PART FOUR
18Dad calls down to my bunk where I’m folding jumbled clothes, ‘Make sure everything’s safely stowed. I want to leave for Musket Cove straight away, before the sun gets high.’
Crumbs smear into grey streaks under my damp cloth. Last bits and pieces squeeze into tight corners.
‘Okay, stand by to pull in the lines while Cornelius lets them go. Don’t let them float near the propeller.’
Dad hasn’t had any luck with his advertisement for a lady companion. Actually he’s got cold feet. He’s scared of being trundled down a wedding aisle by a Fijian matron.
From a dinghy, the marina helper unties the floating lines, attached to a buoy, that held us off the concrete wall. I coil them neatly.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Cornelius waves.
Dad reverses smoothly, then eases the throttle forward
