Peter drilled out a hole in the new wooden axle in the disk for a metal spindle to slot into. This Peter stole from a rotary foot-pedal grindstone Qhawana used to sharpen his knives. The old man had disappeared again so was not around to complain. Peter took the bearing, and its support, back to the outrigger to work out how to put the wheel-disk into the hull.

‘Maggs… What’s with the hole in the ground under the canoe?’

‘I’ve been thinking what you said about hanging the canoe under the wheel.’ said Maggie. She stood on the centre of the canoe which had been balanced on a log. ‘Breeze and I dug under the hull, placed this log, then dug out the rest of the sand.’ She rocked back and forth with the canoe moving under her. Breeze dashed back and forth with her.

‘And why do that? We’re being serious here.’

‘What makes you think I’m not very serious? It’s so you can find the place to put the wheel.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you want to hang the canoe under the wheel-thing then you need the canoe to balance about the centre. This is how to find where the centre is. Like a seesaw.’

Peter grinned. ‘Exactly. What a team!’

He mounted the disk in the support cradle and lashed it into the hull where Maggie’s balancing set up had indicated.

‘Still going to tip when someone gets in…’ said Maggie.

‘Or when the wind blows…’ said Peter. ‘But that’s okay. We just hike out… lean out like I would sailing.’

‘Hike?’ Maggie had a confused look. ‘What?’ Maggie laughed. ‘Oh I get it… Strange. I got an image of you balancing like an acrobat on the side of the hull.’

‘How?…’ said Peter.

‘Yes. It’s peculiar. Even though I understood your English… I get the underlying meaning from you too… somehow.’

Peter laughed. ‘Like minds think…’

‘Alike.’ Maggie said joining his laughter.

Breeze bounced happy beside them now, and Peter felt that it was all going to be alright.

The old man had been disappearing into the workroom in the tunnels. They dragged Qhawana away with the promise that he could always return. The three got the sea chest down to the stone house where they ate a cold lunch. All the while Qhawana poured over the books and folios he had made them carry down the hill in the sea chest.

In the end he agreed to work with them on the charts. And they were right — the rolled scrolls were a collection of charts and maps of the myriad islands that made up an archipelago. But the real find was a concertina folio that expanded out to show a series of sailing passages between islands, and to the long island away to the south — Qhayanpathi. There were even some coasting charts, with panoramas of that distant land… but no overall chart of the region of the ocean. There was no way to see the shape of the large landmasses to get a global idea how everything connected like they knew of Earth.

‘This is the passage to Zenska,’ said Qhawana. ‘And the view of the harbour from sea identifying the shipping lane into port.’

‘So we know how to get there then?’ Maggie said.

‘No. To navigate you need to know how the chart relates to reality.’

‘I figured as much,’ said Peter. ‘This thing might almost be a compass rose. These must be numbers… they’re almost like Arabic numerals.’

‘That’s strange.’

‘Who knows. Perhaps some ancient mariner came to Eoth with that knowledge but its changed since then?’

‘We still don’t know how this world relates to ours… or even if this Eoth is somehow our Earth.’ Maggie said. ’Or if we’re still just lost in a dream?’

‘So. How do we do that?’ Peter said. ‘Find out how these maps relate to real directions? Map the whole island? That will take ages.’

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The next day they took the outrigger mash-up down to the lagoon.

At first Peter did not know where Maggie should sit. In front of the mast? Or next to the keel-wheel? And every time they moved the balance changed.

‘It’s really like a sort of trimaran now. I guess the first catamarans were based on this kind of sailing canoe.’

‘There’s never been anything quite like this before.’

‘No.’ Peter studied the keel-wheel that had been lashed into the canoe — adjusted many times — until finely balanced. They needed to spin it up and then see where Maggie should sit.

‘It’s too late in the day.’ Maggie gazed over the lagoon. ‘The sun will set soon… and I smell barbecue.’

‘There’s a wind blowing onshore for a change. I want to see how this all works now… so we can leave.’

‘So soon?’ Maggie walked towards the stone house.

‘You don’t want to go? To find the way back home?’

‘We need more testing…’ Maggie paused. Peter saw her frown and grinned in turn.

‘Exactly. Let’s get her in the water now.’

They pushed the tri-rigger-wind-skiff-mutant-sailboat down the bubbling stream where they had been working the last few days. Then paddled it knee deep into the lagoon. Peter hauled the mainsail up while Maggie held the hull steady into the wind. All the while Breeze lounged next to the wheel-keel amidships. As the sail filled Maggie stepped onto the bow and slid past the mast where she sat in front of the wheel-keel. Breeze slipped his hand onto her shoulder.

Peter pulled the sail in, and turned the tiller towards him to angle the outrigger so the onshore wind filled the sail. They moved forward — but slow — Peter spilled most of the wind from the sail wary of tipping the boat until they could test the disk.

‘Now guys! Get the wheel-keel going.’

‘Aye aye Captain,’ said Maggie.

Peter refused to rise to her baiting and kept his eye locked on the masthead and the wind direction indicator. A slow thrumming built as both Maggie and Breeze spun up the wheel-keel.

Peter had enclosed the disk in a basketry weave taken from a couple of Qhawana’s baskets to protect it. The old man had not been around to complain when he destroyed his fine handiwork.

Ribs on the wheel-keel’s woven edge from the basket bases made it easy for it to be spun up to speed by hand. The bearing ran smooth and the wheel-keel now spun in a blur of flickering blue light within the basketry.

The canoe steadied in the water. The hull rose until it slipped across the surface just above the water with only the outrigger on the lee side of the sail splashing white foam. Peter twisted the tiller to push the rudder — testing the steering. The hull changed direction with ease even as they picked up pace.

‘Peter…’ said Maggie. Concern made her voice waver.

‘It’s okay… we’re okay…’ Peter smiled now as hope swelled in his chest.

The gentle wind picked up, Breeze’s fur-feathers rippled as he turned to flash a grin of excitement at Peter. Or what Peter thought was a grin, because it might have been the same as Maggie’s look of fear and concern.

‘Slow down Peter… I mean it.’

‘No. We’re good. I can feel how the wheel-keel keeps us steady, and I have control…’ He proved this by adjusting the tiller and the outrigger danced for him as if on a string. Then the main hull tilted over, the downwind outrigger dug into the water further. With a whoop Peter leaned out onto the outrigger and settled the angle.

‘Better than hiking out even…’

The outrigger shot forward in a spray of foam.

‘Peeee-teeer…’

‘Yeee-haaaa,’ Peter yelled. He tucked his feet under his hiking straps, leaned out and forward with the mainsheet close-hauled — and let rip another whoop of exhilaration.

‘Beat that SailGP!’

He pulled the mainsheet in tight until his fist rested against his chest, then adjusted the tiller to keep his heading.

‘Go back… now…’ said Maggie, fear in every breath.

Peter grinned as the wind-blasted sea spray boiled from the rudder into the air around him. It would be great to sail on and on, out of the lagoon and away from everything. On a broad reach across the wind you cared not a bit about anything except speed, holding on to it, and how to go even faster.

‘This is what I call sailing. Woo hoo!’

‘Peter!’ yelled Maggie. ‘Stop. Go back.’

Peter glanced at Maggie, saw the fear on her face. If only he was alone and did not have to deal with her or, or Breeze, or — anything except sailing.

‘I mean it. Or I’ll… scream.’

‘Oh alright…’ said Peter. ‘Going about…’ He pushed the tiller away from him, then in deft move slipped across to the opposite side of the boat as the outrigger came back to the level. The main hull rose to skim the wave tops, the outer outrigger lifted clear of the water, as the other kissed the surface. The sail whipped across and they were on the other tack.

‘You could have warned me…’ said Maggie who had ducked her head just in time.

‘Right… sorry.’

Then the wind caught the sail on the opposite side of the canoe and, with a surge, they sped forward again. But just as fast the outrigger twisted into the wind and hit the water with a burst of spray and bounced into the air again.

‘Damn it. The rudder came out of the water.’

The sail flapped and all was confusion for a moment until Peter ran his hand on the spinning wheel-keel to slow it down and they fell back into the water with a slap.

‘See. I told you it was too dangerous.’

‘I guess putting the rudder on one side of the hull is not going to work,’ Peter said. ‘Fine in one direction, but not in the other.’

‘No more of that Peter.’

‘We were never in danger.’

‘We were going so fast… too fast.’

‘But in control…’

‘Until we weren’t.’

‘Easy fix,’ said Peter. ‘Just need to balance the steering setup…’

They pottered back, and Peter’s wisdom in sailing into the onshore breeze became obvious. They almost didn’t need to sail — they could drift home.

But to get away from this remote island, to Zenska, he would have to steer not where the wind blew them, but where the map directed. If they could just work that out.