Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,8
reasons lost to time, it was the automatic response, a phrase that had been coined when slops were thrown out of windows in centuries past. Marblehead was indeed an ancient and cloistered place, where only fourth-generation residents earned the right to call themselves true “Headers.” Everyone else was considered a new arrival, and townies used expressions like “whip” to separate themselves from the off-islanders who had invaded the peninsula, pushed up prices, and brought cappuccino to Pleasant Street.
“See ya later,” Tess said, heading down the dock.
“Watch out for the weather,” Bony called out.
“Will do, and try not to break any hearts while I’m gone.”
The gang laughed as she walked on. She was wearing khakis with flowery patches on both knees, a white tank top, and an oversize blue button-down. Her eyes were a soft shade of green, and her nose came to an impossibly fine point, the kind women in Los Angeles and New York paid plastic surgeons thousands to create. She was one of those lucky New Englanders who always looked great at yacht-club clambakes or at the ice rink for midnight broomball. Indeed, she was a natural beauty who never bothered with the mirror except to make sure she wasn’t bloody after a rough night at the mast.
Tess strolled along the dock toward her gleaming thirty-eight-foot sloop, an Aerodyne with a slate-blue hull, an immaculate white deck, and QUERENCIA painted in gold on the stern. The tide was half and rising, and she could smell the seaweed and salt in the air.
“You going to help or just sit there?” she said to a massive mound of a man who was dangling his feet over the side of the yacht.
“You’re doing fine without me,” Tink Wetherbee said, standing up and straightening his T-shirt that announced in bold letters: MAY BE USED AS A FLOTATION DEVICE. He was 6¢4≤, with a chest as puffed out as a spinnaker, a furry face, and shaggy brown hair that he chopped himself. Tess liked to joke that if Tink strapped a barrel around his neck, he would look exactly like a St. Bernard.
“You know,” he was saying as she stepped aboard with the sail bag balanced on her shoulder, “you’re pretty strong for a girl.”
“You mean, pretty strong for a girl who signs your paycheck and could kick your sorry ass,” Tess said, heaving the sack toward him. It hit squarely in his prodigious stomach, and he stumbled back.
“What’s sorry about my ass?” He held on to the sail bag and craned his neck for a look.
“Trust me, Tink. It’s a sorry sight.” Tess hopped into the cockpit of the boat, elbowing him in the ribs as she went by. “Just one more week,” she said as she untied the wheel. “One more week and I’m gone. Think you’ll miss me?”
“Miss you? Did the slaves miss their masters?”
“Funny,” she said, taking the covers off the navigation instruments. “So how’s our mainsail? Ready for the big trip?”
“The best we’ve ever built,” he said. “You’ll be the envy of the world.”
“I like the way that sounds.” She stretched her arms and back, reaching first to the sky, then down to her red Converse high-tops. Her body ached from all the preparations of the past few months. She had done thousands of military presses and biceps curls. She had run and swum hundreds of miles. Every step and stroke had been carefully calculated so she would be ready to lash sails in Force 10 winds, stand long watches in high seas, and haul anchors.
Next week with the blast of the starting cannon, Tess would set sail on a solo race around the world and, if lucky, ride the wind more than 30,000 miles. It was the greatest adventure in sports—the dream of a lifetime—and an enormous opportunity for her sail-making business. Fewer people had circumnavigated the world alone than had climbed Mt. Everest, and Tess’s goal was to become one of the first ten women ever to make the journey. So far only eight had succeeded.
The whole community was rooting for her, holding bake sales and lobster cookouts to raise money for the quest, and the selectmen even passed an official resolution declaring her an ambassador to the world. Starting in Boston Harbor, the race itself would be covered by every TV station in New England, and journalists around the globe would track her progress. Even the town teenagers were onboard—Mrs. Paternina’s science class at the high school promised to e-mail every day with news from