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faster than any ship could go—faster than any fish, for that matter! His new shipmates in the Pirate Youth had called the contraption a kiteboard. No one had taught Dean how to ride it, but his wheelboard experience had helped himpick it up rather quickly. Under different circumstances, he would have actually found kiteboarding to be great fun, even if he did feel as if his arms got ripped of their sockets every time the wind changed direction.
    Dean rode up over swells of seawater like ramps, launching himself into the air. Once he was airborne, the sail lifted him even farther. The wind pulled him twenty, sometimes thirty feet up into the sky and just as far across the water. He twisted and turned as he went. When he wasn’t sailing high above the ocean, he was skidding across its face like a fisherman who had hooked a whale but was too stubborn to let go of his line.
    All the while Dean raced across the waves, spinning and thrashing, he paid close attention to a length of rope that trailed behind him. The rope was hooked onto a harness on his waist that tethered him to the
Reckless.
He was careful not to run out of line as he flipped from wave to wave. The fog was thicker than paint, but with a little persistence, he spotted the soft glow of lanterns advancing through the mist. Ringing bells told him a ship was up ahead. Dean turned his sail into the wind and came about, heading for a large square-rigged merchant vessel christened the
Santa Clara.
    He sped toward the ship, caught a wave, and jumped. A strong updraft carried him high into the air, and he let the wind carry him as far as it could. When he finally began his descent, he waited until the last possible moment and then let go of his sail, whichflew off and disappeared into the fog. Dean continued to fall, faster now, bearing down on the
Santa Clara
and its unsuspecting crew. He pulled his legs up to clear the ship’s gunwale as he closed in and just barely made it over the side. He touched down with a thud, and his board skidded across the deck’s wooden planes with rapid bumps. Sailors’ heads spun around from every direction as they let out shouts of shock, alarm, and general confusion. Dean sprang up onto the quarterdeck, snatching a cutlass from the side of a slow-footed seaman as he ran. Quick as lightning, he unhooked the thick rope tied to his harness and lashed it around the mainmast, thus connecting the
Santa Clara
to the
Reckless.
Once he was certain his knot wouldn’t come undone, he started reeling in the slack.
    “Who the devil are you?” a voice called out. Dean raised his eyes toward the stern end of the quarterdeck, where a man stood in a cabin door. He wore a bright red coat with fine gold trim, and buttons made of polished brass. Oily black hair fell down around his shoulders in tight curls. He had a thin mustache and the air of a man who thought a great deal of himself. Judging by his formal dress and general tone of righteous indignation, Dean concluded he was the ship’s captain. “Well? Speak, boy!” the captain demanded.
    Dean put up a finger, instructing the man to wait as he hauled in the rope that tied the two ships together. The captain stood dumbfounded as the boy went on with his work. Rope piled upat Dean’s feet until at last he pulled and the line did not give. He gave it two good tugs to signal his mates, and dropped the line on the deck. “There.” He clapped his hands together and turned to face the simmering captain. “You, sir. You asked me a question just now. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. What was it you wanted to know?”
    The captain scowled at Dean. “I want this boy in irons. Now.”
    Two able-bodied sailors stepped forward to take hold of Dean. They were tough, weather-beaten men with leathery hides and fists the size of horseshoe crabs. Dean grabbed the cutlass he’d stolen as he came on board and cut through the air like a swashbuckler. “I give you fair warning. Any man who lays a hand