The Keel Sprint

I stepped onto the transom of an overturned wooden skiff resting on sawhorses near the dock. Its hull was freshly varnished, smooth and amber in the morning light. Ahead, the curved spine of the keel ran twenty paces in a straight line toward the bow. I dropped into a low crouch, fixing my eyes on the brass stem cap. Pushing off, my leg hinges snapped into a dead sprint. The slick timber offered little friction, but speed held my balance. Two strides from the drop, I shifted my weight back into a hard heel slide, coming to an exact halt just an inch short of the metal cap.