We passed under the Verrazano bridge, and the bay opened up. I spotted Coney Island in the distance, the Wonder Wheel spinning as we rounded out into open water. Cooper smiled and pulled the boat around into the wind.
He locked the wheel and reached for my hand. “All right. Here we go, Mags.”
I followed him up to the front of the boat where he silently slipped the rope in the halyard and hooked it into the mast, then hoisted the mainsail, pulling the rope hand over hand, face tilted up to the sun until it hit the end. He wrapped the end in a figure eight around a cleat and we moved to the next. He tied the halyard to the second sail the same way and hooked it into the jib, then he shot me that beautiful smile of his again.
“Together?” He extended the rope, his eyes shining so brilliantly, I could barely breathe.
The boat rocked under our feet, and I smiled back before taking the rope. We raised the sail together until it hit the top, and he cleated the rope as the sails snapped and flapped, the ship rocking against the waves as we hurried back to the wheel.
I knelt on the bench, face turned to the wind, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Hang on,” he called, and my heart beat faster, adrenaline pumping as he turned off the motor and turned the wheel. The wind caught the sails with a heavy thump of canvas, and we began to move, slowly at first, then faster until we were racing across the waves.
It was like nothing I could have imagined. I had no idea ships could fly.
Cooper
She hung on to the handle on the back of the bench, her eyes on the horizon, cheeks flushed as a laugh shot out of her. The sound was wild, full of abandon and wonder.
I knew the feeling. It was why I sailed.
We rode in silence, the only sounds the rushing wind and crash of the water against the hull, both of us taking the time to appreciate the day, the moment, each other as I tacked toward the shore.
She shook her head and turned to me after a long while. “This is incredible, Cooper.”
I gave her a smile with my hands on the wheel and the wind in my hair.
She looked toward the shore as we passed Coney Island. “Why aren’t we going straight?”
“You can’t sail directly into the wind … you have to skate across it at an angle, then switch back. It’s called tacking, like a zig-zag.”
“So, you just turn the other direction?”
I smiled. “You have to adjust the sail when you tack, catch it from the other direction of the sail. Tacking is when you really do work.”
“How often do you tack?”
I shrugged. “Shorter tacks would get us there faster, but they’re more exhausting. We’re not in a hurry, and I’m not trying to expend all my energy sailing. Not when I’ve got you for a whole night to myself.”
She laughed. “Long tack it is. How long until we reach the Hamptons?”
“About five hours. I made reservations for dinner, but we should have plenty of time to shower and get settled in at the beach house.”
“I’m so excited right now!” she bubbled, and I laughed, leaning over to kiss her.
“Good.”
The day was perfect — clear skies, steady wind, and Maggie on my boat with a smile that rivaled the sun.
“Can I walk around?” she asked. “I’m not going to get knocked off the boat or anything, right?”
“No, you’ll be fine. I’ll let you know before I tack the other direction. This,” I pointed at the bottom of the sail in front of us, “is the boom. It’ll swing around when I jib — turn — but I’ll let you know before that happens, every thirty or forty-five minutes.”
“Ooh, I’ll wait. I want to watch you do that.”
I smiled, feeling larger than life.
“We’re close enough.” I reached over to the jib’s rope and unwound it, hanging on as the boat drifted through the wind in a lurch.
Maggie sat down, watching me.
The boom swung over our heads as the sail changed directions and caught with a snap, and the boat turned sharp, angling the deck as I held on, pulling tight to secure the sheet on the opposite side of the boat. Maggie gasped, hanging on with her eyes on the ocean as we straightened out. I grabbed the wheel, adjusting the angle until the wind hit the sail in the sweet spot.
Her eyes were huge, cheeks flushed as she gaped at me. “That was fucking awesome!”
I laughed. “Keep an eye on the boom, okay? The wind could shift and move it, but you’re fine once you move up to the mainsail.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said with a smile and climbed out of the cockpit.
I watched her walk along the deck, hanging onto the rope guardrail until she reached the bow and stood in the wide space made by the angle of the mainsail, hanging onto the rope, hair flying.
I wished I could see her face.
She sat after a moment, watching the ocean, and I stood at the helm of my ship with the wind rushing past me, feeling like everything was right. As if everything was exactly what it should be, where it should be. And when she looked back over her shoulder at me, I knew it was true.
Maggie
Hours later, I felt wind whipped and sun worn and absolutely amazing. I’d never experienced anything quite like it.
Cooper Moore — nautical badass. Who knew.
I sat next to him in the cockpit and watched him, talked to him, laughed with him. I sat on the bow of the ship where the wind was the strongest, feeling free, full of hope. For a little while, I sat in his lap, steering the boat under his direction as he told me what we were looking for — the fullness of the sails, the direction of the wind against them. And the rest of the time, I watched him navigate his ship, the attention to every small detail as deliberate as it was second nature.
By the time we reached Shinnecock Bay, I wasn’t ready for the ride to end. I took comfort in that we’d do it all again in the morning, and after watching him handle his ship all day, I was ready to have him to myself, with no distractions.
He pulled into a slip in a marina in the north of the bay that he’d reserved, and he called for his car service before showing me how to close up the boat. We grabbed our things, and I felt so unbelievably good as we walked out of the marina and slipped into the backseat of the car waiting for us. I was tucked into his side, watching out the window as we rose up the coast, past a few subdivisions until the driver turned down a long driveway.
You wouldn’t have known it was there if you weren’t looking for it — the unimposing entry with a gate just past what you could see from the road. The driver pulled up to the box where Cooper punched in a code, and once the gate opened, we drove over the hill.
My mouth dropped open when I saw the Hampton house at the bottom.
It was a beachy Cape Cod with dark wooden slats and white trim, a massive home, but somehow it didn’t feel pretentious at all. It looked homey, sitting there on the beach without another house in sight, the ocean stretched out forever beyond. Like a safe haven, secluded from everything.
It was a bubble I had a feeling I may never want to leave.
The driver pulled around the circular driveway, and we climbed out. Cooper picked up our bags, smiling at me over his shoulder as he unlocked the door. And when he pushed it open, I stepped inside, holding my breath.
The quiet house looked like it came straight out of a design magazine. Everything was crisp and clean, modern and simple, as unassuming as the exterior of the house in whites and grays and dark wood. The furniture looked comfortable and simple, and my eyes followed the exposed beams across the ceiling.
I’d never seen anything so perfect.
“I can’t even believe this is real.” I was still looking around in awe as he stepped up behind me and took off his sunglasses.
“Welcome to the Hampton house.” He kissed my hair, close enough that his chest was against my back.