And then: to the waterline. Into the dinghy, onto the river. An hour of light left at most. The rudiments of sailing were still unknown to him, but he did not want lessons and he could not wait. It was a small boat, a small sail; not enough moving parts to get too much wrong, he figured. Out he pushed over the shallows. He gripped the rigging. Wetted a finger in his mouth, raised it to meet the wind’s direction. Felt a breeze. Hoisted his sail.

He expected nothing to happen, so he didn’t let himself become dismayed. He knew it would take practice, knew he would have to learn. He unfurled the sail, swung the boom, lowered the centreboard, then strove to capture the wind’s current in any way he could. After half an hour an invisible fist pushed into the sail’s midriff, swelling it enough to pull the dinghy forward, and they were away, Ned and the boat, the boat and Ned, not fast, not thrill-inducing, but moving under power not their own: sailing. He fiddled with the rudder, which was functional but not entirely smooth, guiding them back and forth across the bay. Zigzagging, switchbacking, watching at all times the play of the wind in the body of the sail.

He wanted to fly out into the river proper, but as soon as he gained enough confidence the day betrayed him, the sun losing itself in the west. The final light died over the hills. He turned to the shore and sailed for home, the oars still stowed, a feeling of ecstatic accomplishment flashing through him, a feeling beyond language. His life widened. Time wobbled. He grazed the truth of his dreams, grazed a world frozen perfect, if only for the length of the dusk.

~

Over the next week it became clear to him how poor a sailor he was. He’d thought the processes would be intuitive, but they weren’t. He didn’t know the first thing about sailing, wasn’t able to effectively operate the sail, didn’t know what to do when the wind changed, or when the waves got up, or when he wanted to alter course, and when he did get the sail up he couldn’t figure out how to get it working in unison with the rudder. The two things were constantly in conflict. He’d blow about on the river’s face for hours, going nowhere.