"Brennert, Alan - Man Who Loved" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brennert Alan)

waterman," she said. "That's good enough for me."

The Sea Breeze was an old trawler, white paint flaking from its cedar hull,
green trim similarly chipping off oak railings. Its deck was scuffed, and
mottled with thirty years' accretion of fish oils, but the moment I stepped into
the small pilot house and took the wheel in my hands, I might as well have been
at the helm of a luxury liner. The old diesel engine wheezed like an asthmatic
at first, then settled into a steady (if somewhat tubercular) drone. I cast off,
maneuvered the boat away from the town dock, and headed out into the channel.

The channel wasn't too crowded-- one or two fishing boats, a half dozen
speedboats. I glided past pilings and buoys, veered to port as I approached
Chincoteague Point, then guided her slowly into the waters of Tom's Cove.

After about fifteen minutes I cut the engine and let her drift for a while, as I
stood by the railing and gazed into the misty distance. Waves slapped gently
against the creaking hull, lulling me into remembrance and reverie. I had it in
mind, I suppose, that out here, on the water we both shared -- the water he
introduced me to -- I would say my true good-bye to Uncle Evan; but it wasn't
meant to be.

As I stood there, all fuzzy-headed and sentimental, I suddenly felt a huge jolt,
the Sea Breeze shuddering beneath me. Rudely propelled out of my daydreaming, I
noticed at once that the gentle rocking of the boat had ceased; it was
essentially immobile. And that could only mean one thing. I hurried forward and
looked out at what should have been the waters of the cove.

An oval of sand extended outward for a good ten yards ahead of the Sea Breeze's
bow.

Damn!

I felt mortified. Aground on a sandbar; Uncle Evan would never have allowed this
to happen. I told myself that this happened to the best of sailors, particularly
here in Chincoteague where sandbars appeared and disappeared like cards in a
magician's deck; but I still hoped to hell that wherever Evan was, he couldn't
see how his clumsy nephew, first time out of the box, had managed to beach his
beloved Sea Breeze on a spit of sand.

Luckily I knew what to do. Well, no luck involved, actually -- Evan had drummed
it into me. I slipped off my sandals and climbed over the side of the boat, onto
the sandbar.

Rather than immediately trying to push the boat off-- the most common mistake
you could make -- I started to pace out the sandbar: that is, walk straight away
from the boat in every direction until I began to hit deep water, so I knew in
which direction to push the boat. I walked twenty paces south; there was a slow
dropoff before I found myself up to my waist in water. I backed up, then went
twenty feet to the west; a steeper dropoff this time. That might be the best
bet. Still, to be sure, I headed twenty paces due east.