Drew grabbed the gunnysack from the cart and, with a practiced movement, slipped Trajan into it and quickly pulled the drawstrings tight. The cat squirmed a little, then lay so still that you would not have known a living thing was inside. Passing him to his eldest brother, Drew piped, “Here’s a cat in the bag” in a voice that didn’t know if its owner was a boy or a man. Poor Drew. He was trying hard to sound brave and cheerful, but his look betrayed him. Prone to two kinds of seasickness—the one in his mind and the other in his belly—he looked forward to their father’s annual cruise as a condemned man would to his own hanging. Poor little Drew, who hadn’t sprouted yet and was short, even for thirteen.

Nathaniel stowed Trajan under the forepeak, then took the guitar, a bag of stove coals, and a can of kerosene for the running lights from Eliot, who was dressed in dark green trousers held up with light green braces over a collarless red shirt like the top to a pair of long Johns. His faded blue fisherman’s cap completed the outfit.

Then Nathaniel, with a smirk: “Put something yellow on and you’d look like a box of crayons.”

Silent, Eliot pitched his and Drew’s seabags into the dory. Nathaniel laid them between the middle and bow thwarts, then looked up.

“Dad’s?”

“It’s not on the boat already?” asked Eliot.

Nathaniel shook his head, and then they all three turned to Cyrus, who offered no explanation, but only signaled for the two younger boys to get aboard.

They squeezed in forward, side-by-side, their feet on the seabags, Eliot holding the guitar in his lap, while their father climbed in and took his usual place in the stern.

“Cast off,” he said.

Eliot hesitated.

“Father, I don’t understand why you’re …”

“Cast off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eliot stood and untied the painter, Nathaniel began to row. He watched the blades make small whirlpools in the smooth water. Far out, the fog still dungeoned the small islands in the mouth of the bay: Great Gott, Black, Placentia, and Swans; it smothered almost all of Mount Desert except for the three summits, which rose above it as if they were islands themselves in a sea of mist. A ship’s bell rang, a lighthouse horn groaned again. With one of the chart cases, Cyrus started to beat a slow rhythm on the gunwale … thump … thump … thump … and then sang out,

Heave to your oars boys, let her go boys …