The Watersport’s going like a bat out of hell—fragging near seventy clicks, according to the speedo—and it feels like a live thing under me. I do a couple of quick turns, just to scope out the maneuverability. This baby’s way more nimble than anything I’ve ever ridden before, but that’s no surprise. Just the slightest shift of weight and millimetric adjustment of the steering makes the hull carve deep and hard, slashing up a high curtain of water to the outside of the turn. It’s all coming back to me, all the techniques for squeezing maximum performance out of the machine. My muscles seem to remember like it’s yesterday. Shift the weight forward to drive the leading edge of the hull deeper, maximizing the carve. Shift it back to kick the bow a little higher, getting it to plane better over the waves. Argent’s weight is like a sack of fragging potatoes behind me, a hindrance even though he’s starting to get the hang of it, leaning into the turns with me rather than fighting them. It probably doesn’t matter that much, though. The little beauty’s screaming now, skipping across the water, catching a half-second of air off even the smallest wave.