Mitch had noticed how little freeboard the ketch had, and how low the deckhouse seemed. She might be a wet boat at sea. But low freeboard and a small deckhouse meant safety. Portholes instead of a modern expanse of glass meant security in a hurricane. Seas had nowhere to get hold above deck. Lorelei was built to slog through heavy weather, to shed green water, dive and cleave the seas, not climb them. He hoped that her low lines and squat cabin-top didn’t restrict the headroom below. Few boats were built for men six-feet-three.

As Lindy disappeared down the ladder behind Dugan, Mitch took a last breath of outside air. His first sniff below, with the boat freshly opened, might bring him the moist-leaf odor of dry rot if she were diseased. He moved down the varnished steps, sniffing. There was no scent of rot. In the dim light below, he saw that Dugan, sitting on the port bunk, was watching him again. The tall man looked away, withholding some sort of judgment.

Lindy was watching Mitch too. He put his hand to his scalp and lifted it, first test of any boat they looked at. There was a three-inch clearance between the top of his head and the varnished oak beams. Whatever the boat drew—the plans at home said five-feet-ten—she was as deep a blue-water craft as he had ever seen. The waterline outside must be at knee-level here below. Once down the ladder, she seemed twice as big as one expected.

“Headroom” he murmured to Lindy.

“I’m six-four,” said Dugan. “I built her for me.”

They were the first words he had volunteered aboard, and they resounded in the cabin with a strangely hollow tone.

“By yourself?” Lindy asked.

Dugan nodded. Mitch looked around the main cabin. An old wood-burning stove crouched by the companionway on the starboard side. A massive ice-compartment faced it, its top serving as a chart table. On the galley sink were two pump-faucets, one for fresh water, one for salt. The ambiance was Jack London, turn-of-the-century, brass and leather. Kerosene lamps swung from the bulkheads, transom-seats and bunks were upholstered in quilted maroon. A clock and matching barometer glittered in the dim light, warm brass alive with years of polishing. The shelves above the transom bunks were lined with Keats, Tennyson, Toynbee, Henry James. A very unusual carpenter.