"Say when!" Andy reached up to unclip his harness then lowered himself into the companionway and disappeared below.

Mitchell’s right boot was under a stream of water rushing aft and bailing through the cockpit drains. Spray blew furiously across the sparkle of glazed white sail fabric. Beyond the rail sunlight wove threads of foam off the wave crests. "This is the answer to all my questions," he said and his heart was pounding. "Laughing through a hard blue sea."

Andy climbed slowly into the cockpit using hand holds. Dressed in his foul weather gear he had Mitchell’s rain jacket hanging by its collar from his teeth. He stuck his foot on the inner deck rail to brace himself with his leg between Mitchell and the compass.

"Get the hell out of my line of sight!" Mitchell shouted above the wind tumult.

Andy raised his index finger and lifted himself to clip his harness lanyard to the jack-line on the high-side. He reached into the cubbyhole beside Mitchell for the container of sun screen and then plastered a sloppy handful of cream onto Mitchell’s nose and cheeks and on the back of his neck. The sloop bucked into a big swell and they lowered their heads under huge spray. Andy held Mitchell’s jacket like a matador’s cape.

"Wait on it!" Mitchell shouted.

Andy shook his head no. Mitchell twisted his arm out of the line and reached into the jacket. Andy pushed it up and around his shoulders. Taking the tiller behind Mitchell’s hand Andy slipped the line off the helm. Mitchell glanced at the compass. He slid his hand off the tiller to push his other arm into the jacket and reached for the tiller again as Andy retrieved the line and worked the loop over the teak. He snapped Mitchell’s jacket closed then stuffed it down around him into the helmchair. Mitchell twisted the line around his left arm again. "How far?"

"Ninety miles to Provincetown!" Andy yelled.

"Can you get us farther. Through the Canal at night?"

Andy smiled and raised a thumb then climbed below. Water through Mitchell’s hatband blew across his face and dripped heavily from under his soaked beard into the collar of his jacket. Andy stuck his head out of the companionway and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Come to two-twelve! It’s one-hundred-six miles to the Canal! If the wind holds!" He pushed back into the cabin.

Mitchell watched the compass card rotate as he eased the tiller down for the new heading. The sloop bit close into the wind blast and shuddered like a roller coaster, sails howling, spray flying off of the sail-leeches. Pain stabbed hard into his shoulder. He hauled on the line to keep the helm from collapsing his arm. He steadied the tiller. The rail beside him was underwater.

"Sweet Jesus."

Caught in the fragile balance between breaking up or plunging under, the hull exploded through a swell. Mitchell lowered his head into spray. Can I take this? The question shot through his mind. Twenty years ago I wouldn’t have asked. I never thought about getting older I just got here. If it all comes apart today so be it. "Andy trim the sails!"

Andy appeared in the companionway. He pulled his hood over his head and raised himself into the cockpit and up to starboard to clip his harness. The sloop crushed a big swell and the sea poured over them.

"Lovely day!" Mitchell shouted and Andy nodded. "Christ," Mitchell hollered at him. "You do this everyday do you?" No response. Andy trimmed the main then the genoa. "Go below!" Mitchell shouted. "Rest and then take the watch across Boston!"