Cecelia Ahern - The Gift

In front of him, a greasy-haired adolescent who was telling a story to his friends through the use of serious explosion sounds and the occasional epileptic-fit movements caught Lou’s eye because of his dangerous proximity. Sure enough, the boy, getting to the climax of the story, leapt back and landed against the buggy.

“Sorry,” the boy said, turning around and rubbing his arm, which he’d bumped. “Sorry, mister, is he okay?”

Lou nodded. Swallowed. He wanted to reach out and throttle the child, wanted to find the boy’s parents so that he could tell them about teaching their son the art of storytelling without grand gestures and spittle-flying explosions. He peeped in at Bud. The monster had been woken. Bud’s eyes, glassy and tired, and not yet ready to come out of hibernation, opened slowly. They looked left, they looked right, and all around, while Lou held his breath. He and Bud looked at each other for a tense second, and then, deciding he didn’t like the horrified expression on his father’s face, Bud spat out his pacifier and began screaming. Scream. Ing.

“Eh, shhhh,” Lou said awkwardly, looking down at his son.

Bud screamed louder, thick tears forming in his tired eyes.

“Em, come on, Bud.” Lou smiled at him, giving him his best porcelain-toothed smile that usually worked on everyone else.

Bud cried louder.

Lou looked around in embarrassment, apologizing to anybody whose eye he caught, particularly the smug father who had a young baby in a pouch on his front and two other children holding his hands. He turned his back on the smug man, trying to end the screech of terror by pushing the buggy back and forth quickly, deliberately clipping the heels of the greasy teen who’d put him in this predicament. He tried pushing the pacifier back in Bud’s mouth, ten times over. He tried covering Bud’s eyes with his hand, hoping that the darkness would make him want to go back to sleep. That didn’t work. Bud’s body was contorting, bending backward as he tried to break out of his straps like the Incredible Hulk breaking out of his clothes. He continued to wail. Lou fumbled with the baby bag and offered him toys, which were flung violently out of the buggy and onto the ground.

Smug Family Man with the front pouch bent over to assist Lou in his gathering of dispersed toys. Lou grabbed them while failing to make eye contact, grunting his thanks. Finally Lou decided to release the dough monster from the buggy. He struggled with the straps for some time while Bud’s screams intensified, and just as someone was close to calling social services, he finally broke his son free. Bud didn’t stop crying, though, and continued to yell, with snot bubbling from his nostrils, his face as purple as a blueberry.

Ten minutes of pointing at trees, dogs, children, planes, birds, Christmas trees, presents, elves, things that moved, things that didn’t move, anything that Lou could lay his eye on, and Bud was still crying.

At last Ruth came running over with Lucy.

“What’s wrong?”

“Woke up as soon as you left, he won’t stop crying.” Lou was sweating.

Bud took one look at Ruth and reached his arms out toward her, almost jumping out of Lou’s arms. His cries stopped instantly, he clapped his hands, and his face returned to a normal color. He looked at his mother, played with her necklace, and acted as though nothing had happened to him at all. Lou was sure that when nobody else was looking, Bud turned and smiled cheekily at him.

STARTING TO FEEL IN HIS element, Lou felt his stomach churn with anticipation as he watched the coastline move farther into the distance and they made their way to the starting area, north of Ireland’s Eye. Bundled-up family members and friends waved their support from the lighthouse at the end of the pier, binoculars in hands.

There was a magic about the sea. People were drawn to it. People wanted to live by it, swim in it, play in it, look at it. It was a living thing that was as unpredictable as a great stage actor: it could be calm and welcoming one moment, opening its arms to embrace its audience, but then it could explode with its stormy tempers, flinging people around, attacking coastlines, breaking down islands. It had its playful side, too, as it tossed children about, tipped over windsurfers, and occasionally gave sailors helping hands — all with a secret chuckle. For Lou there was nothing like the feel of the wind in his hair and the sun in his face as he glided through the water. It had been a long time since he’d last sailed — he and Ruth had had many holidays on friends’ yachts over the years, but it was a long time since Lou had been a team player in any aspect of his life. He was looking forward to the challenge, not only to be in competition with thirty other boats, but also to try to beat the sea, the wind, and all the elements.

In the starting area they sailed near the committee boat Free Enterprise for identification purposes. The starting line was between a red-and-white pole on the committee boat and a cylindrical orange buoy that was left to port. Lou got into place at the bow of the boat as they circled the area, trying to get into the best position to time it perfectly so that they’d cross the starting line at just the right time. The wind was northeast force four and the tide flooding, which added to the sea’s bad humor. They would have to watch all that to keep the boat moving fast through the choppy, lumpy sea. Just like old times, Lou and Quentin had already talked this out, so both knew what was required. Any premature passing of the starting line would mean an elimination, and it was up to Lou to count them down, position them correctly, and communicate with Quentin, the helmsman. They used to have it down to a fine art when they were in their teens; back then they’d won numerous races and could have competed with their eyes closed, merely feeling the direction of the wind. But that had been so long ago, and the communication between them had broken down rather dramatically over the past few years.

Lou blessed himself as the warning signal appeared at 11:25. They moved the boat around, trying to get into position so that they’d be one of the first to cross the starting line. At 11:26 the preparatory flag went up. At 11:29 the one-minute signal flag went down. Lou waved his arms around wildly, trying to signal to Quentin where to place the boat.

“Right starboard, starboard right, Quentin!” he yelled, waving his right arm. “Thirty seconds!” he yelled.

They came dangerously close to another yacht. Lou’s fault.

“Eh, left port! LEFT!” Lou yelled. “Twenty seconds!”

Each boat fought hard to find a good position, but with thirty boats in the race, there could be only a small number that would make it across the starting line in the favored spot close to the committee boat. The rest would have to do their best with stolen wind on the way up the beat.

Eleven thirty heralded the start signal, and at least ten boats crossed the start line before them. Not the best start, but Lou wasn’t going to let it get to him. He was rusty, he needed some practice, but he didn’t have time for that. This was the real thing.

They raced along with Ireland’s Eye on their right and the headland to their left, but there was no time to take in the view now. Lou thought fast and looked around him at all the yachts racing by, with the wind blowing in his hair, his blood pumping through his veins, feeling more alive than he’d ever felt. It was all coming back to him, what it felt like to be on the boat. He was slower, perhaps, but he hadn’t lost his instincts. They raced along, the boat crashing over the waves as they headed toward the weather mark, one mile up in the wind from the starting line.

“Tacking!” Quentin shouted, watching and steering as the team prepared. The runners trimmer, Alan, checked that the slack on the old runners had been pulled in. The genoa trimmer, Luke, made sure that the new sheet had the slack pulled in and gave a couple of turns on the winch. Lou didn’t move an inch, thinking ahead about what he needed to do and watching the other boats around them to make sure nothing was too close. He instinctively knew they were tacking onto port and would have no right of way over boats on starboard. His old racing tactics came flooding back, and he was quietly pleased with how he had positioned the boat right on the lay line to the weather mark. He could sense Quentin’s confidence in him gaining at their now favorable position when the tack was completed, powering toward the mark with a clear passage in. It was Quentin’s belief in him that Lou was fighting to win, just as much as first place.