The Sailing Weekend – Part 1: Anchored

"It's a boat," said Dana.

"It's a yacht." Peter patted the white rail. "The brochure said yacht."

"It's eight metres long."

"It's a very small yacht."

They stood on the deck in the morning sun, in a harbour on the Croatian coast, with their bags still at their feet. The sailboat bobbed gently on glittering green water, a neat little white vessel with a blue canvas awning and a cabin the size of a wardrobe. Around the harbour, red-roofed houses climbed the hill, and the islands lay like sleeping animals on the horizon.

They had been married seventeen years. Dana, forty-two, was a solicitor. Peter, forty-five, ran a small architecture practice, and the children were at their grandmother's. They had taken a skippering course in the spring, secretly, to prove they could.

"Do you remember how to tack?" asked Dana.

"I remember the word."

"That's a start."

They motored out of the harbour, shrieking at the first big wave, and then the sails caught, and the little boat leaned and flew. Dana whooped. Peter held the tiller with a grin of sheer disbelief. The islands slipped past, green and gold.

That night they anchored in a quiet cove, with the engine off and the sea perfectly still. The sky turned violet and then star-filled. They ate bread, cheese and grilled sardines on deck, wrapped in a blanket, with the water slapping the hull.

"This is the best thing we've done in years," said Dana.

"Better than the wedding?"

"Equal. The wedding had cake."

He laughed and pulled her close. "Dana."

"Mm?"

"I've missed this. The two of us, no schedule. I'd like to make the most of it."

"So would I," she said.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cabin Lamp.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cabin Lamp.