to Hell! he thought, remembering Vanessa’s words and the vow he had made when she agreed to the circumnavigation.
“I’m not concerned about you,” she had said, standing on the terrace beside the swimming pool, her arms crossed to ward off the cold. “Whether or not you come back is your decision. But if you put my son in danger and he gets hurt, I’ll never be able to forgive you.”
“You have my word,” he had promised. “I’ll keep him safe.”
At once, Daniel returned to the nav station with an idea. He used the laptop and GPS to collect some information and ran a few calculations. The nearest landmass was the island of Coëtivy, home to a shrimp-processing plant and 250 residents—exactly the kind of place the pirates would avoid in their search for a valuable target. He went topside and took the helm.
“Change in plans,” he told Quentin, starting the engine and turning the yacht to the west. “Somali pirates attacked a container ship a hundred and fifty miles to the southeast. They’re still out there.”
Quentin blanched, his mouth agape. “Shit,” he said, then: “Sorry.”
“You’re not kidding.” Daniel pushed the throttle to the stops, and the rumble of the engine drowned out the sounds of the sea. “We need to get the sails down. They’re too visible.”
He took the main sheet in hand and brought in the boom. After a pause, Quentin followed his lead, retracting the headsail and lowering the main. When they finished, Quentin took a seat again.
“Where are we going?” he asked, his tone nervous and uncertain.
“Coëtivy Island. We’re going to find an anchorage and figure out what to do.”
Quentin was still for a long moment. Then his expression transformed, his jaw clenching and his blue eyes darkening. Almost unconsciously, he brought his knees to his chest. It was a posture Daniel had seen countless times but never since they had sailed out of Annapolis harbor. It was a protective mechanism, a shell Quentin deployed whenever the world spun out of control.
Daniel felt a spark of anger. The confidence his son had gained in their months at sea was genuine. Yet it was also fragile, like sea turtles hatching beneath the predatory gaze of gulls. He made a promise then to Quentin and to himself: You’re a new person. You’re not going back. I’m not going to let you.
They reached Coëtivy just before sunset. The wind had died down to a whisper, and the water around the island was as tranquil as glass. Daniel made the approach from the west, keeping his eyes on the depth gauge and aiming the bow toward a beach lined with palm trees. They didn’t have a chart for these waters, only cryptic comments in a nautical book. He saw waves breaking on a reef to the southeast, but here they were breaking on the sand.
When they reached a depth of thirty feet, he put the throttle into neutral and nudged his son. “Are you going to
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