Run Before the Wind Read Free Page B

green countryside, down to where his land touched the water at the entrance to Kinsale Harbour. There I would walk, leading the animal of the day, and watch the sailboats cruise in and out, or, on Sundays, watch them race--the tiny dinghies with their red sails, squirting here and there. I had spent six summers at a sailing camp on the North Carolina coast--two as a camper and four as an instructor--sailing dinghies and small cruisers, and I thought I might look for a ride in some neighbor's boat. The neighbors, though, were of my grandfather's generation and were more oriented toward horses than boats.
    I drove into Kinsale in Grandfather's Land Rover to shop for him and passed a squadron of young girls playing field hockey in a meadow beside the road. I stopped and watched for a moment, watched their coach, mainly, a sturdy blonde girl of about my own age, with good, if muscular, legs and largish breasts. I experienced a stirring in the loins, I believe the expression is. I have never known exactly where the loins are located, but believe me, they stirred. I must have produced some primitive animal scent that wafted over the field, for she began stealing glances at me, and when the play was over she waved the children back toward their school and ran over to the fence. For a moment I was gripped with a panic that she was angry at my watching, and I nearly bolted, but she was too quick for me.
    "You'll be Miles Worth-Newenam's grandson," she said, still panting from her play.
    "I am," I said uncertainly. This was before I learned that everybody in Ireland knows everything about everyone else.
    She waited for me to say something else, but I couldn't seem to think of anything.
    "D'you have a name, then?" she asked, impatiently.
    "I do," I replied.
    "My name is Will Lee." I was careful, as always, to enunciate clearly. My name could too easily come out as "Willie", and in my South that was a black's name. I was no racist, but like all southerners, white and black, I made certain distinctions.
    "Mine is Concepta Lydon."
    "I perceive that you are Catholic." Oh, God, I thought, now I've made fun of her name.
    But she laughed.
    "You are perceptive, indeed. I mention my whole name to get that out of the way. If you ever call me anything but Connie, I'll punch you."
    I thought she probably would.
    "Connie it is." I groped for some way to continue the conversation. The first few minutes with any new female were always awkward for me.
    "You're a coach, are you?"
    "A teacher. At the convent." She motioned toward the group of low, gray, stucco buildings across the field.
    "But only until four o'clock." She pointed past the Land Rover and up a hill.
    "D'you see that yellow house up there? It's a pub. If you're there in half an hour you can buy me a pint." Without waiting for a reply she turned and sprinted across the field toward the waiting group of girls, who were clapping and jeering.
    I quickly bought my grandfather's nails and paint and found the pub--the Spaniard, it was called. Irish pubs rarely have any of the charm associated with their English counterparts, but Kinsale is on the tourist trail, and the Spaniard was contrived to please a foreign visitor and those locals who liked a bit of atmosphere and a turf fire, even in June.
    Concepta Lydon--Connie, lest I get punched--arrived, bustling, speaking to the landlord and a customer or two. She was wearing a loose sweater which could not conceal her breasts and tight, American jeans designed to conceal nothing but skin. Her hair was still wet from her post-game shower, and her ears stuck out. They were nice ears.
    "There's no natural turf hereabouts," she said, sipping a pint of lager and nodding at the hearth.
    "He must go to Galway to get it.
    The tourists like it, I expect. I like it myself." I liked the smoky, earthy smell, too.
    "Why aren't you in Vietnam?" she asked without missing a beat.
    "Your country's at war, you know."
    "Bad knee. Sports injury," I replied.
    "And my