The one street in the settlement terminated at a coral quay. On it a figure, apparently the local agnostic, studied the swirling current, ignoring them. He was joined suddenly by a little black boy, much darker than he. He was an impish child with negroid, frizzled hair. He began to jiggle, hop, and point at them. Suddenly he whirled and scampered up the village street. Good: it was time somebody called the local Coast Guard. But he only dodged into a house and returned, struggling under a guitar as big as himself. He took a station on the edge of the quay and began, apparently, to strum and sing, although she could not hear a note. She waved absently; he did not wave back. There was no further reaction from the adult or the village, so she shifted her attention to the lagoon, shimmering like Heaven beyond the gates of Hell. The one mile seemed a hundred.

The drone of the engine rose an octave. He had added full power, probably, but their speed barely increased. Something occurred to her, suddenly. Now the sun was low at her back, and she could see each brown coral-head strewn along the channel. But when, and if, they got far enough to make the left-hand turn into the lagoon, the dazzle would be in her eyes, and she knew from the Sailing Directions that the lagoon was pocked with barely submerged coral heads. Mitch, at the wheel, could not see the bow beyond the dinghy. He seemed carried on some inner wave of euphoria, blinded by optimism. Her eyes were the only ones he had.

She would have liked to discuss this, but there was no way, from here, over the roar of the engine, which was already sounding tired.

She wished she were back in the hospital.

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

He searched for her in sultry darkness from the wheel. He was under power and sail. The oily swell from the southeast had persisted, and now the shuddering mainsail and banging sheet-blocks told him that the storm was approaching fast. There was no more starlight and the moon was hidden. He sensed giant clouds to windward. He had to get the sail down.

He threw the engine into neutral. There was not enough wind yet for Irwin to steer, so he simply let the boat wallow and scrambled to the main halliard, handing himself forward along the teak rail on the deckhouse. He got the main down and furled it. He was so tired when he was through that he could hardly fight his way forward for the jib. He struck the jib before the squall hit, but hardly got its sheet tied to the pinrail before it was time to save the mizzen, if he could.