She stepped to the coaming to increase her height, clinging to a shroud for balance. A three-quarter moon sagged lugubriously to the west. Carefully, keeping her eyes just above the dark horizon as he had taught her, she scanned the whole 360 degrees, stooping to see to starboard under the drumming sail. She checked for the glow of the port and starboard running lights; both OK. The sternlight had been out since Bora Bora: another little job for him.

She shielded her flashlight and shone it on the Sumlog dial by the wheel. She logged the speed—5.1 knots—and the mileage. She switched on the binnacle light and checked the compass course. SSE, right on. She checked her watch: 0304. She logged that too, as 0300, then turned off the binnacle and shone her light on Irwin.

He was steering them tirelessly, but something in the slant of the mizzen sheet behind him puzzled her. She saw that it was fouled on the useless sternlight.

She was supposed to awaken Mitch if she left the cockpit, but for so trivial a problem it seemed silly. She tried first to reach the line with her foot, straining at the length of her tether. She could not quite touch it, so she stuffed the logbook under the cockpit seat to protect it from spray and unclipped the safety belt hook from the gooseneck. She should have snapped it to a stanchion on the stern before she stretched out her leg again to kick loose the sheet. It seemed so close that she did not.

She was balanced on the lazarette, on one leg, clinging to a shroud and reaching out her toes for the sheet, when a wave smacked the port bow, sending a sheet of spray aft to soak her and the whole stern. The boat lurched to starboard under the impact, then rolled to port. It threw her off balance.

She lost her grip on the shroud and pirouetted wildly on the slickened hatch. For a moment she tottered. She grabbed at another shroud, only tipped the wire cable with her finger. Her flashlight dropped overboard. Her butt hit the cap-rail and for an instant she balanced there, flailing for a handhold. She screamed his name, once.

Then she was in the warm rushing sea, fighting instantly to find the safety hawser they trailed, just for this impossibility. She groped and swalloped water. She felt the rope brush her leg, then her arm. It was slimy with sea-growth. She grabbed it, and lost it. At the last moment she glimpsed the crazy empty plastic jug bounding at its tail.

She caught the jug but it snapped off in her hands. The hawser whipped away, streaming phosphorescence. She found her breath and shrieked for Mitch while the dark hull pulled off. She remembered her whistle. She fumbled for its string tied to her jacket zipper, jammed it into her mouth and began wetly to shrill.