63

I TOOK the rhumb line from Wolf Rock to Newport, heading due west, as Mark had planned, ignoring the conventional wisdom of the shorter, great circle route, and the fond hopes of the longer, southern route, where skippers prayed for more favorable winds. I sailed fast. Every nuance of Wave was familiar to me, I thought, but she taught me some new things about herself. We had a total of nine days of heavy weather, but usually from the right direction, and only one day of flat calm.

There were books aboard, and a radio to listen to, but I hardly bothered with either. I had a lot to think about, and I relished having the time to do it. I learned the value of solitude. I relived many small chunks of my life, and one large one—the one that began when I met Mark and Annie, the one that would end in Newport. I wept at certain times, with certain thoughts. It was easier to do with no one there to see me; easier to laugh, too; easier to think about the future in terms of what the past had taught me. In the future, I would make better judgments about what was important. I would let those I loved know it, before it was too late.

I would like to tell you that we won the race, Wave and I, but we did not. Six days was too great a head start to overcome. We did, however, with a great deal of luck and, perhaps, just a bit of skill on my part, cross the finish line at Brenton Reef Light some twenty days, twelve hours, and fifteen minutes after we began. That was exactly one hour less than the time of the winner, and a new record for the race.

We headed into Newport, surrounded by a small, noisy flotilla of other yachts and boats, toward a berth where I hoped someone waited.

The years have passed, and all this has remained fresh with me. I think of Mark often. I cannot bear to think of Annie.