The Skipper – Part 2: Anchor

She drilled him through the long night like a regatta. She made him recite the racing rules, line by line, and corrected each error with a tap on the boom. She made him stand at attention while she read out his faults from the logbook in the dry language of a protest committee. She made him kneel on the foredeck, silent, while she trimmed a sail by touch and told him, in a low steady voice, precisely what a crew owed a skipper. She tilted his chin with two cool fingers and looked into his eyes. All of it was exact and calm and utterly without cruelty.

Every half hour: "Does the crewman wish to continue?" "Yes, Skipper." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The Skipper does not require thanks." But she smiled, a flash in the dark.

The tide turned. The boat shifted gently against the pontoon. Overhead the stars burned thick above the mast, and the whole quiet harbour rocked him like a hand on his back.

At two she coiled the last rope.

"Anchor," said Astrid, softly.

It was her word, and she said it for them both. The oilskin came off. She sat on the foredeck beside him in her sweatshirt, draped it over his shoulders and wrapped her arm round him.

"How are you?"

"Moored," said Piers, with a happy, shaky laugh. "Completely."

"You were a fine crewman." She kissed his forehead. "I mean it."

"Is the skipper satisfied with my performance?"

"The skipper is delighted." She smiled. "She also notes that the regatta starts at nine."

"Then I shall sleep like a stone," said Piers.

"You will sleep," said Astrid, "with the skipper." She drew him down onto the cockpit cushions, wrapped them both in a sleeping bag and let the harbour lull them.

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