Grave Concern by Judith Millar Page B

She couldn’t imagine life now without Mary.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mare. I’m a total bore, I know. Thanks for coming today. I really appreciate it.”
    â€œForget it. Now, about next week’s expedition. I’ll be away, dear, at a conference. You’re going to have to seek out Adonis’s grave by yourself.”

    â€œHey, let’s be heels again,” J.P. smiled. A fresh cigarette hung from his lips, unlikely to be lit.
    â€œWhat? Oh!” Nicholas turned upwind and hauled in on his sheet. The boat immediately heeled up. “You mean like this?”
    â€œYeah, cool,” J.P. said.
    They sailed along nicely for a while. But the wind was becoming unsteady — sharp squalls punctuated by short lulls, during which Nicholas repeatedly had to shift his weight drastically to leeward, to keep the boat from reverse-tipping.
    â€œNot exactly a Caribbean cruise, eh?” said J.P., shifting nervously on the wet deck.
    â€œFuckin’ ay. Havin’ fun yet?”
    J.P. looked skeptical. “Speaking of fun, you gettin’ laid?”
    Caught off guard, Nicholas said No before he could think of a cooler response. “You?”
    â€œFuckin’ right.”
    Nicholas couldn’t help a look of surprise. “Oh, yeah? Who?”
    â€œGuess.”
    Guess was the last thing Nicholas wanted to do.
    â€œSpeaking of dope,” J.P. continued, “you got some?”
    Something in this irritated Nicholas, and he just shook his head. “You were offering me some, just a bit ago.”
    â€œRunning out,” was all J.P. said.
    â€œAnyway, crew has to balance the boat. That’s you. Get down in the middle, there. Otherwise we’ll reverse heel,” he said.
    â€œYou’re kiddin’ me, right?”
    â€œNo, I’m not kidding. Do it now,” Nicholas said.
    Reluctantly, J.P. squatted across the centerboard trunk, pantomiming distress over loss of his private parts. “Is it normal to castrate the crew like this?”
    Nicholas laughed. “You want to skip?” he said.
    â€œYou mean trade?” J.P. said.
    â€œYeah.”
    J.P. was already making his way toward Nicholas’s spot, forcing Nicholas to dive toward the centre to avoid dumping.
    Nicholas’s idea in switching places had been to scare the shit out of J.P. and smarten him up. Sailing was a team undertaking, and J.P. wasn’t exactly being co-operative. But it seemed he’d mainly succeeded in scaring himself.
    Nicholas moved forward to man the jib, while handing the tiller and mainsail sheet to J.P. “Here ya go,” he said. “For now just keep the sheet cleated where it is and worry about the steering.”
    Having never touched a traditional tiller in his life, J.P. made two classic mistakes: number one, over-adjusting; and number two, performing number one in the same direction he wanted to go, like a steering wheel.
    Nick had barely tucked in by the forward deck when the boat lifted on a precipitous tilt. It had veered way downwind, and a squall hitting the close-hauled sails drove the starboard deck underwater, pitching them up like a drunk keeling over. Nicholas let the jib fly loose to spill wind. But he couldn’t reach the mainsail cleat. Their only hope of not tipping was for J.P. to push the tiller down hard, away from himself, while keeping his weight up on the windward side. Not an easy manoeuvre.
    â€œPush it down, push it down!” Nicholas cried. J.P. did. Miraculously, they began to heave up again into the wind, restoring an edgy equilibrium.
    â€œThank Christ,” breathed Nicholas. “Didn’t feel like swimming.” He reached back and slackened off the mainsail to avoid a repeat performance.
    J.P.’s face was white. But he regained composure quickly. “You never said not to turn,” he deadpanned.
    Now that the crisis had passed, Nicholas found the whole thing humorous, and laughed. “I guess