Sulu paused, eyes fixed on the two thin ropes he had stretched vertically on the board he now balanced on his up-turned thighs. Lines of frustration burrowed their way out from the corners of his eyes. He growled under his breath and began to tear at the horizontal rope twisted around it.

"What are you doing?" Kirk asked curiously as he paused next to the Helmsman's seated form.

"I'm making a lanyard," the Helmsman explained.

McCoy stepped up on the other side of him and eyed the board. "What's that used for?"

Pausing again, he twisted his head and peered up at the Doctor. "It's used to make myself look busy," he smirked. "So Pavel doesn't find me any real work.

"Haven't you ever noticed that our Navigator is always busy? You never see him just sitting around doing nothing."

"He has a very driven personality," the Captain agreed.

"Pavel Chekov can be exhausting," Uhura observed emphatically from where she stood, arms draped leisurely over the ship's wheel.

"It has nothing to do with his personality," Sulu elaborated. "It's training. Sailors are never allowed to just lounge around: they have to keep busy." He shot a warning glance at the Communications Officer. "No talking, Nytoya."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," he declared. "It's just tradition: superstition. The boat steerer isn't supposed to talk while at the wheel."

She rolled her dark eyes dramatically. "Well, fiddle-de-dee."

Kirk spun the roll of adhesive tape he held around his fingers."It did take me time to get used to my Chief Navigator drumming his fingers on the console in boredom."

Chuckling with abandon, Sulu went back to twisting the loose ends of rope around the ones fixed on the board.

The Captain shifted his jaw, eyeing the younger man carefully. "Hikaru?"

"He's not drumming his fingers," the Helmsman commented without looking up. "He's practicing piano pieces."

"Piano..." Kirk stopped and straightened. "Piano pieces?"

"Yes," Sulu said. "Spock knows: he's even corrected Chekov when he's hit the wrong note."

The image of his First Officer tapping on the console flitted through his mind. He'd always assumed he was recalling the Navigator to his duty. "Well," the Captain commented. "The only down time Chekov does seem to allow himself is while he's on duty at the Navigation counsole,"

An explosive burst of laughter erupted out of the Helmsman and he stopped his knotting as his whole body shook with amusement. "Jim," he asked when he'd regained the ability to speak. "You don't actually still think Chekov's the fastest Navigator in the Fleet, do you?"

Kirk's jaw hardened, realizing full well he was at a disadvantage. "He's the fastest I've ever seen."

"Jim," Sulu smiled broadly. "Chekov plots every possible course he can imagine you might ask for when he comes on duty, and at least one for his own amusement. He refigures them constantly as time goes along. He says it keeps him well trained.

"I don't know if our Chief Navigator is the fastest in the Fleet, but he's certainally the most prepared."

The Captain sighed, feeling as though he'd been completely removed from his own bridge crew. "Hikaru," he prodded. "What course does Chekov plot for his own amusement?"

"Oh, that." For the first time, Sulu showed hesitancy. He cleared his throat and looked around furtively.

Kirk's eyes followed the Helmsman's gaze. He was obviously checking for his friend's location.

He cleared his throat again. "Let's just say it wasn't a stuffed Russian bear he slept with as a child." A smile swept over his face again. "His colorful companion was of the rodent variety, Jim."

Chuckling in understanding, the Captain shook his head in amazement. "Ah, yet another Russian invention."

"I don't get it," McCoy blurted with obvious irritation.

"Disney," Uhura supplied light-heartedly. "He plots a course to Planet Disney, Doctor."

Sulu's dark eyes shot over to her in surprise.

She smirked and shrugged luxuriously. "I've been in his cabin, love."

"Doesn't he have the two of you doing something?" the Helmsman questioned suddenly, scowling up at Kirk and McCoy.

"What he has us doing is sticking tape all over the ship," the Doctor rasped, rubbing the back of his neck vigorously.

The Helmsman gestured up at the spiderweb of hemp lines above their heads. "He has you labeling the lines. How else are you supposed to figure out which rope does what? Haven't you heard the expression 'learning the ropes'? You're pretty useless here until you know them."

"Hikaru, we've been up all night and it's dawn. I'm exhausted and starving," McCoy complained. "I hereby resign from busy work."

Sulu ducked his head down, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing again. "Were you in the rec room last week when Riley threw his latest fit?"

"He was having a problem with Chekov's supervision style," Kirk commented with a wry smile.

McCoy scowled in concern. "I was under the impression that our Navigation team liked the Chief Navigator."

"They only have the same problem with him that Riley has," the Communication's Officer elaborated. "Riley screwed up a repair and Chekov was an utterly patient mentor. They just wish he'd get angry once in awhile, or even dole out some old-fashioned discipline."

"I've never known Ensign Chekov to have a problem expressing his anger," McCoy rasped.

"He's hot-headed," Sulu agreed. "He doesn't get angry."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't understand what their complaint is."

Sulu's eyes drifted past the Doctor as he spoke. He hurriedly went back to knotting the ropes in his lap. "You will," he muttered.

There was a thud as Chekov's bare feet hit the deck behind them in the bow of the ship.

McCoy twisted around, steel blue eyes narrowing as they shot from the Ensign to the rope ladder he'd just jumped off of. "That's how you damaged your hips!" he declared. "You told me you used to jump out of a tree you always climbed as a child."

"No, Sir," Chekov replied, scooping some items off a nearby hatchway and trotting up a short companionway to approach his shipmates. "You came up with that one. I just didn't argue."

"Well, stop it!" McCoy protested. "I'm not repairing your hips again."

Pausing by the Doctor, the younger man was shaking his head. "No one climbs off the shrouds, it takes too long. You jump."

"I don't plan to go up them to begin with," McCoy retorted.

"Well, here," the Navigator continued, shoving more tape and markers into the Doctor's hands. "I notice that you and the Captain seemed to have run out of marking supplies," he observed, a note of chagrin in his voice. "I'm sorry your work was delayed by my inefficiency."

Sulu coughed reflexively.

Scowling, McCoy glared at Chekov. "Why don't you just say 'get back to work'?"

Soulful brown eyes stared at him innocently. "You were doing such a good job, I'm sorry you had to stop," was what Chekov said. "Forgive me.

"You only made one mistake," he continued, pulling a piece of yellow tape off a nearby pin rail." He pointed up. "See? There are no blocks on this line: it's standing rigging. It gets labeled with red tape. Yellow is running rigging."

"What's the difference?" McCoy shrugged.

"The difference," Chekov said patiently, "Is that it's holding the ship together and if you ever untie a line labeled with red, I'll kill you."

The Doctor glanced at Sulu. "He seems to be working on that discipline problem."

The Helmsman laughed.

"I don't see any air between your ass and that deck," Chekov commented, glaring at Sulu sharply. "Sailors don't sit."

Sulu scrambled to his feet, but was relieved from further attention by Uhura's giggle.

"Luft," Chekov warned her.

She glanced up at the sails to see the flutter in them that Chekov had only heard. Panicked, she quickly adjusted the wheel she held. There was a loud crash overhead followed by an endless stream of snaps.

With two quick strides, Chekov reached the wheel and grabbed it. He pulled it toward him until the sails roared again: screaming against the wind with the strain.

Uhura's graceful hand touched the base of her neck as she tried to catch her own breath. "Sorry," she gasped. Her dark eyes looked up at the stretched canvas, echoing with sound. "I always thought sailing was peaceful and quiet."

"Everyone does," the Navigator commented, swiveling around to the other side of the wheel. He popped open a door on the console in front of the wheel and studied the machine it hid.

"What is that?"

"Shows the course we've sailed," Chekov answered. He shifted so that she could see it.

She looked chagrined. "Not very straight."

"Neither is the wind," he smiled warmly. "We're right on course, Nytoya."

Uhura straightened and regarded him curiously. "I wouldn't mind having you for a boss."

"Tell me that in a week," he commented as he closed the door. "Hikaru, get over here and take the wheel."

"No," the Communication's Officer protested. "I can do this, really."

"I know: you did," the Navigator agreed. "You've been here two hours, though. A trick at the wheel is only thirty minutes. It's stressful.

"Besides," he winked at her knowingly. "Sulu can use a break from talking."

"I don't know how to do this," his helm partner insisted as he stepped up beside them.

"You can learn: Uhura will teach you. He who pilots ships knows what there is to know of beauty and can close his eyes in death," he quoted elequontly.

"I'm perfectly happy not being prepared for death at the moment."

"Well, you have no keys: you can delay finishing that keyring. Go ahead, Nytoya: pass on the skills."

"It's a bracelet," Sulu called after him as he left them.

"I stand corrected," Chekov drawled, gesturing elaborately without turning back. "You can certinally use the ornamentation.

"Are all the lines labeled?" he asked the Doctor, who was still standing watching them.

"Why don't you just call them ropes and sails like normal people?" McCoy rasped irritably.

"There are only seven ropes on a sailing ship and that line you're holding isn't one of them. Feel free to label the bell rope as well, if you care to."

"Listen," the older man continued, anger creeping into his tone. "You've had us up all night. We had to put that damn wood on top of the sails..."

"Gaffs," Kirk interupted. "He gaffed the sails, Bones. It increases the acreage, makes them handle easier and requires less people to handle them. Pretty important with so many green sailors aboard," he observed.

"Well, all this other busywork: cleaning the decks..."

"You swabbed them," Chekov corrected patiently. "It keeps them wet so they don't shrink and we don't have to pay...caulk them. If you were cleaning them, you'd be on your knees with a brick and sand. I'll show you how to holystone later, if you like. I plan to avoid paying any of the seams."

"Labeling all the ropes?" the Doctor charged.

"What does the line you're holding do?"

McCoy scowled, his irritation growing visibly. "It controls the peak of the mainsail," he retorted.

"You didn't look," the Navigator commented with bright eyes.

"Fine. Fine," the Medical Officer retorted. "But I don't see why we had to do all this in the middle of the night. A sane person would have left in the morning!"

Chekov stopped, soulful brown eyes widening as he regarded the Doctor. He shifted after a moment, deep lines of concern furrowing across his brow. "I sorry," he said with a thick accent. "I make mistake, I think."

Kirk struggled with himself, but then just let go and outright grinned. His new Chief Navigator had just confirmed what he long suspected. The breadth of his accent and his command of the English language varied by the situation Chekov was in. The Captain knew now that it was entirely on purpose. Kirk wondered if he'd ever actually heard the man's real voice.

"What day this?" Chekov was asking the Doctor.

McCoy shrugged. "Well, it's Wednesday."

"Oh," the Navigator replied, blinking in confusion. "Sorry. I mistake again. What da.." he hesitated. For a moment, he looked almost panicked, gesturing as if trying to pull words out of the air. "Number," he finally pronounced. "What number?"

"What?" the Doctor demanded in confusion.

"The twelfth," Kirk answered. "It's the twelfth, Pavel."

"Oh," the younger man said again. He thought for a moment. "Day race begins, no? In Russia, day starts–at night. Not so in America?"

The Captain laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. "The day officially starts at 12:01 a.m. everywhere on Earth," he confirmed. He had followed Chekov's lead on the schooner without questioning it as the Doctor had. Now, however, Kirk realized something. Chekov had given a great deal of thought to his first command, as it were. And he showed skill at it.

"What means... 'race'?" the young man was asking intently. He didn't wait for an answer. "I think means...get there first?"

"Of course that's what it means," McCoy rasped, shifting in irritation. The Navigator's contrived voice had long since passed the point of being cute.

"Ah," Chekov mused. Dark eyes bright, he smiled brilliantly. "I think who leaves first, gets there first. No?"

McCoy screwed up his face and looked away, rolling his eyes. He shoved his arms across his chest to contain his embarrassment.

The Navigator's smile twisted into a crooked, wild grin and he laughed. It was a kind laugh, however.

"Doctor," he explained warmly, his accent fading as he spoke. "This is a sailing vessel. We were only allowed to use the engine to get out of harbor. We rely on wind and water to move. When we left there was a strong tale wind and the tide carried us out to the current."

He gestured toward the back of the ship, his eyes taking in the empty expanse of water behind them. "The tide is coming into San Fransisco this morning and they have a head wind. You have to pilot a ship to actually understand what that means to someone trying to leave harbor and set sail."

Brown eyes shifted to take in the acres of canvas straining against the wind above their heads. He shrugged: downright cocky. "They already can't win, Doctor."

"Well, can we at least eat breakfast now?"

"Of course," Chekov replied amiably. "Just as soon as you cook it."