She could not take her eyes off the entrance. Each swell began imperceptibly to rise far at sea, beyond the mouth of the channel. The interval between swells seemed interminable, but their speed of travel astonished her.

A new one stirred near Maupiti, last of the Leeward Islands, just breaking the horizon twenty miles beyond the pass. It crawled at first, gathering speed as it came. It felt coral below. Surprised, it reared. It hung suspended for an eternity. Then it pounced. The boom was visceral; it drummed into her gut before she heard it with her ears. The caldron it left on the reef spilled off. Another swell rolled in from the west.

They were half a mile short of the channel when a strong flurry from Mount Pahia heeled them and turned the lagoon into a froth of white. Mitch spun the boat around, bow to the wind. For a moment she hoped that he had given up. Instead, he whipped the sail-ties off the mizzen and hoisted the sail. Then he strode forward and raised the jib. She was grabbing the wheel to steady the boat when he dropped back into the cockpit, cleated the jib, and took the helm without a word. He turned west, and once again they were headed for the pass.

She searched for something that would save them. She had refused to go back once. What if she offered now? By the time he dropped her off, the swell might rise so high that he would have to stay too. She glanced back, across the wind-torn lagoon. Star of Peace, under bare poles, was heeled mightily, rounding the point into Faanui Bay, heading for the hole. Behind the Oa Oa dock, a thatched roof sailed from one of Hans’ cottages, hovered over the lawn, and crashed headlong near the wharf.

It was too late to make the dock, and it would soon be too late to anchor safely. Besides, no matter how high the surf in the pass, he might choose to leave without her anyway. In twenty years, she had learned nothing that would help her judge his present mood.

She turned and faced him. “Is it to punish me, or what?”

He left the wheel, stepped to the dodger, and handed her her safety belt. “Get it on,” he said, cinching his own and snapping it to a shroud. Reluctantly, she clicked on the belt and took a turn around the mizzenmast. There was no question of going forward, as she usually did on leaving a pass: when they foundered in the surf, she wanted to be here, with him.