Aloft the mainsail luffed wildly, snapping like firecrackers while Andy weighed anchor. Mitchell eased the tiller away and then drew it to his chest several times. The boom swung port and starboard, the mainsail blooming then emptying and blooming again as the sloop backed into the roads. Mitchell drew the tiller close to his body and the sloop halted as the bow swung across the wind. He smiled, and he wanted to brag a little, but he had been around long enough to know the arrogant are always humbled.

The sloop surged quickly into the harbor sea, passing the fleet of boats at anchor. Five knots. Mitchell knew this was fast under the main. Andy trimmed the sail. Six knots through the entrance into the Passage. Up on the high side Mitchell steered west of southwest and close into the wind and the bow burst like a spearhead into fast jeweled swells, miles of them, six feet and running with the wind, spume blowing from the crests. "Use the storm jib," Mitchell shouted and wind burned his face. His voice sounded like he was sitting under a train. Eight knots, everything fast, the foredeck was awash, foam flew aft.

With a grip on the boom and his feet apart Andy hefted the jib bag one-handed out of the sail locker then raised himself and the bag on deck. He lowered himself carefully to his hands and knees and dragged the bag through foam and spray past the mast and across the foredeck to the prow. He sat with his legs spread, his heels were braced on the toe rails while he fed the sail out of the bag and clipped it onto the forestay. The bow split a big wave and Andy disappeared. Reappearing out of the foam he shook spray from his head, his hands were still hanking on the jib.

"Big balls," Mitchell said and nausea tightened his stomach, a tack to the south was coming fast. The leeward side. He steeled himself to the fear and checked the dinghy in tow, flung wildly on the swells. Andy hauled aloft the thin triangular storm jib then he hurried aft to the cockpit to winch the jib sheet, trimming the knife-like sail tight above the foredeck. The sloop was headlong for open sea. Nine knots. "Jesus," Mitchell breathed. "Andy lengthen the painter, give it everything," he hollered and the strain burned his lungs. Andy eased the yellow painter to increase the dinghy’s distance astern.

"Prepare to come about!"

Andy grabbed the jib sheets.

"Hard alee!" Mitchell jammed the tiller to his chest as Andy flipped the starboard sheet from its winch and hauled on the port sheet. He ducked under the boom as the boat rolled hard under the mast and the mainsail. Mitchell grabbed the lifeline cable to stop his body from tumbling sideways. He pushed off for the full upward extension of his arms, the tiller above him now. And the wind. Seas pounded the starboard beam, grappling the rudder and forcing the tiller. He pushed up into the tiller, the lifeline chewing into his left hand. Pain ignited his right shoulder and wind evaporated the tears in his eyes as he located two sea markers in the hazy silver-blue distance ahead. One south, the other southeast. Two miles, twelve minutes. He pushed up, steering for the eastern marker. Wind whipped the decks, spray blew wild off the sails. Delirious speed, adrenalin, pain knifed into his lower back.

"Get to that marker and turn. The wind will be astern, the sea following. We'll run like hell."

Thick pain shocked his heart. "Go with it, go." His hands were numb, his shoulders converging. He couldn’t stop it, his arms were collapsing. "Hurry boat, please hurry. Red, the marker is red. Steel frame. Come on, goddamnit! Push off! Find it!"