Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“By the way, I know you said something to your dad about Galvin.”
“No,” Sail said. “I said something about you.” His cousin pissed him off and he had half the mind to let her figure shit out on her own. He would’ve, if it wasn’t for Galvin. Not only would he get to work with her, but him being there would help her.
Galvin stared at him when he went behind the counter. When he met her gaze, he winked. He took the bucket of dirty dishes to the back, grabbed another bucket, and checked tickets.
“What are you doing?” she asked when he came out from the back.
“Working,” he told Galvin. “I’ll be your expo.”
She smiled. “This will be fun.”
“I certainly hope so.” He winked again and picked up the order that the cook called out.
The next morning, Sail and Galvin walked to the marina. It was still early, but the bustle had started. Tents were almost up, and regatta officials were walking around. Sail took it all in, with Galvin by his side.
“So, people can do this as a career?”
“Yeah, sort of. They make money from sponsors, events, and then winning races. The top three finishers usually win money.”
“Crazy. I never knew.”
“I did,” he said with a sigh. “I just never thought it was something I could do.”
Galvin squeezed his hand and leaned into him. “You’re going to do great.”
Sail fought back a frown. He wasn’t so sure, and after watching practice he felt out of place. Like he was an amateur going up against professional.
Which was exactly what he was.
Sail checked in, handed Galvin her pass, which would allow her to access all areas of the competition. She would watch from the park with his mom, Caroline, and other family members. His dad and brothers would be with him. As supportive as Galvin has been, he needed his dad and brother’s expertise.
They made their way to where Sail was assigned. His dingy sat on a trailer, connected to Crew’s truck. Due to regulation, they had to leave their trailer and his dinghy there at night. To thank Crew, Sail let him use his car. He didn’t need it anyway. If he needed to go home, Dune could take him. Or Galvin would.
As soon as Jack arrived, they got to work.
The rising sun was already warm on Sail’s face as they rigged his ILCA 7. Hands moved in practiced precision, checking and rechecking everything for practice. Around them, the marina buzzed with activity—the whooshing sound of sails being hoisted, the clink of halyards against masts—and the cackle of the local broadcast echoing.
Today was critical.
The first day of races would either send a message that Sail was there to compete or prove he was out of his league. He’d accepted earlier in the week that he was unlikely to win, and while the money would’ve been nice, he was happy to have reconnected with his dad this way.
Sail tugged the mainsheet one final time, testing the tension. Satisfied, he leaned back and scanned the horizon. The forecast called for stronger winds this afternoon—his preferred conditions. His stomach tightened, not from nerves, but from anticipation. This was his water, his bay. He knew it better than anyone. The water was the stage, and today, Sail planned to take control.
The start line was utter chaos. Sail’s grip on the tiller was firm but light, his gaze darting between the committee boat and the pack of competitors clustering near the middle of the line. The countdown flags snapped in the breeze.
Five minutes.
Two minutes.
Thirty seconds.
Sail eased the mainsheet slightly, waiting for the perfect moment to accelerate.
The horn blasted, and Sail surged forward, carving a clean line through the churning water. His timing was flawless, launching his boat into clear air near the pin end. The wind filled the sail, and the boat leaped forward, slicing through the waves. Other boats jostled for position, but Sail ignored the bedlam, locking his focus on the windward mark.
Hiking hard, he felt the familiar burn in his legs as the boat heeled slightly, its edge cutting through the water like a blade. The cunningham was tight, flattening the sail to squeeze every ounce of speed from the growing breeze. Sail spotted a subtle wind shift and adjusted his heading, gaining a crucial few meters on the rest of the fleet.
The first tack was sharp and efficient. Sail’s body moved like a spring, shifting to the opposite side, and hiking out in one smooth motion. The boom swung over with a satisfying snap, and the ILCA settled into its new course, momentum barely faltering. Behind him, another sailor mistimed their tack and fell behind—a small victory that bolstered Sail’s confidence.
As he rounded the windward mark in third place, Sail leaned into the downwind leg with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was where he could thrive. Adjusting the vang and easing the mainsheet, he caught a wave, his timing impeccable. The boat lifted and surged forward, spray whipping past his face as he gained ground on the leaders.