His two younger brothers stared at him. A gust blasted into the cabin, rearranging the debris: Nathaniel hadn’t bothered to shut the hatch.

“What about Will? Where’s Will?”—Drew, fighting panic.

Nat didn’t stir, except to make some indeterminate movement with his hand.

“Did you leave Will to steer by himself? What …”

Sensing that some crisis was only minutes and perhaps seconds away, Drew broke off and hopped on deck, dogging the hatch behind him. Will did not appear to be aware of his presence as he lashed his safety line to the wheelbox. Will was transfixed by the lifting plane of water a hundred yards astern, many times more massive than a building, its tumbling cap ranging beyond the maintop, which stood higher than the schooner was long. The sea was so huge that there were seas upon it—smaller waves quartering its face, leaping mounds three and four feet in height—and its upper slope was inverted, appearing in the glimmer of gale light as a watery cavern. It was majestic. Drew was held breathless, too mesmerized to be scared, as the wave reared above him. If there had been sunlight, it would have cast a shadow over the schooner, stem to stern.