while the hull shifted with each tack. The harbor was in a small east-pointing finger of the lake, and soon we had moved out from its close shelter. The open water was breathtakingly large from this vantage, the shore more and more distant until eventually I could see only the flagpole at the breakwater and then nothing but the far-off stripe of the trees. At the crest of Pond Hill, long in the distance, the Lodge Chief Marker made a dim point against the sky.
At noon Mr. Metarey turned the boat into the wind. Andrew lowered the sail, and Mrs. Metarey came up from below with sandwiches. We ate with our legs dangling from the deck. Churchill sat where his leash had been tied to the cabin door, pulling apart two pieces of bread to get at the roast beef. I had never drunk beer at lunchtime, but this was what Mrs. Metarey offered. “Law of the sea,” she said, handing me a bottle. “Jack Kennedy would say so.”
“Could make you seasick, Corey,” said Andrew. “You don’t have to drink it. There’s water, too.”
“Jack Kennedy wouldn’t drink on the water,” called Mr. Metarey from the rear.
“That’s why he didn’t sail much, dear,” said Mrs. Metarey. “And besides, Andrew, it
helps
seasick.”
“In that case I’ll have another one,” said Clara.
“You share one with Christian or me,” said Andrew.
“I would deem that unlikely.”
“Now we’re going to have Corey’s delicious pie,” said Christian.
“Corey baked it himself,” Clara said again.
Christian glanced at her, and I did, too. She seemed to be angry at me, and I didn’t know why.
“He’s learning to cook,” she went on. “He burned the first one.”
“Well, let’s hope this is the second one, then,” said Mr. Metarey.
“What kind is it again, Corey?” said Clara. “Father chokes if he eats boysenberries. It happened at the McNamaras’.”
“Actually, I can’t remember what’s in it,” I said. “I don’t remember boysenberries, though.”
“That’s a boy, Corey,” called Mr. Metarey. “You’re going to go a long way around here.”
“Andrew,” said Clara, “I said I’ll have another one.”
Andrew sat down on the ice chest. “You can share it.”
“Mother!”
“Enough!” said Mrs. Metarey. “First we’re going to finish our sandwiches. Then we’re going to devastate this delicious pie, whatever it is. Then we’re going to sit down and find out all about our guest.”
But nobody ever asked me any questions, and after we had finished the pie, which turned out to be strawberry-rhubarb, Andrew raised the sail and we picked up and headed farther out into the lake. The beer had eased my legs, as Mrs. Metarey said it would, and after a time I noticed that I had relaxed. We moved in long, easy tacks now toward the shore, which had come into sight again to the east. Andrew and Mr. Metarey had changed places, and in Andrew’s hands the boat moved more calmly through the long, low swells that had come up in the steady wind and were large enough to have been on an ocean. Clara and Christian knew they could no longer tease me by lying close to the water, and Christian had sat down at the lunch table, where she was reading. Mrs. Metarey had gone below, and through the door I could see her lying on one of the cabin beds trying to kick off her shoes. The straps had caught around her ankles. Through the round window I watched her two calves work against each other, trying to free themselves, then kick furiously until one of the shoes finally fell off. I looked away. Clara had changed into a long skirt and stood at the rear rail now, watching our wake.
“Basically,” Andrew said when I wandered down close to the wheel, “there’s a few knots you need to know—but it sounds like you already know ’em. And a few fancy words, to use around the bar.
Port
means left and
starboard
means right and
sheet
is a kind of rope. Not a sail, which a lot of people think. Or you can say
line
.” He rolled his eyes.
At noon Mr. Metarey turned the boat into the wind. Andrew lowered the sail, and Mrs. Metarey came up from below with sandwiches. We ate with our legs dangling from the deck. Churchill sat where his leash had been tied to the cabin door, pulling apart two pieces of bread to get at the roast beef. I had never drunk beer at lunchtime, but this was what Mrs. Metarey offered. “Law of the sea,” she said, handing me a bottle. “Jack Kennedy would say so.”
“Could make you seasick, Corey,” said Andrew. “You don’t have to drink it. There’s water, too.”
“Jack Kennedy wouldn’t drink on the water,” called Mr. Metarey from the rear.
“That’s why he didn’t sail much, dear,” said Mrs. Metarey. “And besides, Andrew, it
helps
seasick.”
“In that case I’ll have another one,” said Clara.
“You share one with Christian or me,” said Andrew.
“I would deem that unlikely.”
“Now we’re going to have Corey’s delicious pie,” said Christian.
“Corey baked it himself,” Clara said again.
Christian glanced at her, and I did, too. She seemed to be angry at me, and I didn’t know why.
“He’s learning to cook,” she went on. “He burned the first one.”
“Well, let’s hope this is the second one, then,” said Mr. Metarey.
“What kind is it again, Corey?” said Clara. “Father chokes if he eats boysenberries. It happened at the McNamaras’.”
“Actually, I can’t remember what’s in it,” I said. “I don’t remember boysenberries, though.”
“That’s a boy, Corey,” called Mr. Metarey. “You’re going to go a long way around here.”
“Andrew,” said Clara, “I said I’ll have another one.”
Andrew sat down on the ice chest. “You can share it.”
“Mother!”
“Enough!” said Mrs. Metarey. “First we’re going to finish our sandwiches. Then we’re going to devastate this delicious pie, whatever it is. Then we’re going to sit down and find out all about our guest.”
But nobody ever asked me any questions, and after we had finished the pie, which turned out to be strawberry-rhubarb, Andrew raised the sail and we picked up and headed farther out into the lake. The beer had eased my legs, as Mrs. Metarey said it would, and after a time I noticed that I had relaxed. We moved in long, easy tacks now toward the shore, which had come into sight again to the east. Andrew and Mr. Metarey had changed places, and in Andrew’s hands the boat moved more calmly through the long, low swells that had come up in the steady wind and were large enough to have been on an ocean. Clara and Christian knew they could no longer tease me by lying close to the water, and Christian had sat down at the lunch table, where she was reading. Mrs. Metarey had gone below, and through the door I could see her lying on one of the cabin beds trying to kick off her shoes. The straps had caught around her ankles. Through the round window I watched her two calves work against each other, trying to free themselves, then kick furiously until one of the shoes finally fell off. I looked away. Clara had changed into a long skirt and stood at the rear rail now, watching our wake.
“Basically,” Andrew said when I wandered down close to the wheel, “there’s a few knots you need to know—but it sounds like you already know ’em. And a few fancy words, to use around the bar.
Port
means left and
starboard
means right and
sheet
is a kind of rope. Not a sail, which a lot of people think. Or you can say
line
.” He rolled his eyes.
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