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There was no end to the journalist, to play detailing the festivities menu. The names of the stars aligned at the helm of those pesky boats rigged with computers, Jaran recognized at the crossing have already heard on TV. He knew what resembled their monohulls and their giant trimarans, these monsters of several tons they flew only the largest across the world's oceans. He fought in the flanks, their circus. Nothing to do with the idea that he was shopping to sailing. On an annoyed gesture, he cut the radio. Silence fell in the room, reviving in his veins the warmth of old memories.

That Sunday, the old had awakened before dawn to order him to join him on the beach of the village. Together, they launched the old motor boat and they were gone, the bow to the wind, intoxicated by the red sky that deployed off its petals. At the time, although he was still a boy in short pants, he had said more than once to accompany his father to help raise traps along the coast. But an exit off just for fun, it was the first time.

The miracle, he guessed the cause. The day before, he heard on the radio announcing the gigs race organized for the patronal feast of Diamond, he immediately thought that his father would not miss the opportunity to admire the show. He himself did not know much about it, then. He just knew that they dated back to the age of the Caribbean ancestors, these boats whose precarious balance on the water forced the crew to skilful maneuvers using "wood prepared" carved rockers like masts or spars bamboo with a machete in the savannah. He did not know, however, because of the incredible passion that the people of the island about these races. On the rare occasions when he had found on the beach of the village to watch the start of one of them, his curiosity lasted only time to see twenty sail away and disappear in horizon.

The boat sped like an arrow on the sea, spanning the waves and tearing the veil of foam. The old man laughed. Jaran had remained seized with astonishment another miracle happened, that day, when he had offered her a shot of rum in his old timpani tinplate. He could have exploded in the heart with joy.
An hour later, off the coast of Diamond, he had seen the first sails couriers. His father was entitled dive on one of them, a red veil Jaran would have recognized anywhere from having often seen at the maneuver when the fishermen of the village were training in the bay.

The sharp chisel carved into the skiff waves silk wide indentation whose white scar slowly faded in his wake. Jaran fascinated watching wild ballet crew men with blades that shot burst and digging under the bow waterfalls gullies like so many traps ready to crush them, ready to swallow them, and close in on them the crumpled sheets of the sea. Clinging with both hands to balance wheels, they were barking of orders, engueulaient by swinging volleys of insults, so that at the hearing, one might doubt the presence board a captain. At the stern, two sailors cut in wardrobe is escrimaient to handle a heavy train that served as a rudder. It was enough to see them to be forever disgusted with the desire to imitate them. Together, these two would have ruined Hercules quenching in person.

Jaran was there his thoughts when suddenly engulfed by a blade, the skiff had plunged. He had believed hallucinate seeing the crew switch overboard and disappear into the mire of foam bubbling around them.
Still clinging to their pendulums they reemerged as a bunch of dolphins playing with the sea, screaming and gesticulating over again to regain their balance. The skiff had jumped shipped by storm. Jaran had pushed a cry, only to salute the courage of the man bow when he saw him lie on his "erect wood" with outstretched arms as if to put the next wave the challenge of successfully unhook from his perch, but it was enough, he had realized, to break the magic of the complicit silence which held them there, he and his father, watching the scene.

The annoyed the old man was going explanations. What was it like, to let go of these emotions kid? Jaran had pulled himself together while they were turning edge, away from the wake of the skiff. Seizing one of horsehair balls rows at the bottom of the boat, he reached into the tackle box. He could not help, however, to return for a last look at the boat struggling with the waves and the large sail deployed seemed tense break under the gusts of wind. The next moment, the look of the old had nailed to the bench with the force of a slap.
"When will you become a man, my son? ".