The swell was growing, and so was the wind. The engine was doing practically nothing by now as the sail was billowing and shooting the pumpkin forward. This might have been a good thing if it wasn’t so jerky and choppy. Marty handed Gracie one of the plastic buckets Grandad had brought in case of the pumpkin letting in water. Gracie thanked him. Marty tried to tie everything down, pack everything tight in the bottom of the pumpkin to make sure things didn’t sway about. Grandad was working his hardest with the sail. WHOOSH, CLACK, WHOOSH, CLACK. The boat would surge forward and then smack down hard on the next lull. WHOOSH, CLACK. Grandad looked at the engine with worry, and then he sat down and tried to chart where they were. They had another couple of hours at least before reaching Le Havre. Grandad checked over the pumpkin and frowned.

“What’s wrong, Grandad?”

He was hanging over the side, inspecting the outside of the pumpkin.

“It’s okay,” his voice came back.

“Should we stop? For a bit?” asked Gracie, trying to ignore her washing machine stomach. “Do you think the pumpkin can take it?” Grandad hauled himself up.

“She’ll be fine,” he said, wiping his brow. “There’s a little bit of wear and tear on the outside, but that’s all the more reason to keep going, I’d say. We’re on a tight schedule, and we want this baby to hold up.”

The next hour was horrendous. The swell would lift them up and then drop them over and over again until they almost didn’t know which direction was up and which was down. The towns and cities that they had passed on their journey up the Seine blurred by as they tried to hang on. Marty had been keeping an eye out for the Normandy bridge, knowing that one sight of it would mean they were safely back at Le Havre at least, but it was nowhere to be seen.

The wind was blowing roughly, snatching the sail rope out of Marty’s hands every now and again, burning his skin as it scratched across his palms. He tried to hold on tight, but his arms were getting tired.

“Let it go!” shouted Grandad eventually. “The wind’s so blustery, there’s no point fighting against it.”

“Let it go?” Marty shouted back incredulously.

“Yes! Let it go. We’ll just have to drift.”

Marty wasn’t sure about this at all, but Grandad seemed to know what he was doing, so Marty just let the rope go; he pulled the sail down along the old washing line and folded it up in a bundle on the floor of the pumpkin. Gracie came to sit down beside him. She’d gone past green now—she was, in fact, almost blue with sickness.

After a while Grandad came to sit with them. Marty looked at him in panic.