Plurk paste

The anchor hit the water with a soft splash, pulling the rope rode over the gunnel with a smooth hiss. Will watched the angle of the rope as he turned Trout's bow upwind, and felt satisfaction settling onto him as the little boat stalled, slipped backwards with the breeze. The anchor set, dipping the bow, and the boat danced briefly before coming to lie still at anchor, at equilibrium between the light wind and the draw of the hook.

Winston lifted his chin from the floorboards to look up as Will stood, pulling down the sail and furling it methodically on the boom. "I'll take you ashore in a bit, buddy," he commented, meeting the dog's eyes. "Just want to get a line in first, before you scare them all off." He gave the sky a judging glance, measuring the distant line of clouds against the feel of the air. It would kick up overnight, he thought, but he had a good long afternoon before then.

Nudging the dog aside, he traded his seat in the stern for the bow, crouching to pull his fishing gear out from under the negligable shelter of the low foredeck. And then he had to reverse the maneaver, careful about his center of gravity as he moved back to the stern.

Trout was a small boat, just shy of fourteen feet, and that was how Will liked her. Everything about the sailboat waas spare and elegant, and most of it was his own hands' work. Like the hand-planed bench that stretched athwart the stern onto which he settled, tilting the tiller up and out of his way.

As he assembled his laminated rod and threaded the line, sun warm on the back of his neck, Will could feel his mind loosen. The process had begun on the long, tacking sail across the river from Wolf's Landing, but this was where he could truly find peace. Despite the distant cloud-line, the day was perfect. Outside this little sheltering cove, the broad river sparkled and played under a brisk breeze, but here, cupped in by trees that leaned out over the water's edge, there was just enough breath to the air to keep the heat from growing stifling. Under the branches, the water was so still that he could see the tiny rings of alighting insects and rising rish. Perfect. Just what he needed.

Winston laid back down with a soft whuff to sleep in the sun as Will made his first cast into those shadowy verges, and the world settled into gentle peace. The river purled on by, and the little boat rode her anchorline with a smooth, gentle rocking. Will was content to let his fly simply lie in place, twitching it every once in a while. A fish might bite, one might not. That wasn't important. Staring at the fly, Will could let his eyes and mind unfocus. He could let go of the papers he still had to grade, of the inter-departmental meeting he'd have to endure tomorrow, of his upcoming contract review. None of that had any place here in the peace of the river.

He reeled in only when the fly was about to saturate and sink and cast again, all in smooth easy sweeps. Unhurried, unrushed. And he was in the moment, exactly as he'd wanted to be. And the moment lasted cast after cast.

Only when the first fish bit that the rising wind intruded into his notice. Trout's rocking was sharper, her anchorline tugging like a leash now. He played the fish, letting it run and then reeling it in with short, swift sweeps of the rod, the motions automatic as he lifted his head to look around. Those clouds from before were closer and bigger, and squinting, he thought he could see the silver sheen of rain beneath.

"Looks like it's time to get going," he said to Winston. Only with mild regret. Weather was weather, sun or rain. But the waves out on the river were getting bigger. Little white caps were just beginning to curl down their faces. Trout was a sturdy little thing, but her freeboard was low, and he didn't want to try sailing her in rough waters. Especially with Winston aboard. The mutt he'd found by the side of the road just a few weeks before was a placid fellow and good quiet company, but Will had not known him long enough to know how he'd handle a nasty ride. Forty pounds of panicking dog could easily turn a tense situation afloat into a disaster.

He got the fish aboard without hassle. Only eight pounds or so, it hadn't taken much play. "Dinner," he told Winston, showing him the fat brown trout before dropping it into his tin creel. Next came the anchor, pulled in hand over hand against the current. That left them just a few more yards from the shallows. He weighed options - it would be two or so hours home, even with the stronger wind. He'd have to risk the extra few minutes, give the dog a moment ashore.

Leaving the anchor on its heap of rode in the bilge and grabbing the single emergency oar out from under the bench, he stood in the bow and drove it deep, pulling the boat forward. A few strong strokes and he could push its splintery end into the mud and punt them the rest of the way. Trout's shallow keel pushed into the slick river mud a few feet away from the bank.

Will gave Winston a whistle through his teeth as he glanced up, making sure that the rigging was well clear of the branches. The dog hauled himself to his feet, looking avidly up at the man. "Well? I'm not carrying you."

But he nearly had to. Winston, either through stubbornness or incomprehension, refused to leave the boat until Will did. So Will had to hop over the side into the shin-deep water, taking the boat's painter with him. Only once he'd reached the grassy mud of the bank and clucked for the dog did Winston jump after him, splashing ashore. "You're a genius," he said drily to the sopping wet dog, watching him follow his nose into the lush grass under the trees.

Will was just tying the painter to a tree, not trusting the boat not to float off the mud without its living ballast when a new noise drew his attention. Just a boat's length past where he had been anchored, a sleek white hull was motoring slowly into the snug cover. Elegant for a motor yacht, the intruder was almost too big to fit; at least fifty feet long. Probably closer to sixty, and Will could see the bubbling of bow thusters under the surface, slowing the floating extravagance before it hit the shallow shelf just off the shore. There was no one on deck. The only sign that the big ship was manned at all was a silhouette in the wheelhouse, high above the water.

Will sighed. "There goes the neighborhood, Buddy," he muttered to the absent Winston. At least they were about to leave. He turned, shaking water out of his shoes as he climbed the bank in the direction of Winston's rustling. Rustling that abruptly grew much louder. When it broke into a frenzy of rapidly diminishing barking, Will swore fiercely.

An hour later, he found himself dragging a muddy, over-excited, foul-smelling mutt back out of the woods by an impromptu leather leash. His belt would never be the same again. "We do not chase wild pigs," he was repeating under his breath, through his teeth, forcing a grin to remind himself that it was not productive or humane to be angry at a dog for being a dog.

But the lost time was another matter. Looking out from the brushy shore, his gut tightened. The wind had continued to kick up. Trout had been pulled away from the bank to strain at the end of her painter and was bobbing and yawing wildly, her rigging swinging perilously close to the trees leaning out, their own branches seeming to reach for her. And beyond her, past the broad white hull of the anchored yacht, the river was whipping itself into a white froth of steep, foaming chop.

Putting Winston's leash under his foot, he grabbed the jerking painter and began to haul the boat into reach. Trout was lightweight, but he strained to pull her in far enough against the wind. When she was back in the mud, he glanced at Winston and gave him a stern, commanding glance.

"In the boat," he said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. Winston's ears flattened at the bouncing little craft, but he looked at Will once more and obediently jumped in. Will followed a moment later with the painter in hand, getting drenched to the waist this time as he heaved Trout away from the shore and scrambled aboard himself.

Immediately, the wind had them, even with both her little sails tightly furled. Spinning despite his hand firm on the tillter, Trout put rapid distance between herself and those dangerous trees. Directly towards the bow of the white yacht.

Will put a hand on Winston's collar and forced him to lie down as he scrambled past him to the mast, holding onto the shrouds. The motion of the boat was growing quickly wilder and he had to brace himself to stay upright while he cast off the ties so he could haul up the little mainsail. It was up and taut just in time; the while triangle pillows and filled with a snap that almost threw him, and he lunged back for the tiller, throwing it to the side. Just in time, Trout heeled steeply to port and slid past that white bow with scant feet to spare. Panting, Will looked up, locking gazes with the man who'd come out onto that deck high above them, blond hair ruffled wildly in the wind as he stared down at the little boat that had almost marred his paint.