The Sailmaker – Part 2: Fair Wind

The sail was finished on Friday night.

Lachlan snipped the last thread and shook out the canvas. It rippled, pale and perfect, without a trace of the tear. Finn stood in the loft doorway with tears in his eyes. He ran his hand along the seam. It was as smooth as skin.

"I can't see it."

"You're not supposed to."

"What do I owe you?"

"Come back and tell me how she went."

The race began in the grey light of Saturday. A hundred yachts surged out of the Derwent in a rising breeze, white sails billowing like gulls. Finn's boat flew. The new mainsail held, taut and silent, through three days of swells and one fierce gale. At the finish, Finn crossed the line second in his class, grinning like a boy.

He came ashore at midnight, salt-stiff and giddy. The waterfront was lit with lanterns. A crowd cheered. And at the end of the dock, in a canvas apron, stood Lachlan with a thermos and two mugs.

"How did she go?" he said.

"Perfectly."

"I thought so."

"She never so much as groaned."

"Good."

They sat on the edge of the jetty with their legs over the water, sharing hot tea. Boats rocked at their moorings, and the lights of Hobart twinkled in the black harbour. A fresh wind smelled of seaweed and diesel.

"Can I ask you something?" said Finn.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Lachlan?"

"Yes," said Lachlan, softly. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to navigate by the stars."

"I'd teach you anyway."

Finn kissed him, salt-lipped and warm, a hand rising to the grey-flecked beard. Lachlan kissed him back with slow, careful tenderness, tasting of tea and tar. The boats creaked on their ropes. The wind tugged softly at the sail-cloth apron.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Lachlan.

"Green," said Finn. "Very green."

The sail still hangs in the loft in winter, between races. A small tag sewn into the corner reads: Mended with love, February.

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