The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos
boat shudder in the water, and even without a headsail we heeled over.
‘Chier. C’est le Bornan,’ said Matt. ‘We have to head directly into it, then maybe we will be protected by the French coast and we can use a little sail to tack back to port. Lucie, can you close the hatches on the cabin here? I will keep the tiller. I think we’ll have some waves.’
As soon as he said this, the surface of the lake whipped up in front of us. I could see it travelling towards us: a battalion of ripples followed by the frothing heads of horses. The boat seesawed, hull banging into the irregular waves, and spray flew at us over the deck into the cockpit. I scrambled to batten the hatches. My experience sailing Optimists in my youth had not prepared me for this. Matt only had one set of wet-weather gear on board. He made me put it on over my already sodden clothes.
The water felt freezing in the wind. It soaked Matt’s cotton T-shirt, his muscular arms glistening. He ripped it off and put on a fleece I had retrieved from below before closing the hatch. It wouldn’t keep him dry, but the synthetic material would keep him marginally warmer than the cotton of his shirt.
We made pathetic headway into the gale, the wind whipping my hair from my face. An angry purple sky loomed over the mountains ahead. We were experiencing the full force of the unpredictable weather patterns on an alpine lake. The enormity of its power was to be respected at all costs.
And then the motor died.
‘Merde, merde, merde,’ muttered Matt. I looked at him questioningly, wondering why he wasn’t attempting to restart it.
‘We’re out of fuel. I had meant to refill the canister before we set out today. I completely forgot. I didn’t think we would get this far down the lake. We’ll have to sail home.’
I was prepared to go up on deck and hoist the jib back out of the forward hatch, but Matt shook his head.
‘We’ll stay with the main. I need to reef it. When we come round, you’d better hold on tight.’
I took the tiller as Matt hauled up the outboard motor, and pulled the kicking strap tight on the boom. I stowed the loose items in the cockpit under our seats, including the cushions on which we had been soaking up the early summer sun only minutes beforehand, and which were now soaking up gallons of the spuming lake.
The process of tacking up the lake back to port proved laborious. Matt didn’t want to leave the protection of the hills near the coast as we could see the water rising in the centre of the lake, giant waves running into each other from all directions as the lie of the land caused the wind to swirl. The boat heeled, even with such a small sail area. Water banged against the hull, halyards screeched, and I swallowed my fear. Matt yelled his instructions at each tack, his face set in determined concentration, but not losing his cool. I had confidence in him, and tried to suppress the panic that lay squirming in my belly.
When we eventually limped back into port, it was with some embarrassment we were forced to use the emergency oars to bring the sloop back to its berth. With rain now lashing down, there were few witnesses to our homecoming, and relief shone from both our faces. The three of us were intact. Matt, me, and the boat.
‘In any other wind I can usually sail right into her berth,’ he boasted.
As I tied up to the ring on the jetty and Matt hooked the buoy to the stern, a satisfying exhaustion infused our limbs. We stood in the cockpit, the boat still rocking on the rough water lapping into the port. He wrapped his arms around me, and we shivered together. Despite my discomfort, I felt elated.
‘I couldn’t have done that without you.’
He looked lovingly into my eyes that were smarting with the wind. He stroked my cheek, gently pushed the tangle of hair from my face, and kissed the top of my head.
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