"Back to Essex," Mitchell said. "There’s no other place."

Andy stopped in front of him. "Can you afford Essex?"

"Hell, I can’t afford any of this," Mitchell laughed.

Andy looked off at the distance. He shook his head and buckled Mitchell’s grasping glove and then he climbed abruptly on deck to weigh anchor and raise the mainsail. The great sail snapped violently in the wind. Mitchell backed the sloop into the roadstead.

"What do you say we splash our toes out where the big fish roam?" He shouted over the wind. "Let’s go sailing."

Andy looked back at him with both hands on the main halyard. "It’ll be a long haul on your ass."

"It’ll always be a long haul on my ass. What do you say?"

Andy nodded. Mitchell drew the tiller to his chest and the boom clanged overhead as the main blossomed to port. Mitchell pushed the tiller away, wheeling the sloop. "My shoulder feels bad," he said. "But I’ll tell you this, old world. When you’re in this spot next trip around the sun, I’ll be in the islands."

Andy was crouched on the foredeck, watching ahead. Mitchell hoped they would find each other again after this. He hoped Andy would bring his quiet moods, his second-hand clothes, his voracious appetite, his willingness mostly. Andy hauled the genoa aloft and the fabric blew out wide obliterating Mitchell’s field of vision as the sloop heeled, speeding ahead. White foam boiled outward from the hull. Andy hurried aft to trim the sails. Seven knots with the wind full on the starboard beam and whistling loud through the rigging. Down on the leeward side Mitchell pushed up into the tiller to steered for the open sea.

Cape Elizabeth bowed gracefully, like a woman reaching to wet her face. The sloop rushed out of the great Cape’s lee and wind swarmed over the boat, pushing the hull deep into a swell that exploded on the bow, drenching Mitchell in spray blown aft. He laughed aloud, his heart soaring, his mind devouring every sun-sparkle in the vast blue distance.

Andy slid aft along the starboard bench above Mitchell with his feet flat on the bulkhead under Mitchell’s bench. He retrieved a safety harness from the line locker then slid forward on the bench with his back against the deck. The sloop shattered a swell and spray flew over them. Andy was suddenly soaked, his hands frozen on the harness rings.

"What’s the course?" Mitchell laughed and another wave detonated on the bow, the sky raining spray.

Andy shook beads of salt water from his head. He threaded the lanyard through the harness rings and clipped onto the jack line. He was making Mitchell wait. Andy glanced ahead then down at Mitchell. "Two-zero-two," he shouted.

"You’re a real sweet guy," Mitchell called up, easing the tiller down to turn the sloop closer into the wind. The hull heeled harder, the sails moaned. The rail ran close to the sea and sunlight ignited every diamond facet of spray as it whipped the decks and rigging. Seas on the rudder turned Mitchell’s torso involuntarily under the tiller, he planted the heel of his left hand on deck to lock his elbow and push off, raising his weight into the tiller. Pain seized his chest, his heart double-clutched. Spray poured through his hatband down his face. "I’ll taste this sea forever," he said. "Andy make a line to the tiller!"