He was nesting the Plath in its varnished wooden case when he heard a faint movement in the head. He froze, forgetting the sextant.

Jesus, had he looked in the head? He couldn’t remember. If the trots had hit her and she had fainted on the john, been there all the time...

Confused, he lurched through the cabin, yanked open the door. The cat regarded him from the toilet lid, slipped past him, and raced up the companionway steps. He pressed his forehead against the varnished bulkhead, moaning. He remembered now. The head had been the first place he had looked. Then he had stuck the cat inside it to keep it below.

A premonition hit him, and he swung toward the chart table. The open sextant case was sliding toward the edge. He lunged too late. “No!” It crashed to the cabin sole, spilling the Plath on the floorboards.

He sat cross-legged on the cabin floor and lifted it. One mirror was so far askew he could see the misalignment with his naked eye. That he could correct, given time. But he had no time, and now he saw that the arc itself was bent. That he could never repair. Dismally, he laid the carcass away. He was stuck with the ancient spare.

The pot he had set on the stove began to wheeze. An island of stability in the crazily tilting cabin, it jeered at him as the boat gimballed slowly around it.

He had no desire for coffee now, but he poured a cup and babied it to the cockpit. Watching the sea, he tried to drink the coffee. He could simply not get it down. It was too hot, and it would take too long to let it cool.

It was past time to turn. She could not be further ahead. He threw cup and coffee overboard, disengaged Irwin, jibed to reverse course, and reset Irwin’s vane to steer north-northwest.

He was starting their second trip up the course. It would be harder to stay alert, retracing water he had prowled before. He climbed back to the yardarm. The sun blasted the top of his head. As he took his seat on the spreader he realized that he’d forgotten his hat.

He refused to leave another five minutes of ocean unsearched while he went below to get it.

The ketch was still distant, a mile away perhaps, and she noticed that something in its shape had changed. She had been lying back, resting, but now she became more alert.

She was sure that she could see his body in tiny silhouette, midway up the sail. She lifted the jug and waved wildly. He had wonderful eyes, for distance, and he would never lose sight, now that he had spotted her.

The next glimpse shook her confidence. The boat had changed shape because it had changed course. It was pulling away.

“No!”