As they tacked back and forth past the busy wharves of Boston’s Inner Harbor, he took to the basics of sailing with surprising speed. Of course he’d know the principles, but that was a long way from a small sailboat heeled over twenty degrees and scudding fast before a sharp breeze. Not once did he pull the tiller the wrong way—he pulled left to turn the bow right from the very first time. The tricks of sail trim, coming about, and even jibing rapidly fell to his sharp mind and comfortable agility.
There was a neatness about him that she enjoyed watching. Every motion was thought out, but not in some drill instructor mandated precise motion. Roy Wilkinson moved like an efficiency expert, pre-judging each motion.
For a long time they sailed in silence, communicating with nothing more than
