Anne Bonny's Wake. Dick Elam

pulled in the spinnaker line on command. The orange parachute spread out on the leeward side of the Genoa sail.

      I jumped back to the spinnaker guy, plunked a winch handle into the top of the winch, and cranked with one hand, while I pulled the guy with the other hand. The pole came aft, brought the orange spinnaker around the forestay for a healthy breath of Neuse River air. The spinnaker billowed to full size. The Anne Bonny heeled and surged downwind.

      “Steer westerly. Course is 285 degrees. Ease your spinnaker sheet,” I commanded.

      Maggie squeezed the tiller between her legs and let out the spinnaker sheet. I saw she strained against the pressure. I brushed past Maggie, grabbed the line, took another wrap on the winch, and cleated off the spinnaker sheet. She whooshed in relief, rubbed her hands, and grinned. I grinned back.

      You refer to a sailboat in the female gender because she is cantankerous, capricious, demanding, expensive, and because a sailboat is beautiful. A flying spinnaker radiates optimum beauty, both from aboard and from ashore. Anne Bonny’s nylon spinnaker looked most womanly: The shoulders spread at the top. Then the spinnaker narrowed below the shoulders before filling out to graceful hips. Even the black skull sewed into the cloth looked feminine—thanks to the black rose between the teeth.

      I eased the sheets, lifted the pole, and Anne Bonny picked up her orange skirt and danced to the freshening wind. The anemometer read sixteen knots of wind. The knot meter read five knots. The Anne Bonny sprinted near her maximum hull speed.

      Ahead of her, three sailboats labored. Without spinnakers flying, the cruising boats sailed slower. Anne Bonny surged past them, smelled clear air, and charged for the anchored committee boat finish.

      We sailed below the committee boat, waved. One of the race committee yelled a compliment for our good-looking spinnaker. Maggie Moore waved thanks before I could acknowledge.

      Maggie smiled proudly as if we had just finished first. I considered planting a “good finish” kiss on her lips—the kiss Annie had said I always saved for a first-place finish, and forgot when we didn’t win.

      When I realized the kiss I contemplated, I turned my back to Maggie Adelaide Moore, looked ahead to Oriental Harbor, and wondered: Who was this talented, soft-speaking, but strong-minded beauty? The second time in my life I had met a woman like her.

       CHAPTER 7

      Bill’s voice rose, audible in the cockpit.

      “Calling Bon Ami. Good-looking, Bon Ami. Got my binoculars on you.”

      I wished that Bill Havins had quit talking after he radioed my dock berth number. I could see the picture window of his office. Knew he watched from his wheelchair, his binoculars trained on—what else?—the woman.

      “See you found new help. My compliments to your new crew. Over and out.” Bill signed off. And, as usual, Bill Havins had sounded off.

      The concerned look on Maggie Moore’s face, a frown I had not seen since the Bear motored away, told me she knew most skippers keep their radios turned on in case someone called the distress call, “Mayday.” Gathered Maggie didn’t want her presence broadcast to every boat radio on the Neuse and Pamlico.

      Or Maggie might have looked concerned because we faced the Oriental highway bridge, spinnaker flying.

      I didn’t bother to sign off. Hung up the microphone. Jumped into the cockpit and un-cleated the spinnaker halyard. Handed Maggie the halyard. Un-cleated the spinnaker guy and held the rope in my hand. Jumped onto the deck. Freed the spinnaker pole. Jumped back into the cockpit. Grabbed the leeward corner of the spinnaker and pulled the spinnaker toward the cockpit.

      “Ease the spinnaker halyard.”

      Maggie nodded, freed the halyard. That line went up, and the sail came down. I dumped the orange nylon through the hatch, down into the cabin.

      “Follow the markers into the harbor,” I commanded.

      Maggie steered into the Oriental channel. She knew her buoyage system. Without asking, she kept “red, right, returning.”

      I switched on the bilge blower. We now sailed under mainsail alone, ready to start the motor, if needed.

      The Anne Bonny turned deeper into the quiet waters of Oriental harbor. The city dock lay straight ahead, butted to a concrete bulkhead that shored Oriental’s downtown Main Street. On the left, an eighty-foot fishing boat lay against the cannery dock.

      We sailed by a black hull I recognized as Peril, a C&C class 32 that I used to race against. A physician owned the sloop. Something different. She used to be yellow—the yellow Peril. What should the name of the black boat now read? “Plague”?

      I expected Bill Havins still watched from his Dockside chandlery. Probably adjusted his binoculars to examine the woman in the blue turban and the blossoming orange T-shirt.

      The Anne Bonny drifted into quiet waters. The bilge blower hummed and I smelled no fumes, so I started the motor and Maggie turned back into the wind.

      I lowered the mainsail, furled the sail, secured it by tying four cloth ties around the sail gathered on the boom. Tied fenders amidships to avoid bumps on either beam, and took the helm. If the boat knocked down the pier, I wanted the wreck charged to me, not the crew. I shifted the propeller to neutral. We coasted, losing momentum. I don’t rely on reversing the propeller to stop a 10,500-pound sailboat. A sailboat is a she because a boat is difficult to back down.

      Jimmy signaled directions to our docking space near Main Street. I poked the sloop’s nose between the pilings. Maggie threw Jimmy a line from the forward deck, and I looped a stern line over the windward post. We both pulled tight, and Anne Bonny rested in her stall. Proud I didn’t need to reverse the propeller to stop her.

      “Hey, Hersh. Welcome back.”

      Jimmy spoke to me, but his eyes flickered between Maggie, then me.

      The Oriental High School senior performed Bill’s weekend legwork, pumped gas, or tied your line. He shook my hand and palmed, clandestinely, the key to the motel room. Jimmy would graduate this year, but he already knew why old men with young female crews rented motel rooms.

      “Gotta go. See you later,” Jimmy said.

      “What’s the hurry, Jimmy?”

      “Got diesel to pump and photographs in the hypo.”

      As I watched Jimmy jog to the diesel pump, I saw Bill Havins roll his wheelchair out on the Chandlery porch, down the inclined ramp onto his concrete walkway.

      I waved. Bill waved back, then returned his hands to spin the wheels and aim the wheelchair. His eyes centered on my newfound shipmate.

      Maggie leaned against the mast and watched Bill approach. She bent one knee and propped the sole of a naked foot against the mast. Her fashion model’s pose stretched the Anne Bonny letters on her T-shirt.

      Bill rolled slowly, looking Maggie over like a bird dog on point.

      “Ahoy, Bon Ami.”

      “Hi, Bill. Come down to make sure I didn’t wreck your flimsy dock?”

      “What says you, Hersh? That dock would sheer that old boat off right at your orange waterline stripe.” Bill looked Maggie over while he waited for an introduction.

      “Maggie Moore, meet Bill Havins.”

      She smiled, nodded. He smiled back.

      “Glad to meet you, Maggie. See you at dinner?”

      Bill presumed too much, and I intended to tell him so when I cornered him in the Chandlery. I spoke quickly before Maggie could answer. “I’ll see you as soon as I get cleaned up and the boat washed down. Min going to join us?”

      “Sister Min wouldn’t miss a chance to scold her little brother Hersh. I’ve already called