Andy appeared again and climbed down to blow a warning.

"There’s nothing more to do here," Mitchell said. "Leave me the horn and go below. Start a meal for later then get some sleep if you want."

"I can’t sleep in this."

"Then make us one of your soaked pasta specialties. We’ve done what we can. We’re not going to sit here worrying."

Andy climbed below and stood for a while in the galley to ponder the opened food lockers. Then he began cluttering the counter with ingredients.

Mitchell steered through the fog. The hours are just hours he thought. Long because I’ve spent so little of myself beyond the work to be done. Time in one measure or another, my heart and this inner stillness steadfast throughout. All the changes in so many places. Today it’s a compass course and damn close to the sea grave.

Another hour disappeared. Andy brought up bowls of food and Mitchell ate only because he needed the strength from it. When they had finished Andy took their dishes below then climbed back up.

"How much longer to the turn?" Mitchell asked.

Andy looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes," he said and his head jerked up as a faint belly-growl of diesel engines chewed through the fog.

"Big boat," Mitchell whispered.

"Ahead or to port?"

"Ahead. I think it’s ahead."

A boat was coming at them. "Turn," Andy said.

"Blow the horn."

Loudness all around them now, diesels reverberating off the fog crystals. Andy raised the horn to his lips.

"Do it!" Mitchell shouted and Andy blew into the mouthpiece. Nothing. "Blow the horn!" Engine blast vibrated the decks and shivered the helmchair. "Get down, Andy!"

An avalanche of curved white hull exploded through the fog and Andy toppled backward onto the cockpit sole. Mitchell would have been there with him if he wasn’t paralyzed. "Tighten the sheet!" His voice drowned in sound shock, the yacht’s enormous side glistening like wet skin as it passed within arm’s reach of the sloop’s rail. Mitchell guessed its stern and then jerked the tiller to his throat with both hands clutched at the teak as the wake rolled under the hull. The sloop pitched then rolled hard and righted itself.

Mitchell worked his tongue to make saliva. "Tighten the sheet," he said, grateful for his voice.

Andy scrambled onto the bench and stopped suddenly with the sheet frozen in his hand. Somewhere a horn blared. "Another one," he whispered, staring into the fog.

Mitchell exhaled his will. To hell with it he thought. "Get a life jacket." The horn blared again.

"It’s a marker," Andy blurted and stood to search for it. He checked his watch and the knotmeter. "Come to three-forty-one degrees." The horn blared off to port.

"This is simple?" Mitchell eased the tiller away and the sloop pushed deeper into the fog. Astern now the horn grew faint, its sound disappearing, taking with it its reassurance. Mitchell heard sea foam gurgle along the hull. Has it been there all along? Am I relaxing? No. I’m trying too hard. Where the hell does all this end? Ahead, of course. Beyond these thoughts.