Bogart the Boat Salesman's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Bogart was coiling a line on the new rescue boat when he heard the engine. A small runabout ripped across the harbor at full throttle, throwing a wake that slapped the mooring posts of the marina. The driver stood at the wheel with a beer in one hand. No life jacket. No spotter. He cut hard between two moored boats and the hull skidded sideways. Bogart dropped the line. He knew that turn. One more like it and the boat would flip. He ran to the boathouse and pulled an inflatable vest off the wall peg. He shouted up toward the boathouse loft for Diane. No answer. Her truck was gone from the gravel. He was alone on the dock with a boat he had never run in a real call. The runabout came around again, closer to shore this time. Bogart cupped his hands. "Kill the throttle! You're going to roll her!" The driver laughed and raised the beer. Bogart measured the distance. Thirty yards, maybe less on the next pass. He grabbed the vest by its straps, wound up, and hurled it out over the water. It landed square in the boat's path. The driver saw it late, jerked the wheel, and the runabout heeled hard. The beer flew. The driver went over the low side and hit the water. The runabout kept going, circling on its own, engine screaming. Bogart was already moving. He jumped aboard the new boat, keyed the engines, and threw off the lines with one hand. The twin motors caught. He eased out of the slip, then opened the throttle once he cleared the marina. The driver was thrashing thirty yards out. No vest. The tossed one bobbed past him, out of reach. Bogart brought the hydrofoil around upwind and cut power. He killed his engines so the props wouldn't drag near the man, then leaned over the gunwale and caught his wrist on the second try. He hauled him up onto the deck. The man coughed water and swore. Bogart pushed him flat and looked for the runaway boat. It was still circling, faster now, arcing toward the moored line where a family stood watching from a dock. Bogart restarted the engines. He caught the runabout on the outside of its arc, matched its speed, and jumped across. His water shoes slipped on the wet deck. He grabbed the wheel, chopped the throttle, and killed the ignition. The boat coasted to a stop fifty feet from the moored line. Back at the dock, Bogart tied both boats off. The driver sat on the planks, shivering, ticketed by his own stupidity. Bogart looked at the new rescue boat. The paint was scraped along one rail where the runabout had rubbed. The boat had worked. He had worked. But he had been alone. If the man had gone under, he could not have driven and pulled at the same time. He needed Diane on the water, not off it.