Page 43 of Learning to Love

The boys and I watch the world go by, and I can't help but think of Ellie from time to time. She would love being here in the sun, trying the food, making conversation with people, buying trinkets. We never got around to going on holiday together.

I wonder what she's doing these days. Is she still at Tayla's? Is she still working at the North Shore daycare? Has she found someone else?

I may or may not have checked her Instagram daily. Corey caught me once, rolled his eyes to high heavens. I also caught him checking Tayla's Instagram, but he denied it. I guess we're even now.

The weather started packing in three days ago and hasn't let up since. There's talk of delaying the start to the race.

This morning, the race director is doing a tour of all the teams' quarters, checking in with everyone. "As you're experienced sailors, you don't need me to come and tell you that these are unsailable conditions.”

The breakfast room where we're all gathered is brimming with disapproving sailors whispering their discontent.

The director continues in his clipped British accent. "We're waiting for the go-ahead from the Race Committee, but I'm sorry to say that at this point it doesn't look like we'll be able to start on the first of March as planned. More likely it will be from the seventh of March onwards".

The room is at boiling point by now. I couldn't care less as I'm away from Ellie and everything be damned, but Corey and Florian, among others, are shaking their heads and swearing.

The Director beats a hasty retreat, leaving in a flurry of agitation.

"For fuck's sake, how long are we staying cooped up in here? I'm keen to get going." Corey's impatience is clearly showing. He drums his fingers on the table to a rhythm known only to him.

"I suppose they don't want us to get hurt,” I say. “They're being careful. I don't mind waiting," I offer, hoping to lead by example.

Corey lets out a deep sigh. Florian clears his throat and takes a serious drink of coffee.

Jonny, one of the British sailors who is meant to be on our boat, swings by our table.

"Hey lads, all good? Up for a game of Catan to pass away some rainy hours?" He's cheerful and carefree, and for once I wish I were in his shoes. No visible past traumas, maybe no girlfriends left behind.

Florian perks up. "We need a couple more for Catan. Do you think you can rally some other guys?"

Jonny laughs. "Sure do. There's three of us Brits plus two Kiwis and a German here. Reckon we have enough."

I'd hoped to go exploring some more in the area since we couldn't train or depart, but the constant rain has smothered that idea. Maybe a morning of board games might make the time go faster, and I'm keen to meet others who love sailing as much as I do.

Corey stays silent but follows us to a bigger table, so I gather he's participating. We join Jonny, Cam, and Phil—the British contingent—at the table.

Jonny takes charge. "Right folks, do you know the rules?"

We all nod.

I'm a bit rusty, I haven't played board games since … since I took Ellie to my parents' house at Christmas. I scratch my head. My chest tightens. Ooof. I haven't told them yet. They're going to be disappointed. If I tell them today, that gives them a year and then some to get over the breakup, to forgive me. Not likely. Not sure even I’ll have forgiven myself by then.

"...Ten points to win the game. The winner gets a bottle of whisky of their choice." Everyone laughs at that, but it seems I must have missed a joke.

Corey's relaxed now, cracking jokes with the others and being his usual charming self. Even Florian chimes in from time to time to make fun of my game choices.

"So, what brings you here, guys? For a year-long race?" Phil, the older British sailor, asks, a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.

"I want to win." The words are out of my mouth, before I realize what I'm saying. I’ve always wanted to win. Winning means I’m alive. Winning means I’m worthy … I look down before I say something stupid.

Phil laughs. "Of course you do. We all do."

Corey's looking straight at me. "Not as much as he does."

I'm two thirds of the way to my victory points, and the others are starting to cotton on that I'm on track to win the game.

"Hey, that's not fair. Block him." Cam, a British sailor in their early 20s, tries in vain to rally the troops.

Corey rolls his eyes. "Nah, that's what he's like, wants to win every time." Corey just sounds resigned. "If only he were so determined in hispersonal life." He raises an eyebrow at me.

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