The modest Tanka craft began to rock. Cheung looked up just in time to see that British launch boat roar by, much too fast and much too close. It kicked up a massive wave that rolled over the deck of Lee’s fishing boat and put out the small flame over which the young people were cooking.

“Diu!” cursed Lee. “Dead white ghosts.”

“Never mind,” said Tak-Tam. “The pot is still hot. The rice will cook on the heat that remains.”

Cheung shook his fist. “Get away from here! Barmy bastards!” Though he was promoted to head cook only last year, he’d been working at the HKCC since he was a young man, so his English was pretty good thanks to his daily contact with the British club members and the education in curses that accompanied his early lessons in dishwashing, floor scrubbing, mantel dusting, and, later, menu preparation.

The launch boat circled back. The young captain, drunk and in a daredevil mood, cut as close to the modest fishing craft as he could. Another great wave washed over the deck and dumped Tak-Tam, Ting-Yan, their vegetables, and their pot of fish and rice into the ocean. The day’s catch followed them. Both young people were good swimmers. Like sleek porpoises, they glided to the starboard side and climbed up the ladder—first Ting-Yan, then Tak-Tam.

But lunch was gone. So were the fish that the friends had spent the morning catching. From the deck of the launch boat came the clamour of drunken young British men laughing and shouting obscenities.

Cheung yelled at the idiot bastards while Lee pulled the green tarp over the boat’s roofing frame to create shelter for the kids.

The British men hooted and shouted in response. They swooped around for a third pass, but didn’t cut quite so close this time. The little fishing boat rocked, but didn’t tip. The drunkards zoomed off into the next cove. Peace returned once more to Clearwater Bay.

“Stupid foreign devils,” said Cheung, wiping water from his face.

“Curse their mother’s holes,” said Lee, wringing water from his soggy singlet.

“Imagine if we hadn’t lost the Opium Wars,” said Cheung.

“The bay would be so peaceful,” Lee said. He had the mop out and busily swabbed down the deck.

Cheung said, “We’d have a good lunch and a decent catch to cook five different ways tonight at Tai Hang.”

“I’m sorry, Brother,” said Lee. “I was looking forward to your wife’s rice noodles with beef.” He laid the mop in its special compartment beneath the gunwale.

“Heh,” said Cheung, “the beef noodles didn’t go overboard! Yim-Fong knows you’re coming and will have made them anyway. She doesn’t know we lost the catch!”

“My stomach is already growling.”

“We wouldn’t have lost the Opium Wars if our great-grandfathers didn’t get addicted to opium,” said Cheung.