There was nothing there but the foggy bay, the dim, gray Pacific, the swooping gulls. No other sound but the creak of the ropes and timbers as the White Dove rose and dipped in the swell of Bodega Bay.

Neil took a deep breath, and went down into the boat’s cabin. There were three narrow berths, still covered with rumpled blankets and sheets. In the center of the cabin was a varnished table, littered with Dixie cups and empty bottles of bourbon, and burned by cigarette ends. It disgusted Neil to see people treat boats this way. Even the simplest boat was a crafted creation which protected men from the sea, and he believed in treating every vessel, however humble, with care and respect.

He took a look around, and then turned to go back up the companionway. The voice whispered, “Allen, help me… Allen, please help me…”

Totally scared, he turned around. For one ridiculous moment, he was sure that he saw someone looking in at the dim forward porthole, but then the face instantly reassembled itself into a pattern of coiled ropes and clips.

Shaken, he climbed out of the cabin and stood back on the deck. He didn’t know what to think or what to feel. Maybe Toby’s dream was just getting under the skin of his imagination. Maybe he was overworked. He took a couple of steady breaths, and then walked forward, back to the jetty, to collect his tools and his cans of varnish.

*

In school, with the sunshine sloping across the desks, Mrs. Novato, a young dark-haired woman with a hairy mole on one cheek and a taste for billowing Indian dresses, announced a class excursion in one week’s time. It would cost a dollar-thirty-five, and every pupil would have to bring a packed lunch. They were going to drive up to Lake Berryessa, in the Vaca Mountains, for nature study and maybe some swimming, too.

Toby was sitting next to Petra Delgada, a serious little girl who never spoke much and always went to mass on Sundays. Mrs. Novato had placed him there because he giggled and talked too much whenever he sat next to his best friend, the coppery-haired Linus Hopland. Linus was in the front row now, his hair shining in the sunshine like the Point Arena lighthouse. Toby whispered to Petra, “Are you going up to the lake? Will your folks let you?”

Petra shrugged, and pursed her lips demurely. “I don’t know. I’ve been sick for the past four days. Mommy may not let me.”

“You’ve been sick? You mean, you’ve puked?”

“You mustn’t say puke. It’s disgusting.”

Toby colored a little. He didn’t like Petra to think that he wasn’t grown-up and sophisticated. Petra, after all, was nearly nine, and next in line for class president. Toby said: “Well, what do you mean? You got the measles?”