Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

-WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Well, I thought the trip was over. There was one more leg from Sag Harbor to Maine that I planned for the end of summer, and there was still the unknown experience of truly living aboard a boat waiting ahead for me. But I imagined that the biggest surprises of my voyage were behind me. But I failed to consider the real meaning of my journey. There were still one or two things I would learn about myself.

After I'd enjoyed a couple of luxurious days at the expensive town dock, I relocated the Bossanova to a cove, just under and beyond the bridge to North Haven. It was free, and, better than that, it was a quiet, sheltered spot away from the flashy superyachts that thronged the town's waterfront.

While I was tied up in town, I'd made friends with Matt, the guy who ran the Sag Harbor launch, so any time I needed to get to land I'd call him up on the VHF and he'd make a quick pickup for $3. He was also great about bringing me back after hours on the few occasions I stayed ash.o.r.e for dinner. I'd give him a call and he'd come down and meet me at the docks-I gave him a big tip on these trips. Of course, I'm sure that a big gratuity from the owner of the Bossanova was not quite the same as a big gratuity from the owner of a super yacht-although, come to think of it, you never know. It's not the size of the boat that matters.

Naturally, I had my own dinghy aboard the Bossanova, but the cowl that covered its outboard engine had broken off. It smashed against the deck when we tangled with that first storm in Georgia, and the next day it slid into Charleston Harbor when we almost capsized. I'd have to track down a new one, but in the meantime, the town launch was much faster, and it was an easy way to bring the dogs to sh.o.r.e for exercise. The three of us in my little 9-foot inflatable would have been a little bit fur-raising.

Life on the hook, as salts call anchoring out, was fantastic. I had all the amenities of a rich resort town nearby with none of the ha.s.sles or expenses. I'd bring groceries back and grill, sit and watch the sunset with a gla.s.s of wine. It was wonderful. Every time I was in the water taxi and rounded the marker just past the bridge, I looked eagerly for a first glimpse of the Bossanova. There she was, sitting majestically in the cove, looking like an ex-navy boat and a fish out of water in the polished Hamptons.

A few days after I'd anch.o.r.ed in the cove, I noticed the VHF signal petering out to nothing. Although I ran the engine for an hour every morning and evening, the batteries just weren't holding a charge for very long. I knew I was going to have to figure something else out. Though I was loath to spend any money on a berth when it was so nice at anchor, I knew it would be easier on all of us (that is, me and the salty dogs) if we could plug into sh.o.r.e power and get on and off without a VHF call and a 20-minute wait. The real difficulty would be finding a slip. I'd already phoned or visited all the marinas, and there was nothing available for the rest of the season at any price, never mind within my laughable budget.

One evening, when I'd decided to spend a quiet night on the boat with the boys, I was sitting in the salon reading. Almost all of the power was off to conserve energy, and it was getting so dark that I struggled to see the page. Suddenly, I smelled something. Smoke? I jumped up and ran below, throwing on the engine room lights as I entered. How could there be smoke coming from down here? I thought I must be imagining it-the engine wasn't running, almost nothing was on. I cast a glance at the starboard side of the engine, which looked fine, and circled quickly to the port side. Oh my G.o.d-fire!

Fire on a boat, even a steel boat, is every captain's worst nightmare. More boats are lost each year to fire than they are to the sea. It seems odd, since fire's natural enemy should be an aquatic environment, but a boat has a hot engine, a large fuel supply and an electrical system-all of which are constantly exposed to the unrelenting corrosiveness of the marine atmosphere.

I grabbed a fire extinguisher off the bulkhead, pulled the ring, aimed and squeezed. The fire sputtered but didn't go out. I took another extinguisher down and tried again, shooting carefully for the base of the flame. Same results. This wasn't working. Trying not to panic, I turned both battery switches in the engine room to OFF, then ran up to the pilothouse and threw the main circuit breakers-just to be safe. I filled a small bucket with water and hightailed it back down to the engine room. I heaved the water and watched as the flames instantly died a smoky death.

I breathed an enormous sigh of relief and grat.i.tude.

Thank G.o.d I happened to be at home that evening, otherwise, the dogs would have been alone and the fire would have gone unchecked. Disaster. And I couldn't quite believe that I'd summoned the presence of mind to throw the battery switches and circuit breakers off before I tossed the water on the engine. It can be a deadly mistake to use water on an engine fire. If the fire is electrical in nature, it's a great way to be electrocuted. I was also really glad this had happened here in Sag Harbor, instead of when we were in the middle of nowhere on our way up.

After sitting in the dark salon for a few minutes listening to my heart rate return to normal, I took a flashlight and went below again to see the damage. It looked worse than it was, thanks to the crusty yellow-white powder left by the extinguishers. After I brushed the residue off, I could see that the burned area was quite small and the damage minor.

I thought back to those dull hours at Chapman, learning about engines. What was this, I wondered, and why did it catch fire? I traced a couple of wires, several of which had melted, and pieced together an idea. I went back to my stateroom, pulled down Nigel Calder's excellent book on diesel engines and found a diagram that I needed to confirm my suspicions. Yup. The wires connecting the solenoid starter to the alternator had somehow caught fire. Those wires would obviously have to be replaced, and it looked like a portion of the solenoid, the cap on top, was melted.

I have never harbored any illusions about my mechanical ability. While I wished I could learn to repair my own engine, I was realistic about the likelihood of that happening. I decided early on that I'd be happy if I could articulately describe to a mechanic what was wrong. But even my victorious identification of the problem didn't clarify what had caused this fire. The alternator wasn't running, the engine was off, most of the power on the boat was shut down. . .

In the morning, when Matt picked me up so I could do a few errands, I asked him about local boatyards. He recommended a place called Ship Ash.o.r.e that was just a stone's throw from where I was anch.o.r.ed. I should ask for Rick. I called when I got home that afternoon, but Rick said they were closing at 4:00 p.m. and were pretty busy until then.

They'd have to come on Monday.

Monday! That was three days away-and since I couldn't start my engine, the batteries were going to run all the way down. I would be completely without power for most of the weekend. The lack of amenities didn't bother me much, but I didn't like the idea of floating in 30 tons of steel without a way to maneuver. What if I dragged my anchor, for instance?

Although I had described the problem to Ship Ash.o.r.e, it was still reasonable to a.s.sume they'd show up on Monday and tell me they had to order a new solenoid-it was unlikely they would have one in stock. Then I'd be without power for several more days while we waited for it to arrive. All right-there was one thing I could try to do: find and order the correct solenoid. Maybe I could even install it myself before Monday.

There's a guy named Bob Smith who is something of a legend in the trawler world. Rumor has it he can disa.s.semble and rea.s.semble a Ford diesel engine in less than 30 minutes. I dug out a back issue of Pa.s.sage Maker magazine and found his small advertis.e.m.e.nt. I called, described the problem and got the kind of great service that's become practically extinct now. Bob wasn't there, but some patient soul coached me through finding the part number on the solenoid. It wasn't easy because it was located in an awkward spot and had been partially burnt. But several phone calls back and forth, and my replacement solenoid had been located and shipped for overnight delivery. I felt very proud of myself.

The next afternoon, I got down underneath the engine with a series of wrenches, trying to be very butch about it. I may even have let my jeans hang down a bit, flashing my "Deer Isle smile," as a friend of mine calls it. I was determined to give this my best shot.

It didn't look very complicated. Five minutes, three sc.r.a.ped knuckles and at least fifteen expletives later, I gave up and decided to drink an alcoholic beverage with my pinky extended. It's healthy to be able to acknowledge both one's limitations and one's gifts.

On Monday, a guy with a tool kit showed up. He had longish blonde hair, a baseball cap with an unbent brim, a deep tan and a Long Island accent. He looked like a typical guy who messes about with boats, but his name was Moishe. I loved that. Moishe and I chatted while he effortlessly removed the solenoid.

We'd already met. He had come by in his dinghy a few days before and circled my boat admiringly. He'd asked me a lot of questions, and we'd talked about the former Russian pilot boat he lived aboard.

I'd always been a little reclusive by nature. However, something about life aboard the Bossanova changed me. Now, whenever somebody admired my boat, I asked him if he wanted to come aboard and have a look. It didn't matter what I was doing-in the middle of dinner, reading a book, just out of the shower. It started as pride in my vessel and an affinity for anyone who liked her. But it grew into a general openness to new people. Most boaters are friendly and good-natured. They are invested in their relaxation. After all, you have to be pretty comfortable with yourself to spend all that time offsh.o.r.e doing nothing but looking at the changing colors of the sea.

I'm sure, too, that all the generous cheers I'd received for my docking efforts had slowly melted my defenses. There's a great sense of camaraderie among boaters and it was infectious. One day I had not one but two conversations with men I had just met, who asked me all about the Bossanova and concluded our conversations by saying, "You're my new idol." I don't know about your life, but idolatry doesn't come along all hat often in mine: twice in one day ran the risk of ballooning my ego past the bursting point. And the fact that these were admiring men was especially heady.

I think men were often surprised that I could handle what was really a small steel ship, that I had the courage to bring her up through the Atlantic and that I had the "b.a.l.l.s" to get a gritty workboat instead of a cute fibergla.s.s replica. The Bossanova intrigued people everywhere she went, but she also gave me a lot of sea cred.

But it wasn't just my tickled ego that was feeling good-I was happier and more relaxed than I'd ever been. Several times over the summer when I was out with friends, someone I hadn't seen in a year would say, "Wow! You look so different." At first I a.s.sumed it was just the extra Pennsylvania pounds I had lost, but whenever I pointed this out, they'd say, "No, no. It's your face. You just look really happy, peaceful." I was, of course, but I couldn't help wondering how I must have looked before. Did I grimace? Scowl? Sneer?

After Moishe and I had chatted for a while, I went about my business and left him to his work. He made a trip back to the marina for a tool he needed, but after about an hour and a half, he emerged from the engine room to say I should be all set. The wires were replaced, the new solenoid was attached. Now was the moment of truth. We set the battery switches back on, I went up to the pilothouse, turned the key and pressed the starter b.u.t.ton. The good old Bossanova coughed deeply and then chugged back to life. G.o.d, I loved my little ship.

Moishe's guess at what had caused the fire was only slightly more scientific than mine. Some cables that were held aloft near the alternator had slid off a brace, and two live wires had somehow jiggled against each other. In other words, it was just a freak accident.

I was grateful more damage hadn't been done, but I dreaded the boatyard's bill. It's common knowledge that there is no better way to go bankrupt than boat ownership, though I comforted myself with the fact that I was pretty close to bankrupt already, so it wouldn't be the same agonizing fall that it would be for, say, Donald Trump. The solenoid had already set me back about $200. I wondered what Moishe's hourly rate was and whether the trip to the marina and back had been on the clock. In the end, the total was about $150-much better than I'd feared. And Rick, the owner of the marina, wound up offering me a great deal on a slip that had just opened up. I am a lucky, lucky person.

My first week back in the New York area, I scheduled lunch with an old publishing colleague so I could give him a full report on my trip. We were meeting at a power lunch spot for media types. I got there first and sat down at my friend's regular table. Parading by me was a veritable who's who of New York. I was never really a part of this scene, even in my publishing heyday. I'd have a lunch somewhere like this when I had to pull out all the stops for a celebrity author, and back then, I'd just be amused by it all.

Today, as I watched former Mayor d.i.n.kins go by and Regis Philbin come in and Liz Smith be seated near the network honchos and other media elites less familiar to the public, I felt. . .tired. It would be too extreme to say my soul curled into the fetal position, but it definitely pulled the covers up over its head. I hated being there. Something had happened. Some last slender thread that had kept me a part of the buzzing Manhattan media scene had snapped. I couldn't see this venue as anything but a hotbed of vanity, and while I'm sure that the food was delicious and everybody there was very talented at what they did, I felt turned off by the palpable conviction that there was a lot of important stuff happening here. I missed the dolphins.

Clearly, I was finished as a book editor. My old life, even if it had been available to me, was not something I could comfortably wear anymore. I brightened when I realized that n.o.body was going to make me go back. When lunch was over, I'd get in my car and return to the boat. And tomorrow, I'd get up and do some freelance writing or pick up some of the decorative-painting work I sometimes did, for a sliver of what I used to earn but twice the satisfaction. By the time my friend arrived, I had come to terms with my own willful underachievement and gleefully embraced my lack of ambition. Arrghhhh, matey, I greeted him. At least in my own mind.

A few nights later, before I moved into the slip at the marina, I had planned to meet my friend Manuel for dinner at the Beacon restaurant, which overlooks the cove where I was anch.o.r.ed. I had spent the day painting with my friend Jay, and we knocked off later than I'd expected. I decided not to go back to the boat but to shower at Jay's and dash to T.J. Maxx for something to wear that was casual but not splattered with paint. I had lost weight in the last two months and needed some new pants anyway. After a mad race to get there on time, I arrived breathlessly in blue jeans and a white man's shirt. It wasn't chic but it was me.

Manuel, of course, was looking as elegant as ever in white jeans with a silk shirt and a cashmere sweater tied over his shoulders. We kissed h.e.l.lo in the bar, and he said he'd been admiring my boat while he waited. "You moved it, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yes, but I'm amazed you can tell." I'd motored a hundred yards away and reanch.o.r.ed in compliance with local laws that prohibited staying in one spot longer than seventy-eight hours. "You're very observant," I remarked, turning to behold my baby. . .who was nowhere in sight. My eyes scanned the water and there she was-several hundred yards from where she'd been, and up against the North Haven sh.o.r.eline!

"Oh my G.o.d, Manuel. That is not where I put her. She's dragged her anchor-I've got to go. I'm sorry."

Three minutes later I was in the launch with Matt and we were flying out toward the Bossanova's new resting spot. Matt had heard on the VHF that the harbormaster was also on his way. This was very embarra.s.sing, and I was hoping to get aboard and take control of the situation before he had to. I couldn't believe this-how had it happened? When I'd reset my anchor, I'd tugged on it very hard and it was definitely holding. Also, I'd been sitting securely in the same spot for two days. Why would the anchor break loose now?

As we approached, I saw an older, very Greenwich-looking couple in a rowboat. They had a springer spaniel with them. The man had on a kelly green cable-knit sweater; his wife was wearing a matching one in yellow. She half-stood and called out to us.

"There are dogs on that boat," m.u.f.fy yelled in an apparent state of high alarm.

"Yes, I know. They're my dogs-that's my boat," I shouted back.

"Oh. . .well, they've been barking. Do they need food?" she asked.

What? Do they need food? h.e.l.lo, lady. My 30-ton steel boat is floating, uncaptained, across the cove, and you're focusing on whether my dogs are being properly fed?

"No, they have plenty of food. They're fine," I responded through gritted teeth. It hadn't occurred to her that they might be barking because they were drifting across the cove?

What's the matter with people? My terseness must have communicated itself, because Biff moved his pipe to the other side of his gin-flushed face and began the row back to sh.o.r.e.

As I clambered aboard the Bossanova, it became clear to me that no damage had been done. The boat wasn't aground or even up against the sh.o.r.eline. By the time the harbormaster arrived, I had already hauled up the anchor and motored farther off. He motioned for me to follow him, then pointed to a spot for me to reanchor. I pulled ahead, pointing the bow into the wind. As the boat was pushed back, I dropped the anchor and paid out the line, making sure I felt the familiar tautness that indicated the anchor had grabbed bottom.

Back in the launch with Matt, I realized suddenly that this was the very first time I'd handled my boat without someone else aboard. I had taken the boat out and brought it into the dock every single day on our three-week trek up the coast.

But even though I was running everything, there'd been comfort in having John there-another set of hands for the lines, another pair of eyes and ears for the horizon and radio. Deep down, despite our weeks at sea, I had secretly and subconsciously doubted my ability to handle the boat solo. I looked down at my still pristine white shirt. The bottom of the cove was coated with a dark green clay that was sloppy as h.e.l.l. I'd managed to haul the anchor, move the boat, reset the anchor and head back to dinner in under forty-five minutes, without getting anything on me. Yes, what had started out as an embarra.s.sing incident now definitely felt like a small, albeit embarra.s.sing, personal triumph.

Bouncing over the water on the way back to the town dock, I was happy and relieved. Sooner or later, everyone drags anchor. I had that out of the way now, and I'd been lucky enough to have it happen in a quiet, empty cove. As Matt and I talked, I also figured out what had happened: there was an unusually high tide that day and the extra length of line required to reach the bottom from the (now higher) bow had been just enough to break the anchor from its hold. So that's why it held for two days and then gave up. I knew it was always better to err on the side of too much line rather than too little (unless you're close to other boats and can swing into their paths, of course), and I had sloppily underestimated as I paid it out the last time. I wouldn't do that again.

A few days later, I was at my slip and fondly eyeing the Bossanova. She desperately needed a new paint job, and I was feeling falsely flush with the extra money I was making painting with Jay. I talked to Rick, who agreed to haul and block the Bossanova so I could paint her in his yard. Boatyards generally do not allow do-it-yourselfers because they prefer to charge you obscene amounts of money and do it for you. I was absolutely thrilled by this act of kindness, because otherwise the Bossanova could never have been painted.

I decided to go with a navy blue color for the hull and to paint the rub rail bright orange. The navy seemed cla.s.sic and had always been my favorite color. I also thought it might have the same slimming effect as a little black dress. The bright orange was jaunty and a nice reference to the internationally recognized "safety orange." Orange would be a nice nod to the Bossanova's salty, working-cla.s.s lineage.

And so, a few weeks later, Bossanova was hauled out in Rick's Travelift, a giant sling on motorized wheels. I had warned him that the boat weighed 30 tons according to the survey, which was the exact weight limit of his lift, but he seemed unfazed. "Yeah," he said. "I bet it weighs less than that if you're not all loaded up with fuel and other stuff." Rick knew his boats, so I believed him.

Now, as they hoisted my baby out of the water, you could cut the tension with a knife. Rick was mopping his brow and cursing under his breath. There were some creaks and groans. The pilothouse roof just barely fit under the forward beam of the lift. But Rick was right-the weight wasn't an issue so much as the width and depth of the vessel. Out of the water, the Bossanova was shockingly large-it was easy to see why she was so roomy inside.

The Travelift moved the boat into a spot behind the large corrugated metal hangar where smaller boats were stored, and the guys propped the boat up with a series of metal jackstands that leaned beneath the waterline of the hull.

The next day, I borrowed my brother Tom's grinder and went to work on a couple of rust spots. The Bossanova had some flaking rust around her old stern davits but was otherwise almost rust-free. After I'd ground them down, I treated these spots with sticky rust-inhibitive primer. Then I sanded the entire hull with medium-grit paper using a palm sander. When I was ready to prime, I used WillBond, a liquid-chemical bonding agent, to tack all the sanding dust off and give the surface some extra bite.

I stirred a dark blue tint into the white primer, which resulted in a garish aquamarine hue. Oh, well. I taped the rub rail on the top and bottom and then rolled the entire boat with primer. When I was finished, it looked like some insane Caribbean fisherman's wet dream. More than one member of the peanut gallery stopped by to say I should leave it that color. I thought about it-it was certainly festive looking but it was just too much. The Shady Lady could have carried off this party dress, but I imagined the Bossanova as cla.s.sic yet sporty. No loud Hawaiian shirts or tube tops for my beautiful boat.

Instead, I was shooting for ruggedly handsome. A bright sky blue would seem like the raised middle finger of a high school misfit with a dyed blue Mohawk: Hey, look at me: I'm intentionally ugly.

I left the boat to dry. Luckily it didn't rain until the following day, when the primer had already had a chance to harden. I took advantage of the weather and busied myself with painting the salon and galley interiors. I replaced the off-white with a slightly warmer putty color, while I listened to the downpour drumming on the steel overhead. It was a wonderful sound-like rain on a car roof but richer, deeper.

After the Bossanova had another day to dry in the sun, I went back and rolled the hull with dark blue-this time I skipped the sanding, which just seemed to scratch up the primer coat. Instead, I used more WillBond to reprep the surface before I applied the paint. The following day, I gave it another coat of navy blue and slapped orange paint on the rub rail. Voila! The Bossanova had been transformed. The whole project took me about four working days and $800, including the haul and launch. The swell of pride I felt as I watched her being lowered back into the water wasn't even marred by seeing the belts on the lift sc.r.a.ping the fresh orange paint off the rub rail. No big deal. That's what rub rails are for.

All I needed to do now was put the name on the stern properly I was having an amazing summer. Happy in my part-time work, enjoying the boat, still savoring the triumph of the big trip. I was on top of the world.

Sometime this week, in the middle of August, I met Lars. I was still painting the boat and I'd quit early to go to a dinner party on the beach.

Even before the sun had set, you could see it was going to be a gorgeous starry night. A big grill was going, covered with sweet corn, lobster, chicken and hamburgers. A bar with an endless supply of expensive rose was well-tended and miniature crab cakes with aioli were being circulated by cheerful college kids with summer catering gigs. A long table was set for about thirty and a bonfire had just been started. I was tanned and relaxed, with friends, awed by the beautiful night, deeply aware of my good fortune and glad to be alive.

"You've got to meet Lars," my hosts had said. They'd just returned from a day of sailing with him and seemed slightly giddy. "You guys will love each other, he's been a captain for years, you will have so much to talk about. And, wow, is he a chick magnet! But don't worry-we already warned him about you."

Experience led me to expect a guy who had gracefully pa.s.sed middle age-an old salt with a slight beer belly and a wind-burned complexion whose "chick magneticism" derived more from the twinkle in his eyes, acres of charm and great sea stories than from an Adonis-like physical presence. So I was shocked when someone said, "Mary, this is Lars." I had already noticed him standing alone at the bar in khakis and an Icelandic sweater and wondered vaguely who he was. He was good-looking in a young Bobby Kennedy way.

We chatted through hors d'oeuvres, sat beside each other and talked all through dinner and then moved to the bonfire and outlasted the caterers and most of the guests while we continued the conversation with the last bottle of wine. We talked about my experience at Chapman, my trip up the coast and each place I had stopped along the way. He told me about his years as a first mate on a research vessel that was mapping the ocean floor, about running a 90-foot boat for a Hungarian businessman, about overseeing the construction of the friendship sloop he was captaining that summer.

I knew he had a girlfriend. He knew I was gay. But he asked if he could come see my boat and we wound up kissing in the pilothouse. We left the cliched trail of clothes on the way to the stateroom and got very little sleep.

I've been gay my whole life. No question about it. I like men, I have many male friends, I had plenty of romantic opportunities with men available to me-my heart just felt drawn to women. Living in Manhattan and working in publishing, I'd been able to be myself. I didn't advertise my love life, but I was open about it. Like everyone else, I kept a photo of my beloved on my desk. On Mondays when people talked about their weekends, I talked about mine, too. Consequently, everybody knew I was gay, even most of my acquaintances.

And n.o.body seemed to care, which was as it should be. So on this particular morning, it was pretty darn odd to wake up with the usual two fur b.a.l.l.s wedged against me and this. . .man in the bed. He was naked, sound asleep and crowding me over toward the edge of the mattress. When I looked at him, I felt fond but puzzled. What was this about, I wondered, grabbing a robe and moving to the forward stateroom for more bed s.p.a.ce, and perhaps some mental s.p.a.ce, too. I couldn't fall back asleep, so I stared at the ceiling and mulled things over.

When I first realized I was attracted to women, I told myself it was a phase. I was just doing some open-minded experimenting. Complete balderdash, and I knew it even then. When I had accepted that this just seemed to be who I was, I tried explaining to myself (and sometimes others) that I was totally open to the idea of men, but so far hadn't met one I could fall for. At some point-though this seemed technically true-the absolute consistency of my behavior made it pretty clear that I was just. . .gay. And I was comfortable and happy with that. My parents, who were very liberal in every way, were nonetheless dismayed. My father said he worried that life would be harder for me, but I think my mother was just appalled, even though she's always tried to be accepting.

I hate all the misunderstandings about h.o.m.os.e.xuality. It's not a "choice" any more than heteros.e.xuality is a choice. It's certainly not a "lifestyle." And it's about so much more than "s.e.xuality." It's about romance and intimacy and love. It's about where your heart wants to go, not just your lips and. . .other parts.

So, I wasn't sure how to explain the semi naked man who now stood in the doorway. "What are you doing in here?" he asked, in a slightly hurt tone.

"You were totally hogging the bed, so I came in here for a little s.p.a.ce."

"Oh, good!" Lars said. "I was afraid you woke up and thought, "'What am I doing with this fat, ugly man who smells bad?' "

"You don't smell bad," I responded with a smile.

"Ha-ha," he said. "Can I get in there with you for a few minutes before you get up and make us both coffee?"

We lay there and talked for a while. And one thing led to another again. This time, I didn't have the excuses of a little too much rose, or the romantic spread of stars above, the cozy pop and hiss of a warm bonfire on a cool night to blame. I can't be more explicit about the s.e.x: I'm modest by nature and saying this much already feels like I'm taking all my clothes off in front of you. (Ignore that little roll around my waist-three months of doing nothing but sitting and writing.

I'll lose it soon. Really. I will.) Let me just say that my physical relationship with Lars was excellent. We had chemistry. I was attracted to him, so I was attracted to his body. It seemed that simple and natural, despite the lack of precedent. After coffee, Lars had a boat to move and I had to meet Jay to paint. We were halfway through transforming a long room into a long limestone room. He was a genius at what he did, and I liked being his handmaid of hues, his sous-chef of semigloss.

Of course, I tell Jay everything, and it was fun to have someone to giggle with about Lars. I mean, that was my primary reaction: I thought it was funny that this had happened after twenty-some years. And what was even funnier was that it was. . .great. But I also absolutely, positively had no expectations or desire for anything else to come of this. . .interesting accident.

So I was surprised by the sweet message Lars left me that afternoon. "Hi, I'm at Sunset Beach, having a little calamari and rose. I'd like to play petanque, but I've got no one to play with. Well, okay. Talk to you later."

He called a few more times without leaving messages, and I felt pleased but also increasingly anxious, unsure of what was happening. At the end of the day, Lars dropped by my high-and-dry boat, which was still propped up in the yard while I finished painting it.

"Boy, are you pushy," I greeted him. "And look at me. . ." I waved a hand over myself. I had on a paint-spattered tennis shirt and dirty blue track pants, fresh (or not so fresh) from the jobsite. Not pretty.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"Well, it's awfully dark out here," I countered. But honestly, I couldn't believe how handsome he was. His eyes were such an extraordinary blue that they seemed lit up from behind. And he had great features-an aquiline nose that had once been broken, full lips, short brown hair that was dusted with silver. I later saw photos of him in his twenties when he'd been too good-looking, as pretty as a male model. He was 38 now and I liked the way time had roughened his smooth edges. His imperfections added to his appeal.

"I guess I just wanted to tell you that I really hope you don't regret what happened last night."

I told him that I absolutely did not regret it. I was glad it had happened. And that was true.

He continued. "Yesterday, the whole day, everything felt very fateful. I don't know how to explain it. . .it was just a great day, and then I met you. I hope you want to keep seeing me. . .and having s.e.x. . ." he smiled, "but if you just want to be friends, that would be okay, too. I want us to hang out together, at least. I just like you. I think you're very cool and I feel strangely bonded to you"

This was a mouthful I hadn't been expecting. I had no idea what to say. I thought guys weren't emotive. I thought really handsome guys with girlfriends were especially unlikely to "bond" after one night with someone. It had been a fling. Just one of those things, as Cole Porter would say. Hadn't it?

I told him we would definitely be friends. I thought he was a great guy and last night had been amazing. But I had been gay for forty years and he had a girlfriend, so anything else seemed pretty unlikely.

Shows what I know.

CHAPTER NINE.

No emotion, any more than a breaking wave, can long retain its own individual form.

-HENRY WARD BEECHER.

A couple of evenings after our chat on the stern of the Bossanova, Lars and I planned to meet for a friendly dinner.

I was trying to manage my vague discomfort with the situation, and keeping it light and friendly seemed the way to go. I was later than I meant to be when I parked at the Coecles Harbor Marina on Shelter Island and walked across the yard, looking for the Friendship Sloop. I found its mast first and my eyes followed it down to the deck. And there was Lars-turning the pages of an open book that was spread against his knees, with a gla.s.s of rose in his other hand and his whole profile lit up by the sunset behind him. It was a sight that made me smile involuntarily, and it was right about then that I thought, Oh my G.o.d, maybe this is going to be a date.