“Yes and no. A racing boat, off and on. It’s kind of like the motorcycle.” He had mentioned long ago the joys of owning a bike. She hadn’t objected. So, twenty years later, he had bought the big Honda on sale and surprised her with it that night. She still grew tense when she knew he was driving it in traffic. After the sprained wrist, he supposed, he should have sold it. But he liked the damn thing, it made him feel good. Besides, their bikes were almost all he and Tony had in common, she ought to appreciate that. She was grumbling on:

“This boat won’t race, I know that much. Oh, hell, maybe I would like us to buy her. But you don’t know that, do you?”

“No. So tell me, one way or the other.”

“It’s just that you’re so g.d. unilateral. She might be great, for weekends, and Easter, and summer vacations. Actually moving aboard would be another matter.” She waved toward Sausalito, with its marinas and forests of masts. They had known couples who had lived aboard boats there. “Would we want to leave this to cram into that?”

“I was thinking,” he said slowly, “more of the South Seas. Marquesas, Tahiti...”

“Every damn couple down there is thinking of Tahiti,” she reminded him. “They never go. They get divorces instead, from living on top of each other. Remember Vivian and Joe? The guy ends up with the boat and the girl gets the kids.”

“Divorce,” he said stiffly, “seems a little farfetched for you and me.”

“But selling our house, and beach, and leaving Tony isn’t?” She managed to smile, but her voice was troubled. “If that comes up, could I maybe have a few minutes on it?”

He nodded. “We both can. Weeks, months, as long as we want.”

“And it could still go either way?”

“Either way. One man, one vote.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“One person, one vote,” he promised.

She went to make coffee. She had not read his mind about heading back to bed, but somewhere during the discussion his desire had cooled, so it didn’t matter anyway.

That afternoon they began in earnest to look for the red ketch. They sailed her father’s sloop from Fort Point to Sausalito, around Angel Island to Alcatraz and Berkeley and back to St. Francis Yacht Club. They passed through regattas, races, and anchorages. They saw hundreds of boats. They returned sunburned and exhausted, but nowhere had they seen the red ketch.