"This is the life, Mike, isn't it?" Lawrence grinned at him. "Better than bird-watching. And there isn't another damn fool out today." It was the closest Michael had ever heard the old man come to gloating. "Go down into the cabin and if you're lucky you'll find a little locker on the port side. If you open the door you'll find a bottle of fine bourbon there that might sharpen the crew's senses mightily. Don't fall overboard on the way, though." He laughed into the wind.

Michael made his way forward and stooped to get into the little cabin, which was full of sail bags and lines and had a primitive head. He got out the bottle of bourbon and climbed over a life jacket on the way back, noting that it was the only one in the cabin.

"Open it," Lawrence commanded. "And take a swig. The damned steward forgot to put out the glasses." There was a sudden stronger gust of wind and Lawrence said, "Whoops" and fought the helm. "Don't spill any of it, sailor," Lawrence said. "It's twelve-year-old life-giving nectar."

Michael lifted the bottle to his lips and took a good mouthful. He felt a sharp burning sensation in his throat and then a warmth in his gut.

"How do you like it?" Lawrence asked.

"Just the thing for morning tea on the high seas," Michael said, wiping the rim of the bottle and handing it to Lawrence.

Lawrence took a long gulp, snorting as it went down. "Takes twenty years off a man," he said, as he handed the bottle to Michael, who screwed the top back on again. "Hold on to it. I think we'll be making several visits to the bar."

They bounced on in silence for a while, the mainsail cracking like pistol shots at irregular intervals.

"Michael," Lawrence said, his tone changed, "there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about and there's no way of getting you alone in the house."

"What is it?" Michael said, bracing himself for what he expected was coming.

"It's about you and Tracy." The old man took a long breath, as though he would need fresh oxygen for what he was going to say. "You're not getting along very well together, are you?"

"Well enough."

"We'd better have another drink," Lawrence said. "Truth serum." They each drank again.

"I like you, Michael. You know that."

"I know."

"And I love Tracy. The best of the three. She's a tremendous girl."

"Tremendous."

"You're both putting on an act for the old folks," Lawrence said somberly. "The loving smart young couple, living the glamorous New York life. Only you're not the loving smart young couple and you're not living the glamorous life, are you?"

"Not completely," Michael admitted. "No."

"You treat each other as though you're both made of glass. As though if either of you made one wrong move one or the other would crack into a thousand pieces. She's a sad girl now, Michael, and she wasn't made to be a sad girl."

"I know."

"What is it? You got somebody else?"

"No." Go back as far as a year and this was no lie.

"She have another fella?"

"Not that I know of."

"Can I do anything to help?" The old man was appealing directly to him.

"I don't think so. We'll have to work it out ourselves."

"Do you think you'll be able to do it?" Lawrence's tone was anxious.

"I'm not sure," Michael said. "Has she said anything to you or to her mother?"

"Not a word." Lawrence shook his head dejectedly. "She's always been like that. She only brings good news into the house, never anything that she's worried about. Well, there hasn't been any good news for a long time. Daughters're mysterious territory. Let's have the bottle."

He took a long swig. Then Michael took another drink and recapped the bottle.

"You travel too goddamned much, Michael," Lawrence said harshly.

"Not anymore."

"Not anymore." Lawrence nodded, his long wet hair swinging over his eyes, like a shaggy old English sheepdog. "In the past, though?"

"Perhaps."

"You don't mean perhaps," Lawrence said belligerently. "You mean yes."

"I mean perhaps. It goes deeper than that." He could have said that it went back to a downhill ski race, two men colliding and dying in mid-air, himself nearly being drowned a couple of times while surfing, almost being killed because he was driving too fast, going berserk because he was lost in the suburbs of Queens. But he didn't offer anything more. He would not complain to his wife's father about her, would not say that if they both had known about themselves and each other before they were married they would never have been married. All he said was, "There are certain things on which we don't see eye to eye." Like his screaming distaste for his work, his abhorrence of the city, like their not making love for months on end, like his refusal to have children. None of this was the sort of thing you could say to your wife's father while you were sharing a bottle of bourbon with him and he was straining all his old muscles to keep the boat from heeling over completely. "If it's any comfort to you, if anything's gone wrong, it's my fault, not hers."

"One year after I was married," Lawrence said, "I was ready to leave her mother. It was my fault, too. Luckily, it turned out she was pregnant. How is it you haven't had any children?"

"That's a question you'd better ask Tracy."

"She wouldn't tell me, either," Lawrence said sadly.

There was another, stronger gust of wind and the boat shuddered and dipped its bowsprit into a wave.

"The wind's freshening a bit, Michael," Lawrence said. "You'd better put the bottle where no harm can come to it and then get down the mainsail. It's getting a little rough, so you better remember the old maxim-one hand for the boat and one for yourself."

"I've heard it."

"And while you're in the cabin," Lawrence said, almost casually, "you'd better bring out the life jackets. I do believe we're in for something of a squall."

Michael went forward to the cabin and came out with the life jacket. "There's only this one," he said, putting it at Lawrence's feet. Before Lawrence could say anything Michael went forward, holding on with difficulty as the deck bucked beneath him. It took him a long time and all the strength he could muster to take down the mainsail and furl it with the wind snapping at the sail like a pack of malicious dogs.

"Well done," Lawrence said when he got back to the cockpit.

"I've sailed before."

"I know. I'm grateful for it. I've sailed with men who couldn't drop an anchor without going in after it." He looked up, squinting at the darkening, violent gray and black sky. "I guess I misread the weather. Hubris. We're going back. Get over to the other side fast when we swing around. Ready?"

"Ready."

Lawrence put all his weight onto the helm and the boat swung around, groaning and creaking, every plank protesting, the wind screeching through the stays. Both of them scrambled, the old man surprisingly agile as he switched his position. Now they were heeling over more than ever even with only the jib up-and Lawrence was whistling through his teeth a tuneless, abstracted sound.

"We're in trouble," Michael said.

"A person might say that." Lawrence kept up the same tuneless whistling, slacking off as much as he dared. "Sorry about that."

"Put on the life jacket," Michael said.

"I told you to bring out the two of them."

"I know what you said. There's only one."

"The cabin's a mess. I always mean to straighten it out," Lawrence said. "You didn't look closely enough."

"There's only one."

"Do you think you can hold her on course while I go and look?" "I'll hold her," Michael said. "But you're wasting your time."

"Here, take it."

Michael slid over and grabbed the tiller. It nearly pulled out of his hand and he had to lean his full weight on it. The old man must be a lot stronger than he looks, he thought, as he watched Lawrence go crablike forward to the cabin. He wished he had kept the bottle of bourbon up on deck.

In a little while Lawrence came skittering back. "Those goddamn kids," Lawrence said, as he took the helm. "Little wharf rats. They steal everything they can lay their hands on."

"I told you there was only one."

"So you did. Somewhat disappointing, isn't it? Put it on."

"Not me," Michael said. "It's for you."

"It's my fault. I should have looked before we took off. Put it on," Lawrence said sternly.

Michael stared landward. The low bluffs that bordered the eastern side to the entrance of the harbor were at least two miles away. "If it comes to the sticking point, I can swim for it. Christ, I could swim from here to Connecticut if I had to."

"I'm not in the mood for youthful boasting. Put the goddamn thing on. This is an order from the captain of the vessel."

"If you don't put it on, I'm going to throw it overboard. I have no desire to float into shore and tell your family that I left you to drown."

"Nobody's drowning," Lawrence snapped.

"Will you put that in writing?"

Lawrence looked stem for a moment, then smiled, a thin-lipped Yankee old man's smile. "I didn't think I could convince you," he said.

Michael held the helm while Lawrence struggled into the jacket. The wind was howling now and the waves were breaking completely over the craft, the water sluicing through the cockpit. "Have you got a radio on board?" he asked.

"No. Never needed it before. I'm rarely out of sight of land."

"We're in sight of land now," Michael said, "and we could use a radio."

"You should have been around when I outfitted the Tracy. You're a few years too late with your excellent suggestions."

Michael stared at the old man, struggling with the helm, his lips bared in a crazy grin. By God, Michael thought, the old lunatic is enjoying it.

Then the jib split, with a noise like a cannon going off. In a few seconds it was in shreds and the boat broached. Hastily, Michael tore off his tennis shoes and threw off his foul-weather gear and sweater, then his pants. If he was going to have to swim for it, he wasn't going to do it dressed as though for a winter in the Alps.

A few seconds later the Tracy capsized and they were both in the water. The boat lay on its side, heaving up and down wildly. Lawrence was a few feet away from him, appearing and disappearing in the waves. Michael grabbed him by the life jacket and, both of them swimming furiously, reached the boat. As it swept down upon them, they both grabbed on to the rail.

"Can you hold on?" Michael gasped.

"I'd better," Lawrence said. He swallowed a lot of water, but he held on. From then on he didn't say anything as, side by side, they wallowed in the turmoil of the sea.

Good old America, Michael thought, almost laughing, you can drown on both sides of it. From sea to shining sea.

After a while he could see that Lawrence's grip on the rail was getting weaker and he decided that if the old man let go he would let go too and take a chance that he could keep them both afloat.

Then, as suddenly as the squall had come up, it passed over them, howling westward. The sea calmed magically and it was a lot easier to hang on. But a mist thickened around them and soon Michael couldn't see land and knew that if he had to swim for it, he'd have to guess in which direction to go.

There was no way of telling how long they had been in the water. Both their watches had stopped when they had been hurled overboard and there was no sun to indicate how late it was getting. Lawrence was getting blue from the cold and his hands were becoming a numb, frozen white on the rail. What seemed like many hours later, they heard the sound of a helicopter overhead. Lawrence finally spoke. "They must have phoned the coast guard at Montauk," he said.

But the mist was too thick for anyone to see them from a helicopter and they listened as the sound of the engines dwindled in the distance.

One of Lawrence's hands slipped and Michael put an arm around him to hold him steady. Lawrence grinned weakly at him. "I thought you'd be in Connecticut by now," he said.

Then they heard the sound of powerful motors approaching them. The men in the helicopter must have seen them after all. A shadow loomed in the mist, grew closer, darker, as Michael waved and shouted. The engines slowed and a moment later the coast guard vessel glided up to them and figures on board were throwing ropes down to them. Stiff-fingered, Michael tied one of the ropes under Lawrence's armpits and he was hoisted aboard. Then, with his ultimate effort, he tied a sling for himself and was pulled up to the boat's deck.

As the coast guardsmen were putting a line on the Tracy to tow her behind the cutter, they were hustled down below decks and toweled off and given blankets and hot coffee. "What time is it?" Michael asked the captain of the ship, who had come down to see how the two men he had rescued were doing.

"Four-ten," the captain said. "What time did you go into the drink?"

"About eleven a.m."

The captain whistled. "Five hours in the water." He looked with admiration at Lawrence, whose hands were trembling as they held the steaming mug of coffee. "You have a tough old friend."

"You can say that again."

Lawrence seemed too stunned to understand that they were talking about him, shivering and holding onto the mug with his two hands as though that, too, might be in danger of sliding away from him.

"You were lucky, pal," the captain said to Michael. "We got messages that two other boats foundered and we haven't found any survivors yet. You're also lucky that we've had a hot spell these last ten days and the Sound is a lot warmer than it usually is this early in the season. Water sports." He shook his head. "May I suggest that from now on when you want to go sailing on the bounding main you call us and ask for the weather forecast? We were sending out small-craft warnings all morning."

"Talk to the old man," Michael said. "He's the skipper."

Lawrence looked up at the captain and smiled slyly. "Ulysses never called the coast guard before setting out for Troy."

The captain laughed and patted Lawrence on the shoulder. "Okay, Skipper, have it your way," he said and left them to go topside.

"Nice fella," Lawrence said, finally putting the mug down. "A little young to be running a ship this size, don't you think?"

"Old enough for us, Phil," Michael said.

"I guess so." Lawrence stretched out on a bunk and pulled the blanket tight around him. "You don't mind if I take a little snooze, do you? I want to be fresh for dinner." He was snoring in ten seconds.