"No kidding. It really clobbered the forward bulkhead. I thought I was gonna eat my window - looks like a porthole is cracked. I really think we might want to slow down some. I hate getting wet in bed, y'know?"

"I already ordered that."

"Good." The line clicked off.

"What gives?" It was the Captain in pajamas and bathrobe. He managed to see the last of the seawater draining off the main deck.

"Fifty-sixty-footer. I've dropped speed to sixteen. Twenty's too much for the conditions."

"Guess you're right." the Captain grumbled. Every extra hour alongside the dock meant fifteen thousand dollars, and the owners did not like extra expenses. "Build it back up soon as you can." The captain withdrew before his bare feet got too cold.

"Will do." Pete told the empty doorway.

"Speed fifteen point eight." the helmsman reported.

"Very well." Both officers settled back down and sipped at their coffee. It wasn't really frightening, just somewhat exciting, and the moonlit spray flying off the bow was actually rather beautiful to see. The First Officer looked down at the deck. It took a moment for him to realize.

"Hit the lights."

"What's the problem?" The Second Officer moved two steps to the panel and flipped on the deck floods.

"Well, we still have one of them."

"One of -" the junior officer looked down. "Oh. The other three "

The First Officer shook his head. How could you describe the power of mere water? That's strong chain, too, the wave snapped it like yarn. Impressive.

The Second Officer picked up the phone and punched a button. "Bosun, our deck cargo just got swept over the side. I need a damage check on the front of the superstructure." He didn't have to say that the check should be done from inside the structure.

An hour later, it was clear that they'd been lucky. The single strike from the deck cargo had landed right on a portion of the superstructure backed by sturdy steel beams. Damage was minor, some welding and painting to be done. That didn't change the fact that someone would have to cut down a new tree. Three of the four logs were gone, and that Japanese temple would have to wait.

The three logs, still chained together, were already well aft of the George M. They were still green, and started soaking up sea water, making them heavier still.

Cathy Ryan watched her husband's car pull out of the driveway. She was now past the stage of feeling bad for him. Now she was hurt. He wouldn't talk about it - that is, he didn't try to explain himself, didn't apologize, tried to pretend that what? And then part of the time he said he didn't feel well, was too tired. Cathy wanted to talk it over, but didn't know how to begin. The male ego was a fragile thing, Dr Caroline Ryan knew, and this had to be its most fragile spot. It had to be a combination of stress and fatigue and booze. Jack wasn't a machine. He was wearing down. She'd seen the symptoms months earlier. As much the commute as anything else. Two and a half, sometimes three hours every day in the car. The fact that he had a driver was something, but not much. Three more hours a day that he was away, thinking, working, not home where he belonged.