Bluemoon and Explosion, Nice day for a boat race

It was a nice day for a boat race thought Jerome as he watered his geraniums. Jerome had never even seen a real boat in person, but he imagined this was the sort of day that would be perfect. Warm, with a steady breeze. Yes, thought Jerome, if I had a boat this would be the day that I would race it. He pinched off a dead leaf or two, and gave the geranium named “Lucy” a reassuring pat. “Marta, do you have a boat.” Jerome was still speaking at the plants, but louder. He took his time coming in from the terrace to enjoy just a little more of the delicious spring air. “Several, yes.” Marta seemed distant, she was. Marta was on the telephone with Jerome, she was currently sitting in a solarium eating breakfast, and reading the culture section. “Have you got a sail boat?” there was a pause over the line as Marta scowled at an article on tips for entertaining. Jerome took the opportunity to stand there holing his red watering can. “One or two I think” Marta was looking through her reading glasses, over the top of the paper, past the tray of scones, at the black-lacquered Bakelite receiver—with an inquisitive look. Jerome felt his great aunt’s gaze 239.6 miles away, as the crow flies. “Would you mind terribly if I tried racing one? I’ve just had a terrible itch to do so.” Marta was still somewhere between the gall of Pernelopy to suggest serving a fruited cocktail after six, post-meridian, and the delicious blueberry scone perched teasingly atop the pile. “I don’t see why not, you can barrow yourself Gerald’s old pair of deck shoes.” She said this mater-of-fact-ly to the offending blueberry scone, who was threatening her good standing with Dr. Malroy and his cholesterol charts.
It was 3 months and just over two thirds of a day later that Marta Wollerbug stood under a large umbrella held by her valet Hooper on pier 1 in a sea of people watching a sea of water be thrashed about by “‘Thar biggest storm neigh on Ohhh ferfter yar now” according to the weathered man standing decidedly on the other side of Hooper. The crowed was still with baited breath, except for Doc. Waltman who had come to fish, he was still with baited line—unable to get close enough to the water to cast. The officials on top of their wobbly platform let out a whoop, the first ship had been spotted, betting stopped. The ship was quick growing large. It ducked behind lathered steel swells, murder ‘neath its wings—tormented sails crying mercy for land wretched each wave through. Captain and crew lashed to the deck, fighting valiantly to keep her true. The chronograph man let out a squeal “Fastest time in two hundred years” and fainted. The sails gave way as she raced to the dock, “Did you water Lucy Aunty dear?”