Firestorm

“So, what’s the catch?” he said as he toyed with the RC Sailboat. It wasn’t like any he’d seen before- most were made of plastic and gears, but this one was sleek and wooden, with yellowed canvas pulled taut against the mast.

The antiques dealer chuckled and smiled. “This isn’t Needful Things, sir. No curses or charms, I can assure you that. At Barton’s, we only buy and sell the best.”

“Who sold you this, then?” He was now searching the bottom of the boat, feeling the flex of the miniature rudder with his fingers. As an accountant, he knew the power of a dollar. Purchasing was a painful, articulate process that he loved to indulge in.

The antiques dealer seemed up for the challenge. “If I remember correctly, it was six years ago. His name was Charlie Van Huffman. Short ol’ chap who’d trundled a load of goods in from his grandfather’s attic. Along with a few candelabras and jewelry stands, there was this racing boat. He promised it would live up to all expectations, although he’d never personally used it. One moment, let me see if I can…” The dealer’s voice died as he walked briskly to the back, his hunch apparent in the mote-covered cottage.

Alone, the accountant could now study the boat in more detail. He could tell it was handmade- each nail punched with precision, each head as granular as sand. Yet it was light, too, and he imagined if he dropped it, the boat wouldn’t fall to the ground but rather drift downward, like a feather in the wind. He wiped the dust off the side and saw there was a name painted across the hull in intricate red cursive- Firestorm. He liked that name because he knew Grant would like that name.

The man came back, holding a chaffed silver controller, his wrinkles stretched against his smile. “I knew I had it back there” he said, and added “It might need new batteries, but it should work.”

He handed the remote controller to the accountant, which was heavy and cold, and made him believe the two products were from different worlds altogether: the boat, some cavalier handiwork from the 1500’s, and the controller, an artifact from the Cold War era. But together, they seemed right, balanced, and he asked the question that always came before disappointment. “How much?”

The dealer squinted his eyes, as if pulling a catalog from the depths of his dying brain. “If I’m correct, I can let this go for 300$”

The accountant winced, his wallet already feeling a bit lighter. He thought not of the price, but of his son’s love, of his companionship. Eleven is a tough age to crack as a parent, and the accountant was not doing well- he spent more time at the office then necessary, and at home they had nothing to talk about. He wanted that to change, and he hoped a shared hobby might do the trick. So how much would he pay for that, for a chance at reaching his son?

“250$ and you have a deal.”

The antiques dealer smiled and nodded. “Let me bag that up for you.”

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It was a light Sunday morning, in that everything seemed to be brighter. The sky was a pale baby blue, the sidewalk white and shimmering, Croaking Man’s Lake a dazzling sea of jade. Upon it were ten sailboats, each the size of a dollhouse, and emblazoned across each sail were patterns of green, blue, red, and streaming telltales.

The Firestorm was the odd duck out. Its yellow sail seemed discriminatory on a day so full of shine, and it moved across the starting line slowly, on the outskirts of competition, like some old man who had convinced himself he was just as capable as the others. This was mostly Grant’s doing, as he’d never sailed nor driven an RC of any kind.

“Stay calm, Grant. Head into the wind and let your main sheet out. That way, you’ll be able to luff until the race starts.”

His face turned beet and his blond brows crossed. “What does that mean, Dad?”

“It means turn your bow towards the buoyed line and push on the left stick.”

The Firestorm began turning, and the accountant felt some pride in his guidance. That was until the Firestorm had over rotated and began letting its sail out on a downwind trajectory. Suddenly, the wooden ship had taken off down the lake, faster than he imagined it would, and soon it was twenty lengths from the start. A small whistle went off, and each boat seamlessly passed through the line, except their own.

“Grant, why did you do that?”

“I don’t know where the bow is, Dad! I’VE NEVER SAILED A BOAT BEFORE!”

The boat was now spinning in circles, while Grant’s fingers moved sporadically like some panicked octopus. The distance between them and the competition was increasing. “Let me see it,” the accountant said, and pulled the controller from his son’s hands. Grant did not object; he only frowned.

The accountant had never been a video gamer, or a RC hobbyist, but he had always liked to sail. He had done it with his own father, in those early dawn weekends when the lake hadn’t been greeted by the sun yet. In those mornings, the lake turned into its own blue environment, something alien and beautiful, where the wind pushed silently through the pine covering, just enough to keep a slow, steady reach. He had loved sailing the Catamaran with his father- he wanted that feeling again.

So, he jammed the right stick hard and pulled in the left stick slowly. The Firestorm responded like a dutiful pet, turning into the wind, and catching some power in its taut sail. A wake began to form behind the small wooden rocket as it roared down the lake once more, only this time towards the buoyed line.

“Woah! We’re flying, Grant! We might catch up to them!”

Grant wasn’t smiling, too distraught by the day’s failure, but his eyes were wide with attention. He pulled the right stick towards him, tacking parallel to the buoy, then tacked again, this time on a perfect trajectory for the first turn around. Most of the boats had already passed this obstacle, but there were a few still trying to make it, and the Firestorm embarrassed them, burning between their line of wind, and cutting them off at the turning point. Quickly, the accountant let out the sail as the Firestorm began its downwind crusade, and with a base so light, it began moving like it had at the beginning- faster than anyone imagined it would. On that downwind leg, the Firestorm moved from 8^th to 4^th place, and cut perfectly into the final leg.

“Hey, Dad, I think I got it. Let me try it ou-”

He could feel the cusps of Grant’s fingers on the cold metal box, but he pulled away, almost snapped at the touch. He wanted to win this, and he knew he could. The Firestorm was fast, and the controller patient- if he could just make the right moves, the trophy would be theirs. He didn’t care much for the trophy, but for Grant to see him as a winner, talented at something other than bookkeeping, he would pay millions.

The accountant pulled everything in- his direction sharp, his sail crimped tight- and the Firestorm screamed in reaction, as if he’d attached nitro to the rudder. Now, other families were staring at his crudely shaped boat not as a lemon but an apple, a golden one to be exact, one so rare it must be coveted. They moved easily into 3^rd position, and the accountant peeled left, tacking into the final line to set them up for the finish. The two other boats, one with red stripes across the sail, the other a plain, blue Escow, were aimed directly for the buoyed line, about 20 feet from their bows, desperate to finish and claim their podium. These weren’t threats, though- the accountant knew that the Firestorm had more in the tank, and he was prepared to use it. Jibing into the final press, he made sure everything was perfect; rudder positioned, main sheet trimmed, tell tales firm to the sail. And the Firestorm pushed, harder than he’d ever felt before- water churned over the wood, turning the beige planks a wet black and misting up against the canvas. It was a gust of wind, low on the water, and the Firestorm had claimed it first. Before the other ships could react, the Firestorm had streamed into 2^nd and, at the last second, took 1^st by a nose.

“Yes!” the accountant exclaimed, his hands above his head in Rocky-style victory. The crowd around him clapped lightly, and he’d never felt the sun’s rays feel so charming, so warm. He wanted to see his son, see the shine on his face at their mutual achievement… but where was he? He’d been next to the accountant the whole race, he’d thought.

The accountant walked around the lake, looking for his boy. As he searched, one of the organizers handed him his two-tiered trophy and expected a little speech from the newcomer. The accountant just shrugged and kept walking- the moment, without his son, was utterly deflated. After twenty minutes, he happened across two legs, peaking from the tunneled exit of the jungle gym slide. The accountant stuck his hand in and fished out Grant. They walked in silence back to the pickup truck.

On the way home, the accountant was the first to speak. His hands were at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel- the little things in his life were always proper- but he spoke softly, and the hurt was tangible.

“We won the race.”

Grant sat in the passenger seat, his feet tucked to his chest. “I can see that.”

“Why didn’t you stay?” The words were more earnest than accusatory.

Grant sighed and looked out the window. “Because I don’t like sailing. And I don’t like racing.”

There was a silence. They were at a stop light. The accountant’s head dropped to his chest.

“I just wanted something we could share. Something we could do together.”

Grant snapped his head at the accountant, his eyes glazed and squinting. A pale wick of fury had been lit within the boy. “Share? We didn’t share anything! I raced for thirty seconds, while you barked orders that didn’t make sense. Then, once I understood what was going on, you never gave me a chance to try again!” He paused, looked out the window, then snapped back once more, and spoke in a solemn tone. “This wasn’t about us. This was about you. About winning.”

They were quiet as they drove down the country road. It was one the accountant had grown up on, yet it never felt so foreign. He had tried to make a connection- and he had failed. What did he lack that he and his own father had crafted so easily? His headache made him want to lock himself in his office. Numbers, he thought, were easy- there were rules, regulations, strategies. Feelings were so much harder. They were messy and complex. Unfamiliar to him.

He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the tip of the yellow sail in the bed of the pickup. He silently cursed the thing for ever coming in his life. That dusty dealer told him there wasn’t a catch, and he had lied. The boat excelled in all but one area- reaching his son. In that category, the Firestorm was completely defective. He should just get rid of the thing.

And that’s when an idea sparked, clean and blue and crazy. Up ahead on the left was a cutoff lane that led to a lesser-known lake in town. It was where his father and him used to spend their mornings. Now, he cut into it, the pickup spurring on its wheels, Grant hurling his face into the window.

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Finding something we can share,” said the accountant.

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The Firestorm stood on the marshy bank of the lake, just as fearless as the day he’d bought it, with one exception. It was now soaked with kerosene. The accountant had some extra from a recent barbeque at the office, and he let Grant use as much as he liked. Grant took up that challenge and sprayed it everywhere- in the gurney, up the mast, even across the deck.

And now they pushed it slowly into the blue water, letting the tide take it from their hands and, with a final push, farther into the middle of the lake.

“They call this a Viking funeral,” the accountant had told his son. “It was done in Nordic culture to celebrate things that brought honor and victory to the tribe.”

Grant had a tight smile on his face. “Are you talking about our tribe?”

“Yes, Grant. The Firestorm did well today. But it’s time for the boat to live up to its name.”

Now, with an outstretched arm, Grant tossed a lit match at the tip of the mast, and it coiled around the wetness like a lost family. It began to burn fast, curling around the yellow canvas and turning it black, then setting ablaze across the soaked wooden deck. Both Grant and the accountant had a hand on the remote now, and together, they inched the last living motor to keep going, where it floated in the center of the spring.

There it burned, wildly, heroically, the crisp yellow flames a torch in the secret blue haven. The mast was charred and orange, but it never broke, keeping its strength as Van Huffman promised it would. Grant stared up at the accountant and smiled, a real one that made him wrap an arm around his boy.

“Hey, Dad?” Grant said.

“Yeah, son?”

“Next time you want to share something… maybe we just play catch?”

The father laughed as he watched the black boat sink beneath the water.