The Chartered Yacht – Part 1: Skipper and Crew

"Starboard," said Goran.

"Which one is starboard?"

"The right."

"Then say right."

"It's called starboard."

"It's called confusing," said Vesna, and hauled the line, laughing.

The little yacht cut across the glittering Adriatic, white sails full, bows throwing spray. The islands of Dalmatia rose green and gold on every side. The sun blazed. A warm wind smelled of pine and salt. They were forty-one and forty-four, married seventeen years, with two teenagers sent off to their grandmother and a week that belonged to no one.

She was a dentist, quick, tanned, in a striped shirt and sunglasses. He was an architect, tall, bearded, in a faded cap, with the utterly unjustified confidence of a man who had once sailed a dinghy at university. The charter company had given them a fifteen-metre sloop and a stern warning.

"Tack!" said Goran.

"What?"

"Turn the boat!"

"Which way?"

"Into the wind!"

The boom swung over their heads. The boat heeled and slewed round, and a wave slapped over the deck, drenching them both. They stood there spluttering, then burst into laughter. Goran lost his cap overboard. Vesna dived into the sea to retrieve it, came up with seaweed on her head, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell in himself.

They anchored that evening in a quiet cove. The water was clear and green, the hills dark with cypress. The sun slid down in pink and gold. They cooked pasta on the tiny stove, ate it on the deck with cold white wine, and watched the first stars come out over the sea.

"Can I ask you something?" said Vesna.

"Yes."

"When did we last make dinner together?"

"The honeymoon."

"We should do it more."

"We should live on a boat."

She laughed. "Green?" she said, the old word.

"Green," said Goran, softly. "Very green. Come here. Look at the stars."

Continue the story: Part 2 – At Anchor.