"I've seen sharks before but never a creature quite like this," Mitchell said. "He's actually circling us."

The bare-chested crewman inspected the sloop’s waterline, his open shirt waving white on turquoise. His gelled hair was combed straight back, he wore black slacks.

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. "These guys look like tourists for Christ sake."

"Whadya hit?" The helmsman’s voice boomed above the outboards as he throttled alongside.

"Shoal maybe. I'm not sure."

The helmsman nodded, his mirrored sunglasses flashed light. "Your rudder's bent almost up to the water line."

"Can you fix it?"

"We'll have to tow you in. That rudder has to come off."

"Can you fix it or not?"

"We’ll see what we can do."

"Let's go," Mitchell said.

On the foredeck Andy took the purple Dacron tow line from the crewman and secured it to a bow cleat. Mitchell slid his hand onto the tiller to keep it amidship while Andy raised the anchor. The big helmsman waved his signal and the powerboat rumbled slow ahead while the crewman paid out the tow line from a motorized drum. The line tightened, pulling the sloop through the sea. Andy climbed down and sat on the starboard bench with his back against the cabin bulkhead. He watched astern.

"Go below and get some rest," Mitchell said. "There's nothing to do up here but get wet."

Andy shook his head. "I’m okay. I just needed to crash from the adrenalin."

We just got stomped Mitchell thought. Now we have to suffer the indignity of being towed through Newport harbor. Two rookies caught playing out of their league. It would be a lot easier to go below. Spray whipped Mitchell’s face as he watched the sloop in tow, its white decks sluggish with foam.

The afternoon harbor seemed at rest, unconcerned with their misfortune and the obnoxious roaring of the outboards across the windy silence. Mitchell spotted the yawl and the blue-hulled sloop. No sign of crew on any of the anchored boats. Below in their cabins he thought, safe and warm out of the wind. A lot to be said for that.