It was quite a hike out there and it was then that something
odd struck me. Why had they asked for me to bring an overnight bag on an ice
cream delivery trip?
Maybe there'd been a change of plans, I thought. But it
wouldn't be the end of the world to be back in my snug room that night, sending
out emails, selling my photos and story to the world.
On the horizon I could see that wing, taller than a jumbo jet
is wide, a sun bright dagger cutting the sky, powering Luna Rossa quicker than even a speed boat could travel, and if
rumours were true they'd make it go even faster. As we approached I could see
her head up to wind and furl that headsail, luffing up to a halt just by their
support RIB. It was time to get the trusty old SLR out.
“Well done Buff” said Rachel, approvingly.
It was good to be appreciated, noticed even, as the others
had been rather quiet on the way out, not responding to Buff’s gentle ribbing.
“Port side” said the big man, and the others lined up, a
long row of Prada t-shirts, and Rachel handed each of them two ice creams, a
selection of Magnums if I remember right, which they waved at the approaching
yacht.
“Ice creams!” they screamed. “Sponsor refreshments!”
“Nice one” said one of the sailors, covered in sweat, for we
were close enough for me to capture shots of the drops trickling - no, flowing
- down his face.
“Cracking good idea” said another.
The skipper, not Francesco, but someone I didn’t recognise,
did mutter something about no one telling him, but that was it. We were
universally welcomed, which made the surprise all the greater when the big man
leaped on-board and stuck a gun to the skipper’s head.
“No one move” he commanded. “And no one use a radio!”
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