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scary movies,’ said Michael. ‘Can you make yourself useful and have a look under the sail? Tell me if there are any boats downwind that I can’t see.’
    Zaki scrambled down, taking a little more care than usual, his left side stiff and sore. There were a few open boats fishing for mackerel a fair distance off and a crab pot buoy just downwind.
    ‘Don’t change course until you pass the crab pot,’ called Zaki.
    ‘What crab pot?’ shouted Michael.
    ‘That one!’ Zaki called back, as the buoy bobbed past, only a few metres clear.
    ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Michael. ‘Anything else you’re not gong to tell me about until it’s too late?’
    ‘No. All clear,’ said Zaki.
    ‘As you’re going to be next to useless pulling ropes, you’d better steer,’ said Michael, as Zaki clambered, one-armed, back up to the windward side. They swapped places, Zaki taking over the helm.
    Rounding Bolt Head always seemed to be the slowest part of any journey Morveren made west of Salcombe. No matter how well they planned the passage, the tide was always against them.
    Unlike the other great headlands of the West Country coast – Start Point, Prawl Point and the Lizard, which stab their jagged blades out into the Channel – Bolt Head appears to have been chopped off square and blunt by a mighty guillotine, leaving a precipice that runs for several miles like a massive granite curtain, torn in the middle by Soar Mill Cove, with its narrow beach in a deep cleft.
    ‘If you come up on to the wind now, we should make the entrance,’ called Michael.
    Zaki brought Morveren round to point at the tip of the headland as Michael hauled on the main sheet and then winched in the jib.
    Since the tide was approaching dead low, Zaki chose to play it safe and lined Morveren up with the red and white way marks that guide boats over the Salcombe bar and, as they passed the starboard Wolf Rock buoy, their father joined the boys on deck to get the sails down and furled away.
    As is usual for a sunny day in the summer holidays, Salcombe Harbour was busy with day boats and dinghies, launches and tenders, and Zaki was kept on his toes keeping clear of the small craft races and giving way to ferries and fishing boats. The harbour master came by in his launch but, recognising Morveren as a local boat, he gave them a wave and motored off to assist a large family adrift in a small flat-bottomed boat with outboard motor problems.
    No sooner were they moored than Grandad’s old blue launch nosed alongside. Jenna, Grandad’s black and white collie, gave two welcoming barks then scrambled from one end of the launch and back, wagging her tail, eager to greet everyone. Grandad tossed a mooring line to Michael. Zaki loved to watch the effortless way the old man moved around on a boat, never hurried, never losing his balance; ropes always falling exactly where he intended, judging boat speed and distance with unerring precision.
    ‘What you done to your arm, boy?’
    ‘Fell,’ said Zaki, a little shamefaced.
    ‘Wasn’t expecting you back for a day or two.’
    ‘Think we should get the doctor to take a look at him,’ said Zaki’s father.
    ‘Doctor, eh? Don’t sound too clever.’
    ‘Anyway, they’re back to school next week. Won’t do them any harm to look at a book or two before they start back.’
    ‘Oh, Dad! Did you have to mention school?’ groaned Michael.
    ‘Here, if you’re ready, you can start handin’ down your bits and pieces,’ said Grandad.
    ‘How did you know to meet us?’ asked Zaki.
    ‘Telepathy,’ said Grandad, with a wink.
    ‘Dad called him on the mobile,’ said Michael.
    ‘What we call mobile telepathy,’ said Grandad.
    Zaki winced as he attempted to lift a holdall over the yacht’s rail.
    ‘Come on, young’un, get in the boat. You look about ready to hand in your knife and fork.’
    Grandad steadied Zaki as he climbed over the side and down into the launch. The constant ache from his shoulder had worn