Nathaniel and Will, tethered to the boat by their safety lines, were being trolled like baits, skipping the surface one moment, sucked under the next by the schooner’s motion and by the power of the seas. Their life jackets had been rendered useless. Nathaniel was dimly aware that the tender had been torn away and that the falls were bouncing along near his head. He didn’t care. When he was pulled beneath the tumultuous surface, he welcomed the quiet. He imagined he saw things: brilliant tropical fishes, glowing squids, phosphorescent porpoises, lights twinkling as stars in some submarine heaven. Signs and wonders. There was no thought in his mind that he was drowning; there was no thought of anything. A warm ether coursed through his veins, creating a blissful drowsiness. The struggle against the storm was over. The noise, the fear, the strain on his hands, arms, and back—it was all over.…

Less than half a minute after capsizing Double Eagle, the unbiased ocean righted her. Eliot and Drew fell through space again, landing on the floorboards with the same items that had fallen with them the first time. The water in the V-shaped skylight showered down, the stove door banged open, and the gallons in the belly poured out, flooding the main cabin. Eliot, quickly yanking a floor hatch open with his good hand, got it to drain into the bilges. Drew leapt to the pump.

Nathaniel and Will were catapulted back into the boat—morsels, they were, spit out by the sea. Spit violently, too. Nathaniel cracked his skull on the taffrail, Will howled with pain when his ribs struck the wheel. They had been returned to the world of struggle, of effort, of terror, of strife. Nathaniel was amazed that they had not lost their masts and rigging and yet he almost resented their deliverance. He felt that the storm was toying with them. At some point, five minutes from now, or an hour, or two hours, it would tire of the game, and that’s when the end would come.