Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

“A sloop came up behind us from the east on course to intercept, so I tacked to port.”

“You sound worried.”

“No, not really, but the boat turned with us.”

I stopped mid sip and looked at him. “Is there a problem?”

“Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything, but the sloop made several tacks with us. It’s probably nothing.”

“What are you thinking?”

“It was strange, that’s all. Usually sailboats give other boats a wide berth, but this one took active measures to hang with us.”

“Why would they do that?” I asked.

Brad sighed. “Don’t freak out, okay?”

“You’re scaring me.”

“It’s nothing, but there have been incidents of piracy around Indonesia,” he said.

“Pirates? Are you kidding me?”

“It has happened. It’s not as bad here as it is off the coast of Somalia or near the Persian Gulf, but Indonesia has their fair share.”

“But pirates? This is the twenty-first century.”

“I’m not talking about eye patches and parrots. They have AK-47s and meth addictions.”

My fingers tensed around the coffee cup. “Wouldn’t they use a motorboat?”

“Probably. I’m being paranoid.”

“Should we call someone? Radio for help?”

“We can if they show up again, but I haven’t seen them in hours. The Indonesian Sea and Coast Guard patrols the Johor Strait, and I doubt we would see pirates this close to Singapore. Their chance of capture is too high.”

“But if they’re pirates?”

“They’re not.”

“Humor me,” I said.

“We call for help on the emergency channel and head towards the closest port. We shut off the AIS, so we don’t broadcast our position and identify ourselves.”

“Maybe we should turn it off now.”

“I already did, two hours ago.”

The hair on my neck stood. I swiveled on the bench and peered over the transom. Blue water stretched to the horizon. “I don’t see anything.”

“They’re gone. It’s nothing. Really. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

“Brad, if we have a problem, I want to hear about it. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Brad flashed a condescending smirk, like it was ridiculous for me to assume I could help. I had the urge to tell him his recent behavior bordered on misogyny, but why inflame his insecurity? It was too early in the morning for a fight.

“It’s nothing. I’m going to rack out for a few hours. I’m feeling worse. Take the helm?”

“I’m worried about your health,” I said.

“It’s only a headache, fatigue . . . some joint pain. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sicker.”

“I just need sleep.” Brad walked to the companionway and stopped with one foot on the stairs. “Wake me if you see anything, uh, concerning.”

I nodded, and he disappeared below. I scanned the horizon again. The idea of pirates seemed ridiculous. I poured myself another cup of coffee and settled in behind the wheel. The back of my neck tingled—as if someone watched me—part of the non-visual awareness everyone possessed. I examined the horizon in all directions, but saw nothing, except miles of sea.

I thought about the hospital and working again. Did I have the focus necessary to concentrate on my patients’ needs? Returning to my routine would help, and it would be nice to see Eric again. I missed his company.

The air cooled, raising goose bumps on my arms and shaking me from my daydreams. Black clouds crept in from the east. The morning’s nautical weather report had forecast clear skies with only a ten percent chance of precipitation. Ten percent was not zero percent. It would rain soon, at least a sprinkling.

I slipped below and found my Harvard sweatshirt in the starboard berth. I kept it there, along with a few paperbacks and other things, to avoid having to keep going into the stateroom and waking Brad. I climbed the stairs and stopped dead.

Two sails bobbed on the horizon behind us. I could only see the top of the sails, which meant it was over four miles away. I turned to get Brad and paused. Was I acting melodramatic? Was it even the same ship Brad had seen? He had called it a sloop.

What the hell is a sloop?

I would wait to see if it came closer. I took the helm, flipped off the autopilot, and turned the wheel to port. The wind poured across our starboard side, sending us into a beam reach, and the boat heeled. The deck slanted to port, and I gripped the wheel hard, spreading my feet to keep my balance. Years of childhood ballet lessons had finally paid off.

Brad had said the yacht could safely lean until it reached thirty-something degrees. I could draw a thirty-degree arc on paper with a compass, but it was another thing to estimate pitch on the deck. I extended my arm toward the horizon. Straight up was 180 degrees, meaning my arm was at ninety. Halfway between my arm and the horizon was forty-five degrees. I lowered my arm and compared the angle to the deck. We heeled less than that and the sea was nowhere near the gunwale, so we were safe. Probably.

I scrolled through the control panel. Our speed had increased to eleven knots and swells crashed against our hull. Brad had warned me about sailing parallel with the swells, but I wanted to see if the ship followed us. I flipped to the sail screen and eased the boom out. The deck righted, and the yacht slowed to six knots. The luff edge of the mainsail fluttered, and needed to be trimmed, but heeling scared me. I stared over the transom and the other boat’s sails appeared farther away. Had they turned?

Clouds moved overhead, blotting the sun. Rain pattered on the deck and fog rolled across the surface with the leading edge of the cold front. Within minutes, a turbid stew shrouded us, limiting visibility to twenty yards. At least the other boat could not see us. Would they spot us on their radar?

The AIS was off!

Brad had turned off our radar signature. We would be invisible, or at least unidentified, to other ships. Worse, I would not hear an audible