Kirk stepped back and eyed his handiwork. The brass compass that he'd been polishing gleamed in the sunlight. Satisfied, he turned and regarded his Helmsman. Although reluctant to accept the responsibility at first, Sulu had quickly slipped into an age-old union with the helm of the sailing vessel.
"Hikaru," the Captain drew out, his eyes on man's feet casually resting on the hub of the wheel. "Should you be doing that?"
"Sure," he replied and turned a page in the book in his lap. "I'll show you pictures of Pavel steering the Nelzya when we get back to the ship. Besides," he added, eyes glancing up at the limp canvas above them. "It's not like we're going anywhere."
"True," Kirk agreed. They hadn't any wind in hours. His eyes shifted to his Chief Navigator who stood leaning against the main companionway's housing. Even though the man was figuring something in a notebook the Captain was edgy to be doing something constructive about their situation himself. If the other schooner had wind, they were quickly losing ground.
He reluctantly grabbed the brass cleaner and moved over to the hinge on the rail at the gangway.
Uhura took a seat on the housing behind Chekov, draping her long, ebony legs over the edge and allowing them to hang on either side of him. The Chief Navigator had changed into white cotton pants that clung to his firm hips and thighs but swept loose mid-calf: exposing his ankles and bare feet. And his upper body.
She took to work kneading the knots out of his neck and upper shoulders. "Has it ever occurred to you that I might have a thing for men in power?"
He muttered at her in Russian and she laughed light-heartedly.
"Don't make me hurt you," Sulu grinned, dark eyes glancing over at Kirk as he supplied the translation.
"I knew you'd been home with him, Hikaru," the Captain noted with mild surprise. "But I didn't realize you knew how to speak Russian."
"Just a few helpful phrases. You know: I can proposition a woman."
"Like my mother," the Navigator growled, his eyes closed as he churned his shoulders under Uhura's helpful hands.
"SULU!" she gasped, pausing in her task. "You made a pass at his mother!"
"She's a beautiful woman," Chekov commented easily.
"I didn't know what I was saying at the time," the Helmsman insisted and jabbed a finger at his younger friend. "HE put me up to it!"
The man shot a glare at his helm partner. "I didn't expect you to do it with my father standing next to her."
McCoy turned instantly. "What did the man DO?"
"He hit Pavel," the Helmsman shrugged. "Andrie knew I hadn't learned that particular combination of slang on my own."
The laughter swept around the group and Chekov averted his bright eyes as color flushed through his cheeks.
Uhura took to swabbing his exposed back with sun block and came around the front of him, letting her hand trail luxuriously down his already darkening skin. She let one finger swirl in his glistening chest hair.
"Sweetheart, you're lucky I'm the only woman on board."
"I stand relieved." He moved away then, hoping down to the lower deck and moving toward the bow of the ship.
"Nytoya," Kirk murmured, glancing over at her furtively. "What is your relationship with the other two 'musketeers'?"
"Oh, please," she rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't have a shot if I wanted one. They think I'm their sister." Uhura hesitated then, curiosity skirting in gentle lines across her forehead. She turned to Chekov as he grabbed onto a tarred rope and swung himself up into the rigging.
"Pavel," she asked. "Are there any women in the Russian Navy?"
"Just my mother." He balanced on the bottom of the shrouds and flashed her a brilliant smile, his dark eyes shining.
She laughed. "Oh. That explains..." The woman pivoted and cast an amused look at Sulu.
"Yup," he responded without looking up from his book. "That explains it."
The Captain stopped, gesturing in confusion. "Explains what?"
"Hikaru has been very helpfully translating American idioms into Russian for our young Navigator," she elaborated, an edge of sarcasm in her voice. "Unfortunately, translation between languages is never exact. So 'Your mother wears Army boots' becomes..."
"Your mother wears military clothing," Sulu sighed miserably. He sighed again. "And she does."
Grinning, Kirk moved over to the brass fixtures near Uhura. "So what's the tattoo?" he murmured without looking at her.
She shrugged and began smoothing the sun block on her own arms. "A blue cross with a two-headed bird on it."
"Imperial Eagle," Sulu said from where he sat, glancing up at them. "It's on a St. Andrew's flag. The Russian Navy symbol.
"Pavel," he called out louder. "They want to know why you have a tattoo."
Kirk's eyes widened in horrific embarrassment, but Chekov continued climbing without hesitation.
"Because fourteen year olds are idiots."
Sulu grinned and went back to reading. It was obviously an answer he was expecting. "His father told him he didn't want his son to be the first sailor with a tattoo," he drawled in observation. Pausing to glance back up at Kirk, he flashed him a grin. "So he talked his friend into getting one first."
"Oh, good God!"
McCoy's outburst interrupted the Captain's chuckle. "Bones, are you alright?" he asked with concern. The Doctor was shoving the heel of his palm against the bridge of his nose.
"I'm praying this will cause me to go blind, Jim," he declared.
"Wh..." he froze, pivoting around as McCoy shot an horrified glance into the sky behind the Captain. Chekov was casually standing on the fighting top–cross trees, Kirk corrected himself: there weren't any guns on this ship. Leaning against the topmast, the Navigator had a terrestrial telescope and was scanning the horizons surrounding the ship.
He smiled warmly and turned back to his friend. "Bones, it's okay: he's in his element. Chekov is probably more comfortable up there than on land."
"I can't watch," the Doctor insisted.
"He's coming down," Kirk assured him as the young man grabbed onto a backstay and slid down to the deck.
McCoy growled. "I'm not cut out for this, Jim."
"Captain," Chekov intoned as he approached them. "Drop the anchor."
"Jim," he corrected. "It's Jim, Pavel."
The Navigator sighed and stared at his Commanding Officer a long moment: dark eyes unreadable. "I'm sorry," he replied bluntly. "It's going to take more than seven months and one shore leave."
The Captain gestured understanding. "Keep trying, Pavel," he advised. He swung around then, eyes searching the water around them. Pointing to white caps off to the starboard, he asked: "Can't we make it there somehow?"
Chekov stared dismally at the spot the older man indicated. "Why?" he questioned dryly, turning back to Kirk. "Did you want to go fishing?"
The Captain glanced back at the spot. "Isn't that..."
"Fish."
"It's not..."
"No. It's not wind. It's fish. There is no wind." The Navigator moved past him. "It's bad luck for sailors to fish," he added, his accent thick. "Drop the anchor."
"Where are you going?" McCoy demanded.
"To my cabin. To sleep."