On the third night Mitch drove down the hill with the last load. It was dark and the boatyard was locked as he slithered to a stop outside. He honked for Red-Dog, the bearded young boat-owner who was acting as night watchman to pay off his yard-bill and release his handcuffed schooner. Red-Dog slid open the wooden gate and dove into the car next to him, smelling of wet wool and beer. The clouds had turned pregnant and the wind was high. He could barely see well enough through the slanting rain to back down the dock. The two of them grabbed armloads and sprinted down the wharf like broken-field runners. Gusts from the hills of Marin were yanking at the tarps tucked over the gear. If he didn’t get it all crammed below, now, the food cans underneath would begin to rust and not stop rusting until they popped open at sea. He tumbled below in a shower of rain.

He almost groaned when he saw Lindy. He had left her exhausted, in blue jeans, hair tangled, face smudged, a smear of dirt on the bridge of her nose. Now, despite the cold, she was wearing a sweeping hostess gown, and her hair was up, with two wispy curls at the temples. She had lost ten years of age in an hour.

She had somehow dragged everything forward, freeing the main salon. The cabin, after days of grime and mud, had got scrubbed and glowed warmly in candlelight. On the varnished table two glasses flanked a bucket of champagne; there was no ice in it, but the boat was cold enough to chill it. He smelled coq-au-vin simmering on her alcohol stove. They had first eaten it on their honeymoon. Their new Transoceanic radio throbbed symphonically. Her eyes shone.

“Welcome home,” she said. “Mitch, I’ve been bitchy. About leaving the house, and all. So—” She studied his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Honey?” he pleaded, hating the rain, the boat, himself.

“Oh, no,” she murmured. “Not now?”

“Red-Dog’s topside. We got to get it all below. The works.”

She whirled, to hide tears. Later as he and Red-Dog passed the gear below, she had changed clothes to help, but though they gobbled the coq-au-vin with Red-Dog afterwards, they were all too tired for the champagne and they put it away.

The next morning the rain had stopped, though the cabin was freezing and the wind still moaned in the shrouds. It was Sunday and only the owner of the motor-sailer and Red-Dog were in the yard. Mitch dressed, shaking with cold. He scrounged some kerosene from the motor-sailer and started the cabin-heater.