"We’ll have to work this heading." Mitchell pushed the tiller away to steer south of west and breeze lifted the sails, speeding the sloop to five knots. Mitchell let the boat run half a mile then turned it north and the sails luffed again. On deck Andy looked up through the rain as if he might see which of the Fates was hindering their progress.

After half an hour running to westward Mitchell tried again for a northerly heading but the sails luffed and the sloop rolled aimlessly in black swells. "Strange wind," he said and steered west.

Andy climbed up from below with sandwiches in both hands. He took a bite from one and handed the other to Mitchell.

"Any idea where we’re headed?"

Andy checked the compass. "Plymouth," he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"No kidding? Put on your Pilgrim hat." Watching into the fog ahead Mitchell lifted his right elbow and rolled his shoulder to ease the aching.

Andy sat to starboard, he ate with his head bent under the rain and watched astern as if he expected the approach of another vessel. He wiped the crumbs from his hands down the front of his foul-weather jacket then pulled himself up with the boom and stooped under it to gaze astern again. "I wonder how long it took them to cross."

"Sixty-nine days," Mitchell said.

Andy looked ahead. "In December."

"Ugly time to cross the Atlantic but they couldn’t wait any longer. They were broke. Like us. They wanted to settle north of New Amsterdam but they were blown off course. They made a landfall on the Cape then tried to sail south but they were forced back. So they crossed this bay and landed at Plymouth."

Andy shuffled under the boom to the companionway and climbed below.

And probably all they knew about each other is what they learned on that hapless ship Mitchell thought. Hoping against all odds and the fouled rations and the scurvy and the dysentery. Hoping for some kind of chance. They should have known better.

He steadied the tiller and leaned on it to reach across his body with his free hand, trying to lift his right knee to relieve the pain, crushed and throbbing in his right ankle, but he couldn’t extend his fingers. Quadriplegia. So much was out of reach. He steered the sloop deeper into the fog and the hours of dampness clawed mercilessly into his joints. His lower back muscles were tight and aching and there was so much pain radiating from his sacro-iliac that his left hip felt broken.

Listen to the rain he told himself, fighting to disregard the pain. No sounds from Andy. He’s probably sleeping Mitchell thought, and that’s fine. I haven’t been alone like this since the mountains and the chore of staying alive...