Game of Sails
an Olympic Love Story
by
Carol Newman Cronin
Copyright 2011 by Carol Newman Cronin
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-0-9838029-0-7
License Notes
Thank you for downloading this ebook, which is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by Carol Newman Cronin
Oliver’s Surprise: A Boy, A Schooner, and the Great Hurricane of 1938
“A vivid glimpse of boatyard life for a modern boy whisked back to his grandfather’s day, just before the Hurricane of ‘38” —Molly Bang, author/illustrator of When Sophie Gets Angry
“Chock full of adventure, history, and a likeable protagonist, Oliver’s Surprise is about as much fun as you can have without actually being on a boat!” —James L. Nelson, author of George Washington’s Secret Navy
“...reminds us of the connectedness of family and friends through generations.” —John Burnham, Editorial Director at Boats.com/YachtWorld.com
Cape Cod Surprise: Oliver Matches Wits with Hurricane Carol
“...brings to life what it is like to face a vicious hurricane. I kept reaching for my lifejacket and pulling up my hood throughout this fast-paced narrative.” —Gary Jobson
“You can smell the salt, hear the groan of the sails, and feel the tiredness of Oliver’s muscles—and as he’s traveling through time, surviving hurricanes, and discovering his love of this way of life, he’s also discovering himself. A wonderful book.” —Holly LeCraw, author of The Swimming Pool
Foreword
In my travels as a sailor and author, I’ve occasionally met people who remind me in some way of Casey, Spencer, Gordo, or one of the others you will meet in the story that follows. I hope they will become as real for you as they are for me, even though these wonderful characters exist only in the melting pot of my imagination.
Note: The father of the modern Games, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, developed the Olympic Motto of “Citius, Altius, Fortius” (faster, higher, stronger) to allow athletes the “freedom of excess.” He called it “...a motto for people who dare to try to break records.”
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for my teammates
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Part I
Chapter 1
Casey
BANG!
The loud but harmless warning gun blew an acrid whiff of smoke across her boat. Five minutes to the start of race two—and Casey was planning to win this next one as well.
She felt like she’d been spun through a salt water rinse cycle. Water dripped off her waterproof top and neoprene shorts, and her arms and legs ached. But today’s thumping southerly breeze rewarded her height and strength. So if she was a little tired, the thirty-four girls she’d beaten in the first race must be exhausted.
This was the best place—the only place—to be, and even the thick buildup of salt on her cheeks couldn’t keep her from smiling. Perched on her fourteen foot Solo in the middle of Miami’s Biscayne Bay, surrounded by the best Olympic sailors in the world—and ready to show them all over again who was boss.
“Your kind of day, Casey,” Rachel had told her this morning as they rigged their boats, palm trees already thrashing overhead. “You’ll make the team this year—easy.”
Four days and nine races from now, the top three boats—along with the top three from the guys’ fleet—would qualify for the national team, which meant enough funding to train full time for the Olympic Trials. That regatta would be in Newport, Rhode Island, where Rachel and Casey had spent summers since they were five years old. But only one of them (or, God forbid, someone far less deserving) would go to the Olympics.
“Jenny Garcia’s the only other girl who’s been practicing at all,” Rachel had told her yesterday. “And she doesn’t have even half of your drive.”
Casey shook her head to clear it, chafing a thick braid against the back of her lifejacket. Time to focus on winning this race.
Syncing her watch with the four minute gun, she stood to look up the course, automatically shifting her weight from one foot to the other to balance the boat as the waves rolled underneath it. Nothing on the horizon but whitecapped Bay, gray rain clouds, the low strip of mainland running south toward the Keys—and, of course, the distant orange cylinder that marked the upwind corner of the race course. She sniffed the salt air: maybe a trace of rain and palm trees? A squall would bend the wind right...
In just under three minutes, thirty-five Solos would line up like white pickets on a fence between a yellow inflatable mark and the anchored committee boat. Jockeying for room to accelerate, they’d all try to hit the invisible line just as the starting gun went. Crossing late was a huge disadvantage; starting a split second early could lead to disqualification. Her timing had to be perfect.
Two minutes to go. With the yellow mark just off her bow, she carved a tight turn away from it, jibing into a Solo-sized gap between the stern of one boat (Rachel) and the bow of another. They all paralleled the line back toward the committee boat, her chosen end.
At 1:30, Rachel tacked to starboard just in front of her—too early. Casey continued to sail toward the anchored powerboat, which was bobbing up and down like a forty foot cork.
One ten—okay, time to start looking for a hole between two Solos. And there it is, a tasty one right under the fire hydrant bulk of Jenny. Sorry Garcia, but that’s sailboat racing.
Jenny aimed right at Casey to defend, and there was lots of room beyond her so Casey sailed on, past her transom. Plenty of time. Her right thumb found the reset button of her watch by feel; she’d sync it with the one minute gun just to be—
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”
An out of control boat capsized right off her bow, the mast and sail slapping the water like the tail of a pissed off whale. How the guy missed whacking the committee boat was a mystery, but now he was scrambling onto the daggerboard to right his boat. What an idiot! He shouldn’t even be here, smack in the middle of the women’s fleet.
“Stay where you are, buddy,” Casey shouted. “I’ll tack—NO! Don’t try to get back up, you’ll end up right–”
As she tacked back toward the line, the capsized boat’s mast rolled up through vertical and blew over again, downwind this time—draping the white sail around her like a stiff bedsheet. She pushed it off her face and away, catching the black tip of mast in a loop of her mainsheet. Damn! How much time was left? She had to get away from this guy.
Reaching aft, Casey cleared the snag. But when the shiny black mast tilted toward vertical again, it hooked under her boom.
“Stop pulling!” she cried. “Can’t you see you’re caught?”
“Oh—okay.” He was only twenty feet away, breathing hard. And his dirty blond hair rose straight off a sunburned forehead. Spencer Harding! Her college hero. Five years later, Casey still recognized that nasty cowlick. What was he doing here?
“Jesus, Spencer!” She pushed his mast clear, trimmed in her sail, and headed for the line, trying to catch up to Jenny and the others. She was breathing almost as hard as—
BANG!
Shit, that was the start. And the flag marking the line was way up on the bow of the committee boat. Twenty feet ahead already, the entire fleet—thirty-four white sails—lined up side by side, the perfect wind fence.
Her pointy bow should already be nosing out ahead of that lineup, sail billowing proud overhead. Instead here she was in a no-wind vacuum, sail hanging limp. Like she’d run out of gas with the accelerator pressed to the floor.
Damn Spencer! Casey whacked her gloved fist against the fiberglass deck.
How was she ever going to make the team now?
Chapter 2
Spencer
Well that sucked.
After five years away from competitive sailing he figured he was rusty, but Spencer wasn’t expecting complete mortification—and a knifing pain in his lower back—on day one. Not only had he barely finished either race, he’d almost kept that loud girl with the purple hat from starting her second race. Too bad for her the Race Committee didn’t abandon and try again; they certainly had a front row seat for his interference. She must not be a regatta contender.
And now that he’d finally made it back to dry land he couldn’t even haul his boat out of the water, even on a carpeted ramp hinged to sink under the boat’s weight. Dripping wet, the Solo still weighed a lot less than he did. This shouldn’t be so hard—
“Hey, Spencer!”
It was that same girl with the purple hat, and she was even taller standing up. As tall as he was.
“Your mainsheet’s hooked.” She pointed to the line running off his boom, which had indeed caught a cleat at the bottom of the ramp.
Damn. How was he going to clear it? If he let go of the boat, it would roll back down into the water and run into the pileup of boats waiting for him to clear out of the way.
“Here—hold this.” Passing her bowline to another waiting sailor, the girl stepped onto the bottom end of the floating ramp, boots sinking into the water as she flicked the mainsheet free.
“Next time take out the slack first.”
“I will—thanks!” Spencer could feel his sunburned ears reddening even more, but now when he braced his feet and pulled, the boat came up easy.
He wove his way between all the boats, a stab of hot pain shooting up into his lower back every time he put weight on his left foot—even on this weird spongy grass. Both feet were soggy inside wet boots, just like college.
But unlike college, he was one of last sailors back to the dock. Most boats he passed had covers stretched across decks for the night, and the few sailors still milling around were already rinsing gear and peeling off wetsuits.
Spencer’s parking spot was on the opposite side of the boat park, closest to his truck and camper but farthest from the launch ramp. The grassy area near the water had been snapped up early by the sailors training for weeks or even months ahead of this regatta. Like Everett and Rachel, and probably that loudmouth girl—she certainly acted like she owned the place. The guys who could only take one week off from work—like him—ended up in the low patches, which quickly became mud puddles as soon as anyone turned on the hose.
Wading through the lake that had already formed, Spencer dropped his dolly handle on a small tuft of grass. He was still breathing hard, but for the first time since leaving the dock this morning he could stand back and look at his new boat.
The Solo’s pointy bow and wide open stern rested on a dolly that was nothing more than two wheels and a handle connected by aluminum tubing. It looked so easy; one sail, controlled by four lines—mainsheet, cunningham, outhaul, vang.
But on a windy day like today, this tiny triangle of fiberglass demanded a shitload of strength and agility just to keep it upright. He’d been working out hard the last few weeks, but that wasn’t enough to hang with the full-time sailors like Everett.
Speaking of Everett, there he was—coming down the cement stairs of the Sailing Center, a towel draped over one shoulder. Man, his biceps were huge now. But he still dressed like a preppie: polo shirt and perfectly creased shorts.
“Everett!” Spencer waved, then squelched through the mud to meet him halfway.
“What’s the name of that big girl? The loud one, with the purple hat–”
“Casey Morgan—don’t you remember her from college?” Everett chuckled. “Well she’ll definitely remember you—she’s got a photographic memory.”
“Where’s her boat? I need to go apologize.”
Everett pointed to the edge of the grass nearest the water. “She and Rachel are in the first row, right near the ramp.”
“I feel bad—I almost kept her from starting the second race.” Spencer ran fingers through his hair, wondering where his own hat had ended up. “This is harder than it looks.”
“Remember our first day of college sailing, when I fell out of the boat? You told me don’t worry—it’ll get better. So now I can return the favor, tell you the same thing.”
Spencer snorted. “The boats we sailed in college were Mack trucks compared to this thing! I could barely keep it going in a straight line today.”
“Tomorrow’s forecast is for light air—that’ll be a lot easier.” Everett smiled down at him. “I’m having dinner with Rachel, so I’ve gotta go—I’ll see you later.”
Spencer watched him lope across the parking lot, obviously pain-free. Were they really the same age? Right now he felt like a grandfather.
Digging a thumb into his back to stop the throbbing, he turned toward the front row of boats. Might as well get this apology over with.
Chapter 3
Casey
After five hours of unblemished salt air, the Sailing Center’s late afternoon aroma of boat polish, sun-baked grass, and mildew wrinkled Casey’s nose. Time for the hardest transition of the day, back onto dry land—from dolphin to donkey.
Seeing Rachel already changed into street clothes didn’t help—that hourglass waist so well defined by a light-blue clingy top and cute flowered miniskirt. Growing up, Rachel’s mom had called the two girls Mutt and Jeff. No one could figure out how they’d stayed best friends—including Casey, some days.
But even for Rachel, pearls were a bit much for the boat park. She’d managed to snap the cover over the rail of her boat without leaning her miniskirt against anything that might leave a wet mark. And she smelled like lilacs, her dress-up perfume.
Casey dropped her dolly handle in the empty spot right next door.
“Thank God you’re back!” Rachel reached out to touch her arm. “I was so worried! You stayed out to practice?”
“Yeah. My tacks sucked today.”
“And what happened that last race? I thought you’d win it for sure—nobody else has your speed in the breeze.”
“I thought I would too.” Heaving an enormous sigh, Casey took a swig from her water bottle, which tasted almost sweet after all the salt spray. “I didn’t plan on having a reunion with Spencer Harding.”
“Spencer?—but he’s in the men’s fleet.”
“He flipped over right on top of me—what a complete idiot.”
“It’s his first regatta.”
“Well he should learn to sail a Solo before he shows up at a national team qualifier!” Casey squeezed the last drop from the water bottle and tossed it into her boat. “Jenny win it?”
Rachel nodded.
“Figures.”
Rachel spun her left earring, a pearl stud bigger than the gold knots she always wore sailing. “What were your finishes today?” Casey asked.
“On or off the race course?” Rachel leaned in, lowering her voice. “Everett won both his races today, and he’s asked me out to dinner—by ourselves. I think he’s going to pop the question.”
That explained the jewelry and perfume. “Man! That was fast.”
“Not really—this regatta’s our first anniversary. There he is, such a cutie!” Rachel wiggled her fingers at a tall guy in a turquoise shirt so bright it almost glowed, even from across the boat park. “I’ll see you back at the house—don’t wait up.”
Shaking her head, Casey pulled down her sail and unshackled the halyard. She had to beat Rachel, if only to prove that sailing was more important than boys.
But that would be hard to do after her finish in the second race. Grabbing the hose to rinse the underside of her boat, Casey cursed Spencer again. If only—
“Casey Morgan?”
He stood on the other side of her Solo, faded wetsuit and lifejacket still dripping wet.
She focused on spraying off the rest of the hull. “So—you came out of retirement? I figured you had two kids and a golden retriever by now.”
His smile faded. “Have we met?”
“I was captain of the women’s team the year you won college Nationals. I even had your poster up on my wall. With that ugly–”
“Straggly beard,” he finished, the salesman’s grin back in place again. “I just can’t escape that poster.”
Turning the hose on herself, Casey rinsed out her matted braid first. “I used to call you Spencer Hard-on.”
“I always wondered who came up with that.” He ran his fingers through the hair standing up off his forehead. “Look, about that start. I was trying to stretch between races–”
“On our starting line?”
“Of course not—off to the right. But then a puff hit and I couldn’t get the mainsheet uncleated because my hand had cramped up, so the boat started reaching toward you. The only way I could keep it from mowing you down was to flip. I tweaked my lower back in the first race–”
“What a lot of excuses.” Casey rinsed out her boots, upended them to drain the water out, and tossed them into her boat. “Sounds like you need to spend more time at the gym.”
“Jesus—what’s your problem?”
She pointed a finger at his unshaven chin. “My problem is, I won the first race. And since I’m the strongest woman here I probably would’ve won the second too if you hadn’t screwed up my start. Instead I worked my ass off for a tenth. Which won’t get me on the sailing team.”
“It’s only the first day of the regatta! And it’s pretty rude to yell at someone who’s trying to apologize–”
“I’m not yelling! And you’re not apologizing, you’re telling your side of the story. Apologies include the word ‘sorry.’ Even if you don’t mean it.”
“My father told me never to tell anyone I was sorry. It’s a legal admission of wrong-doing.”
“Which would certainly be appropriate in this–”
“Something wrong, Casey?” Alex’s arm dropped warm around her shoulders, enveloping her in coconut aftershave. He liked to shower as soon as he got back to shore. He also liked to leave his shirt collars unbuttoned just enough to show off a dark flash of chest hair.
“I can handle this myself,” Casey told him, shrugging off his arm.
“I’m sure of that. But I know this guy much better than you do.”
Spencer reached out his right hand, even though it was still covered in a soggy sailing glove. “Alex Lane—congratulations! I haven’t seen a single sail since I got here that didn’t have your logo on it. How’d you do it?”
His tone was sharper than his words—sarcasm? Or maybe it was just that sickly sweet salesman’s voice.
Alex wiped his palm on her shoulder.
“Easy to take over the Solo class,” he replied. “All I had to do was get off Cape Cod and set up shop in a town where something actually happens.”
“Things happen in Grayson.”
“I thought so too, until I moved to Newport.” Alex let his gaze trail all the way up Spencer, from faded boots to the velcro tab hanging loose off the right shoulder of that ancient wetsuit. “Everett was just telling me in the shower that you’re planning to design a new sail.”
“If I can figure out a way to cover the costs.”
“I can see how that would be hard, working out of such a rinky-dink sailloft. Maybe you should bring your ideas to me.”
“Thanks anyway,” Spencer replied. “I’ll stick with Gordo. He may not have your marketing budget, but at least I know he won’t steal my ideas.”
After a quick nod at Casey, Spencer walked away, those tired neoprene boots squelching wet into the soft grass. Only then did she notice their college logo, still legible on the back of his lifejacket.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
Alex smiled. “I could ask you the same question.”
“He took me out at the start. I guess that was supposed to be an apology.”
“Is that why you were so late getting back to the dock? I was worried you’d broken something.”
“I stayed out to practice.”
“You’re such a perfectionist! Two grueling races and you go back upwind again?” His tapered fingers massaged her shoulder crease. “No wonder you’re so strong.”
“Only way to get better is to work harder than everyone else.” Casey pointed to the last few clouds racing to the east. “Too bad this front’s going through tonight. It’s supposed to be light air the rest of the week.”
“That’s fine with me—my arms are killing me. And my back.”
She grinned. “You sound just like Spencer.”
But physically, the two were total opposites. Alex combed his dark hair flat, and his lean body reminded her of a lynx; never in a hurry, but always on the prowl. She’d been so flattered when he’d asked to train with her, on a windy day last week when Rachel stayed ashore. And thrilled to realize she was faster—she’d never sailed against any of the guys before.
But the biggest surprise of all was when their afternoon on the water led to dinner and a goodnight kiss.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked now. “I’m starving, and I know this great place in the–”
“I don’t go out during regattas.”
“Too bad—it was fun last week. Maybe when we get back to Newport, we can continue where we left off?”
She reached down into her boat to clean out one last strand of seaweed, partly to hide her blush.
“I won’t be back in Newport until April or May,” she told him. “The team’s staying down here to train until we leave for Europe. Assuming I make it.”
“Oh you’ll make it.”
She looked up to find Alex’s green eyes sparkling down at her.
“And once you do, you’ll be much too cool to hang out with me.”
Chapter 4
Spencer
Spencer stomped across the grass, weaving between boats, fuming. Alex Lane hadn’t changed at all; the guy still thought he was God’s gift to sailmaking. What did that girl Casey see in him? And what did Alex see in her? She couldn’t even hold a civil conversation.
The hose was finally available, so he sprayed down his boat to remove the crusty salt that had baked onto everything. Rinsing the flat bottom of the hull meant bending over, which his lower back just wouldn’t tolerate. So he arced water up the black mast instead. Better take care of that baby—Everett had said the Briand he’d ordered a year ago still hadn’t been shipped.
Too bad Spencer hadn’t been able to make this one look better today. He’d been away from the top end of the sport for way too long, and right now it didn’t feel like he could ever catch up again.
He finished with the hose and pulled off his gloves, stomach dropping when he saw his bare left hand. Oh great—now he’d lost his wedding ring. The perfect end to a shitty day.
But then he remembered dropping it in the cupholder of his truck when he got dressed to go sailing this morning. Better check it was still there—Heidi’d never forgive him if he lost it.
Of course she might not forgive him anyway. He’d told her—and everyone else at home—that he could win this regatta, based on the memory that he’d never ever finished behind Everett in four years of college sailing. He’d conveniently forgotten that for the past five years, Spencer had been selling sails while Everett had been winning Solo regattas. Today’s disgrace—series of disgraces, really—proved how far behind he really was.
And the palm trees overhead still thrashed. Could his aching body take another windy day?
A shower—even the lukewarm Sailing Center variety—helped his attitude. So did two beers, six ibuprofen, and the bag of tortilla chips that stood in for dinner. His last thought before he drifted off into a coma-like sleep on the narrow bunk of his camper was Everett’s prediction: It will get better...
Nine hours later, he woke to a beeping watch. Staring at an unfinished fiberglass wall, Spencer wondered for a fuzzy moment where he was... that’s right, Miami. Sailing Solos. Badly.
Through the open skylight, a peek of sky slowly lightened to blue. He glanced around at his home away from home, the tiny camper Gordo had loaned him. Bunk down the right side, sink and storage down the left. And up top, roofracks to carry the Solo. Exactly what he needed, with no room for anything else—swinging his legs to the floor, he almost tripped over the cooler he’d parked next to the bunk.
He crawled out the back door, gingerly straightening up to standing. Good—no more stabbing pain in his back. And the swollen fingers of his right hand hadn’t even uncurled, as if they couldn’t wait to grab the mainsheet again.
While he’d slept, the breeze had dropped. The palm fronds overhead barely whispered—today would definitely be easier.
After breakfast and a quick stretch, Spencer traded in cargo shorts and a T-shirt for his damp wetsuit, boots, and lycra top and headed for the boat. On the way through the Sailing Center, he stopped to peek at the scores that had been taped inside a large window, facing out. Hmm, not on the first page—and it didn’t really matter after that.
Way to go Everett—leading with two bullets! That was fantastic, in this fleet.
Across the grass sailors bustled around, coiling lines and raising sails. A few eager beavers had already wheeled down the ramp to head out to the race course. Man—it was barely nine o’clock! These folks were serious.
Launching his own boat without drama felt like progress from the day before, and he grinned back at Everett who had splashed just behind him. They sailed out side by side, running down the middle of a long narrow channel marked by pilings with green and red markers.
“Is that Key Biscayne?” Spencer pointed ahead to where several apartment buildings stood on a low island.
“Yup—Rachel wants to buy a house out there. Too fancy for me.”
“I can’t believe how nice it is here—warm, great breeze. I’m surprised there aren’t more boats out.”
“The locals are probably working. It’s Tuesday, remember?”
At the end of the channel they headed up to reach toward the racing area. Tilting his head around the back of his own sail, Everett looked up at Spencer’s.
“So even you can’t figure out how to get rid of that wrinkle? Sure is ugly.”
“I’ll say—Lane’s design doesn’t match this mast at all. Can’t be fast.” Spencer tightened his downhaul to smooth out the deep crease, then eased it off again.
“You’d sell a lot of sails if you designed something better. By the Trials everyone will have a Briand—and we all hate dealing with Lane.”
Spencer snorted. “He told me rinky-dink Cape Cod sailmakers shouldn’t even try to build Olympic sails.”
Everett shrugged those sculpted shoulders, wrinkling the tight rashguard he wore under his lifejacket. “All the more reason to prove him wrong.”
They sailed across the Bay toward a white forest of Solos. Thirty-five girls, forty-five guys, ten coach boats, six race committee boats working to set the course—it might be a Tuesday, but all these people had found a way to be out on the water. How great to be here! Winning or not, this sure beat sitting at a shabby desk rubbing his hands together to keep warm.
The warning gun fired off right at eleven o’clock, and the girls started first again. The only two he’d met so far (Everett’s tiny girlfriend and that loudmouth Casey) both claimed spots close to the yellow buoy that marked the left end of the starting line. Casey torqued her shoulders forward to drive the bow down over each tiny wave...Rachel sat perfectly still and went faster. Extra weight would be baggage in today’s gentle breeze.
But a minute into their race, both girls were in front of the boats that had started at the other end of the line, where the race committee boat fired off the guns. So the left end was the place to be.
Another gun boomed, marking five minutes until the second start. Everyone had seen the girls’ start, so it would be crowded at the left end. Worth the risk of getting shut out by the top guys?
No—better to start up the line a bit.
With a minute fifteen to go, Spencer parked in the middle of the starting line with his sail luffing, aiming the sharp bow at anyone who sailed by. He hadn’t forgotten everything he learned in college.
Twenty seconds. He narrowed his gaze to the water just in front of his bow, judging time and distance to the line and counting down in his head. Go at ten. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen—
“Don’t come down!” called a voice from close astern.
Spencer looked back, too late to close the door on the Solo surging in from behind at full throttle. The classic “shark” move—now he had to stay out of the other boat’s way.
Lane, of course.
“For chrissake, Alex!” Spencer trimmed in the last few inches of mainsheet, counting down aloud and tensing every muscle—but he’d lost two critical seconds.
BANG! The starting gun exploded, loud enough to be heard back in Grayson.
Alex marched into the gap Spencer had so carefully created. The boats to his right surged ahead too. Get out the gas mask—no clean air here.
Swearing, he tacked to port. He was already way behind the leaders with that start. Damn that Alex Lane!
“Concentrate,” he told himself, only half-realizing he’d spoken out loud.
But that was hard to do when he couldn’t find a lane with clear air.
“Arggh!” Another boat tacked right on his face, forcing him to tack away. And every tack was slowing him down more.
He rounded the first mark with only ten boats behind him. I’m better than this!
But if this Briand mast was as fast as everyone said, maybe he could pass a few boats.
Sure enough, after the downwind leg and another lap, he crossed the finish line in fifteenth—which meant he’d passed twenty boats. Wow! This mast must be fast, even with Lane’s nasty-looking sail.
The next start he stayed away from Lane, got off the line clean, and rounded the first mark in third just behind Everett. Better yet, he maintained his position all the way to the finish.
“Yeah! That’s better.” Fortunately no one was close enough to hear him talking to himself.
On the sail back to the dock, Spencer couldn’t stop grinning. Yesterday was just a fluke, beginner’s bad luck. If Lane hadn’t sharked him the first start today, he’d have two top five finishes—quite an accomplishment in this fleet.
Everett must’ve been impressed too—he made a special point of inviting Spencer to join a group for dinner. Or maybe it was just because they got to the shower at the same time. Either way, Spencer was ready to pick the guy’s brain.
Because there were still three days of racing left before he had to go home and face his wife.
Chapter 5
John Gordon here—call me Gordo. Time for a little perspective on our two heroes.
I’ve known Spencer since he was five years old and started sailing with his father at Grayson Yacht Club, a small club in a town on the south coast of Cape Cod, where we both grew up. I was already considered the local hotshot in those days, even though the peak of my competitive career in Olympic sailing wouldn’t happen for another ten years.
Spencer liked to stand near me as if to absorb my aura, and by the time he was nine or ten he was already asking good questions about sails and how to go fast. I still remember him congratulating me when I took over my dad’s sail loft at the ripe old age of twenty-five—two years younger than he is now.
The spring of his sophomore year of high school, I got a huge order that needed to be built fast, so I asked Spencer for help. He worked with Mike stitching and assembling, and that’s when I first discovered his eye for three dimensional shapes. He’d hold up a just-finished sail and tell me how it would set up on a mast—and why. Best of all, he was almost always right.
My daughter can visualize in 3D too, though I’m not sure where she got that skill—and I doubt she’ll ever use it for sailmaking. Even at age six, she’s got bigger plans.
Anyway, back to Spencer. Once he graduated from college (with a degree in sailing as far as I could tell), we dragged another desk into the office and printed up business cards for him that said “sales and marketing.” Mostly I did it to please Mike, who was happier working by himself, but I soon realized Spencer was much better than me at remembering customers’ names. In a small town sail loft, that’s ninety percent of the sales and marketing plan.
For the first year or two I tried not to get too dependent on him, figuring he’d move onto something more challenging. But after a while I realized he liked the easy rapport we’d developed. And once Heidi marched him up the aisle, he was locked in.
That’s what drives Casey nuts about Spencer; he always lets others make decisions for him. All that talent, and no drive to do anything with it.
Casey reminds me of myself, twenty years ago—pure drive. We both make up for a lack of natural talent by working harder than everyone else. I’ve mellowed since my twenties, but at her age I was so focused on getting what I wanted that I often lost perspective, just like she does. She always means well. Even at her nastiest, she means well.
I haven’t known Casey nearly as long, but I do know that she and Spencer need each other if they’re ever going to get where they both deserve to be—the Olympics. It’s an incredible, unbeatable combination: Casey’s drive and Spencer’s talent.
But only if they don’t kill each other along the way.
Chapter 6
Spencer
Spencer was pretty psyched to join Everett’s group for dinner. After a better day on the race course, he knew he could figure out the Solo. And besides, this’d be his first adventure outside the Sailing Center—except to find the grocery store that first morning.
A five minute walk brought him to Archie’s Restaurant, which didn’t look like much more than a fishing shack. Two sailors waited by the doorway, instantly recognizable by their deep tans, flipflops, and the white outline that sunglasses had left around their eyes.
They introduced themselves—Flavio and Matt, Spencer repeated under his breath—and then led the way up a ramp onto a wood deck. They settled in at a picnic table with one end pushed up against a central wall, quickly agreeing on a pitcher of beer. Spencer breathed in a lungful of warm, humid evening and tried to believe it was really January.
When the foaming pitcher arrived, Flavio poured them each a glass and asked Spencer how long he’d been sailing the Solo.
“This is my first regatta,” he replied.
“Wow—you had a good day today.”
“I’m planning to have an even better day tomorrow.”
“That’ll be no problem in this fleet,” Matt said. He’d dyed the top inch of his dark hair a bright yellow, and it was hard to focus on anything else—until his palm thumped the table, making the pitcher jump. “Some of the top guys aren’t even here. You gotta go to Europe for any real competition—we’re leaving the first of March for three months.”
“Three months!” Spencer shook his head. “I could never get that much time off.”
Matt’s mouth dropped open. “You have a job?”
“Yeah—I’m a sailmaker.”
“Are you gonna design a new sail? We’d love to get away from Lane—the guy won’t give us a discount no matter how many sails we buy.”
“Maybe—I’m not sure yet.” Spencer wiped his upper lip to remove the beer moustache. “So if all you guys do is sail, how do you pay for it all?”
“Our sponsor.” Flavio gulped down the rest of his beverage and topped off all three glasses. “Didn’t you notice the logos for my uncle’s gutter guard company? The advertising’s deductible, so it works out well for everyone.” With a huge wink, he added, “Lots of potential gutter guard customers in the Solo class, ya know.”
“Where’d you get that Briand mast?” Matt asked.
“It came with the boat.”
“Lucky bastard,” Matt growled. “I’ve been trying to get one for six months. If you ever want to sell it I’ll–”
“Hey, guys.” Casey appeared at the table. “Everett and Rachel are on their way—I got tired of waiting.” She plunked herself down on Spencer’s bench, trapping him against the wall. “You order yet?”
“Yeah—beer.” Flavio waved at the half-empty pitcher.
“No beer—I just got back from the gym. ‘Scuse me!”
Flagging down the waitress, Casey ordered a large ice water.
“Did you say you’d been to the gym?” Spencer asked. Her face was a bit flushed, underneath all those freckles.
“Only way to get stronger after a light air day.” Her ice water arrived, and she guzzled it before thunking down the glass. “Ah, that’s better.”
Everett and Rachel appeared, and Rachel sat down next to Casey. Everett hesitated: sit across from or next to his girlfriend?
Rachel patted the seat next to her.
“Marina and Lily are coming too,” she told Everett. Which meant nothing to Spencer until two blond bombshells wearing Norwegian Sailing Federation t-shirts sat down on the far side of the table. Flavio’s eyes dropped to the low neck of the closer one’s shirt—like Christmas come early.
Nice view for sure, but it would be impossible to pick Everett’s brain from here—sandwiched between Casey and a wall of mildewed shingles.
The waitress returned and everyone ordered the dolphin sandwich.
“Mind if I move these flowers?” Without waiting for an answer, Casey slid the vase against the wall. “They really stink.”
Spencer shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me—I can’t smell.”
“Really?” She stared at his nose as if expecting it to drop off. “How do you tell what the breeze is going to do?”
“Smell doesn’t help with that.”
“Sure it does!” Casey closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. “Same easterly breeze we had for the second race. I can smell the salt off the Bay, and maybe a touch of Gulf Stream.” She opened her eyes again. “On Monday I smelled palm trees and knew the breeze was gonna shift right. In Narragansett Bay, shifts to the left smell like cut grass. And in Boston, there’s a sewage treatment plant...”
Spencer turned to look pointedly across the table. Everyone else was focused on the karate chop of Matt’s two hands, sailor sign language for two boats side by side. The fingertips of his right hand turned toward the middle of his left palm and crashed into it, forming a T.
“Haven’t you heard that story already?” Casey waved away the gestures. “Old news—Matt was trying to pass a Spanish dude when the guy wiped out and T-boned him. Watch out for number twelve fifty three.”
“Have you been warning people about me too?” Spencer asked her.
“Not after your performance today.” She turned to face him. “You gonna sail full time till the Trials?”
“No way. I work in a sail loft–”
“Grayson Sails.”
“How’d you know that?”
She shrugged two broad shoulders. “Word gets around.”
“Ah—your friend Alex Lane. He probably also told you how small we are, which is why I’ll be flat out after the first of March. Anyway I’m not sure I could ever beat Everett. He’s put in five years of–”
“Um, hello! You’ve got a Briand mast.”
“Everett’s got one on order.”
“Along with everyone else. I heard the builder is trying to keep them exclusive for the French team, and that’s why delivery’s been so slow.” Casey slurped at her melting ice. “You’ve only been in the boat three days—it does get easier. And I remember how great you were in college. You could definitely win the Trials.”
Spencer checked her face, but instead of a sneer she was actually smiling. A small dimple erased several freckles.
“Every so often I say something nice, just to confuse people.”
“Well—thanks. But I can’t just take off and go sailing—spring’s our busiest time of year.”
“So design a better sail and call it work.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Sail development’s expensive. And nobody will buy a new design until it wins a big regatta.”
“Didn’t your boss John Gordon go to the Olympics?”
“Nope—he made the 1980 boycott team. And then he finished second in ‘92.”
“That boycott must have sucked—do everything right and still not get to go.” When she shook her head, her dense ponytail swatted at her bare shoulders, like a horse removing bothersome flies.
“How do you know Gordo?” Spencer asked.
“I don’t. But growing up I had the Sailing Team poster on my bedroom wall. Inspiration, you know?” She lifted her glass to make room for the plate the waitress was setting down. “Thanks. And can I get more water when you get a chance?”
“Of course, hon.” The waitress set down the rest of the food. “Anyone need anything else right now?”
“No thanks.”
“All set.”
Spencer’s eyes followed the perky butt back into the kitchen. “Now THAT’S what I call inspiration.”
Casey snorted. “If you put as much time into the Solo as you do into ogling women, you’d definitely beat Ev–”
“Hello everyone—I am sorry we are so late.” A dark-haired sailor with shoulders stretching out the ribs of a white shirt hovered at the end of the table, his twin just behind him. “Is there a room for two more?”
“We’ll make room.” Everett slid down the bench, bunching everyone closer together. Rachel slid closer to Casey, who pushed against Spencer, and he’d already slid as close to the wall as he could. He’d be lucky to free his elbows enough to eat.
“Everyone know these guys?” Everett waved at the two newcomers. “Roberto and Gino Morelli, the Italian Olympic Duo team.”
Duo... oh yeah, the two person version of the Solo.
“You guys are having a great regatta,” Rachel remarked. “All firsts so far, right?”
“Thank you for seeing.” The one sitting across the table grinned. “But the racing is only half over.”
“Which one of you steers?” Matt asked.
“I do—I’m Roberto.” He nodded across at his brother. “Gino doesn’t speak much English. But everything good that happens on the boat, like our first places? That’s Gino. Everything bad is from me.”
“You’re way too nice,” Rachel said. “If I had a crew I’d blame her for everything I did wrong.”
“Maybe that’s why you sail by yourself,” Casey said. She eyed Roberto. “Is it true you’ve been sailing together since you were sixteen?”
He nodded. “Almost ten years we’ve been trying for the Olympics. Last time, I went in the Solo. Finally this year we go together.”
Casey unrolled the napkin and spread it across her lap. “I’ve wanted to go to the Olympics since I was five and met my stepdad, Webster. He’s a former Olympian in equestrian.”
“No such thing,” Spencer said.
“Is too—equestrian’s in the Olympics! There are other sports, you know.”
“I know. But according to Gordo, there’s no such thing as a ‘former’ Olympian. Something you should know if you’re so focused on becoming one.”
When there was no response, he looked up to find Casey frowning at him.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Do you know what’s in that stuff?” Casey pointed to the tartar sauce he’d spread across his fish. “Fat and sodium. No wonder you can barely pull your boat up the ramp.”
Spencer placed the bun on the top of his sandwich and bit into it. “You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother probably taught you to drown your fish in tartar sauce.”
“Actually, my dad taught me that. And he’s in great shape at fifty-eight.”
“Glad you got good genes—you’re gonna need ‘em.”
“Stop lecturing me!”
“Not until we figure out how you can take a leave of absence from–”
“I don’t want to take a leave of absence, okay?” He put down his sandwich. “I like my job.”
“But you’ve got a real shot at going to the Olympics! You can’t go at that half-assed.”
“I can go at it however I want! I didn’t start dreaming about going to the Olympics when–” he stopped.
Their voices had climbed above proper restaurant volume, and everyone around the table was watching. The nearer Norwegian had already turned a bright smile to Casey, ready for the rebound.
Taking a deep breath, Spencer forced a smile onto his face. “Sorry, everyone. I get a little annoyed when someone I barely know tries to manage my life.” He leaned forward to nod at Everett’s plate. “You using that tartar sauce?”
“Nope—Casey says it’s bad for me. Want it?”
Spencer lifted the top of his bun and upended the tiny paper tub onto his fish. Then he replaced the bread and took as big a bite as he could manage, trying not to gag.
Casey sighed. “They’re your arteries, Hard-on.”
Chapter 7
Casey
On the long slow sail back to the dock on Thursday, Casey tallied up her regatta points at least three times, wishing the total would change. She was in a very solid fourth overall, with only one race to go. Rachel had won every light air race, while Jenny Garcia (who was halfway between Rachel and Casey in weight) and a featherweight college girl named Jess Varn traded second and third. Webster would call fourth the “leather” medal; that’s the only thing her stepdad had brought home from the Olympics. Whatever she called it, fourth place wouldn’t get her on the national team.
Back at the Sailing Center, Alex casually flicked the hose across his boat. He’d beaten Casey to the dock thanks to a tow from someone else’s coach. “Great first start!” he said. “But then you got rolled by everyone.”
“Same thing happened the second race.” She dropped her dolly handle with a thud. “I need to lose a few pounds.”
“You look good to me.” Every day Alex had moved his boat closer and closer to where Rachel and Casey parked, and now he was right alongside.
“I’ll never beat Rachel in a light air Trials, which is what counts.” Casey sucked at her water bottle, draining it dry.
“It’s Newport—in August.” He passed her the hose. “The seabreeze thumps that time of year.”
“And what if it doesn’t? I’ve got to be competitive in all conditions to win a regatta like that.”
Alex picked up his spray top and lifejacket. “Why don’t we talk about this more over dinner? I’m gonna grab a quick shower before the hot water runs out.”
“Thanks, but I’m not going out till the regatta’s over.”
He raised one thin eyebrow. “So Archie’s doesn’t count?”
Her only response was an uncontrolled and unwanted blush that felt like it seeped all the way up into her eyeballs.
“We could drive back north together.” He ran a thumb along her jawline. “I’m leaving right after racing tomorrow. It’s safer to stick together, in case one of us breaks down. And it could be a lot more fun.”
When she didn’t reply (unable to speak around the sudden, shameful lump in her throat), Alex brushed her cheek with the knuckles of his left hand and headed for the showers.
The last thing she wanted to do tomorrow was drive back to Newport, while Rachel and Everett and every other serious sailor stayed down here to train and get ready for Europe.
And tandeming back with Alex would just prolong the misery. The guy drove like an old woman.
After rinsing her beat-up boat, Casey headed for her van. At the far corner of the boat park, she spotted a shiny black mast. Spencer was just pulling down his sail.