She did not seem scared at all. With a girl like her, a man could sail anywhere in the world.

She hung, terrified, to the mast. Approaching the turn, she peered down into water which had suddenly turned to cocoa. She tried to read the patterns of the currents. She could not. They were dead in the water, engine roaring. From where she clung she could not tell if the water was six inches deep or nine feet.

She was afraid to signal the turn too soon or wait too long. She glanced back. He was wire-taut at the wheel, his eyes darting from her to the current to the shore. “Now?” he yelled.

She shook her head. Now was too early, wasn’t it? Or was it? How could he do this to her, make her lose his boat? It was impossible to see below the surface; the glare of the sun was blinding; the center of the channel could be anywhere. She leaned to port to look more closely, lost her balance, stuck out an arm to regain it.

“Roger!” yelled Mitch, misreading the arm. “Coming left!” She felt the boat begin to swing.

“No!” she screamed. She turned. “Mitch, no!”

He grinned idiotically, pinched thumb and forefinger together, and continued the turn. She faced forward, wincing. The bowsprit continued to swing, faster and faster. Thirty degrees, forty, fifty ... God, he had better catch it now or they would go crashing into the coral to port ... She wrapped arms and legs around the mast, closed her eyes, and waited for the impact.

Nothing happened. In a moment she heard the engine ease. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. They were slipping through emerald water, bow-wave slapping gently. They were utterly alone in a lagoon that stretched to her horizon. Even the village was hidden from sight beyond its palm grove.

She climbed down and lurched aft. Mitch was beaming at her.

“You are something,” he murmured. He kissed her on her forehead. “You are really, truly something.”

“Piece of cake,” she shrugged.

She sat down casually, before her knees collapsed.

They moored miles from the village, in the horns of a crescent-cove hardly larger than the boat, with the stern tied to a coconut tree on one point and the bow anchor beached on the other. By the time they had furled and covered the sails against tomorrow’s sun, and slipped the canvas binnacle cover on, brush strokes of crimson ringed the sky. She stowed the Sailing Directions and charts and mixed two gigantic scotch-and-waters. When she went topside the new moon was rising, a faint scimitar of bronze, with a golden star dotting one point. Crescent moon, crescent beach; no matter what happened, she would always have this.