Andy lifted his lanyard over Mitchell’s head. "Nets! More nets!"

Mitchell steered past a circle of red flags afloat on skinny yellow sticks. Five miles off the port bow a ship was closing fast. Mitchell glanced at the compass then searched the sea ahead for nets. The ship closed and came into focus, an ominous grey missile cruiser on an intersecting course. We have the right of way Mitchell thought. Today we’re taking it. The cruiser changed course astern.

"Andy," Mitchell used his eyes to guide Andy’s vision ahead to a paper-thin silhouette spreading slowly across the visible horizon. With crouched steps Andy carried his lanyard to the companionway and unclipped it then climbed below.

Mitchell was soaked with heat and wind and spray, his vision stern and leveled over the foredeck. His right shoulder was tiring and his ankle throbbed with pain. Andy climbed to the top of the ladder with the hand compass to shoot bearings at the purplish-black shadow of land wedging between the sea and sky. He climbed below again. Off the starboard bow, beyond the hard curved angle of the genoa, a tiny speck of dim red light flashed far off. Mitchell waited. It flashed. He waited and it flashed again.

Andy climbed to the top of the ladder and stood sideways with his back braced on the hatch opening to steady himself while he watched ahead. He kept the chart in his hands below the cabin top. "We’re off course."

Mitchell glanced at the compass and shook his head. "Find that light." He aimed his chin. "Big light. Flashing every five seconds."

Andy timed the light then climbed below. Alone, Mitchell leaned inboard to relieve the aching in his shoulder and inadvertently pushed the tiller down, a mistake that turned the sloop close into the wind. The helm shuddered and pain stung his shoulder as the boat turned almost out of control and the knotmeter climbed to ten. He jerked the tiller back to head the sloop for the light and wind roared around his head and in his ears.

Andy climbed into the cockpit, black curls streaming around his face. With a backward hold on the cabin top he clipped his harness to the jack-line and stood before the tiller to face Mitchell.

"We’re almost a mile off course," Andy hollered. "That light is on Thatcher Island below Cape Ann. It’s coming from a hundred and sixty foot tower with a horn. The second tower is an abandoned lighthouse." He turned to look ahead then turned back. "I don’t know how we got so far off course."

"This sea. This wind," Mitchell laughed. "We didn’t compensate for leeway. Can you get us into Gloucester?"

"I can get us onto the Cape if you’re up for it."

"How much farther?"