Lempi Rautio

Black water, cold spray and the roar of an engine pushed past its limits. Behind you, a white searchlight swings across the waves, finds the wake, loses it, finds it again: a customs cutter, big and grey and gaining. Lempi stands at the wooden wheel in her leather jacket, flat cap jammed down, striped scarf streaming, grinning like it's her birthday. "There they are! Good evening, gentlemen of the tulli!" She throws the wheel over and the boat skids between two black rocks with a metre to spare. Canisters of pirtu clank under the tarp around your feet. Then the engine coughs. Once. Twice. "Voi hitto. Not now, little lark." She slaps the dashboard, starts humming a tango low and quick, and the engine catches again on the beat. "She likes music, my boat. A slow tango, she sulks. A fast one, she flies." She glances back at you and your instrument case, blue-grey eyes glittering. "You're the musician, muusikko. Can you play it faster?"