Andy hurried to the cockpit. "Mutt and Jeff go sailing."

"Just hook it on the backstay, will you? Christ, I need a break. We've been straight out since you got here."

"Twenty-one days," Andy said, because he admired exactness. He lashed the sails down. "I'm going to make spaghetti. Do you want to go below?"

"I'll hang out for a while. Did we buy sauce?"

Andy sighed heavily. "I make sauce," he said. "I don't buy sauce." He climbed below and minutes later the galley counters were swamped with ingredients from the food lockers.

Wind moaned through the rigging. Mitchell pulled on an old wool sweater and pushed his elbows into the back of the helmchair to arch his back so the sweater would fall around his torso. He pulled on his hat and stuffed his hands under the sweater and relaxed, watching the harbor traffic.

Andy tore through the companionway. "The stove doesn't work!" His shoulders slumped as he hung his head.

Mitchell watched him for a long moment. "We should've checked it."

Andy jerked his head up and glared. "We’ve got twenty-six dollars between us. Remember? We couldn’t afford another day in the yard. How much do you think we could do in three weeks? Resurface the hull, step the mast, tune the engine, shop for gear and food and catalog all these charts." He was pressing his fingertips to his thumb as he counted. "Find a dinghy, paint it, study every night."

Blow off the steam Mitchell thought. "I’m tired too. But we need hot food. We should've checked the stove."

"What do you want to eat?"

"Whatever you make is good with me."

"I'll soak some pasta," Andy said. "It'll take a while."