PROLOGUE.
Departure, July 1995.

     Next to me I could hear the water rushing past the boat’s hull. The water, I thought dreamily, always the water. It rushed past foamy and alive on the other side of the thin fiberglass. It was my companion as I lay pressed against the hull up forward in the bow.

     Kevin was at the helm, of course. I felt him make a sharp correction as a wave, surging up behind us, caused the boat’s stern to yaw for an instant. He jammed the wheel over a couple of spokes. He knew what he was doing and I could rest while the boat rushed ahead on its destination.

     I closed my eyes, and listened to the sea racing along just above my head. Six knots, I thought, maybe six and a half. Pretty good speed, and maybe we could keep it up all the way through Block Island Sound. Better check the chart, I thought, check the LORAN, check our speed and position, update the time to reach the next turning point. The voice of worry nagged at me threatening disaster the moment I was not vigilant. But instead I closed my eyes again. Kevin did not really need me up on deck.

     A moment later the boat heaved sideways and slammed down with the thud of its nearly 10,000 pounds hitting the bottom of a wave. She shuddered for an instant, lifted her skirts with the next following sea and continued sailing, powerful and unfazed. I smiled, thinking of him back there, alone at the wheel, dealing with all this without me.

     I could picture him with his leg confidently propped across the cockpit for balance. Maybe he steered with just one hand, and held onto the backstay behind him with the other. His blond hair was a mess, all tangled and stiff from wind and salt spray. He loved the sun, loved to think that he was getting a deep tan on his skinny chest and shoulders. He was driven by vanity, and I had even seen him squeeze a fresh lemon right onto his scalp to speed up the lightening action of the sun. He loved the way the sun left his hair all streaky. His dark sunglasses, crusty and spotted with spray, were cinched with a braided lanyard that hung down the back of his neck. In all, he looked like he belonged on a sailboat.

     We were only two days into the trip, two days out of City Island, yet it felt like we had been on this boat, this trip, for years and years, and that nothing important had ever come before. Even the destination, another three days further east, did not really matter. We were on our own, inside this boat, this fragile shell, and it seemed we had always been here, together, always sailing. Even from the start it seemed we had been moving through water, together.

      I rolled over in my bunk and looked aft through the companionway. I could see one bare foot through the spokes of the big wheel. He was sitting up on the windward coaming. His arms, longer than mine, could easily reach the wheel even while he sat out on the edge. From there he could better watch the luff of the headsail, the wind-sensitive leading edge. How good it felt to settle into the cushion beneath me, to rest my weight against the hull, all the while aware that this boat, with me and all the food and equipment crammed into it, was under Kevin’s control. Though he was almost thirty feet away, I felt surrounded by him, his hands, his big red knuckles on the wheel. Around me his smell was mingled with the subtle residue of teak oil and diesel fuel that pervaded the cabin. Even in the berth, I was faintly aware of the peppermint soap he washed with. He probably had used this pillow just before me. I closed my eyes again and happily let Kevin sail the boat.

      When I looked up again, I thought it odd that the forehatch above me was propped open. When had he come forward and done that? I did not recall opening the hatch. The motion too, had changed. In fact, there was no motion. Nor were we heeling over any more. And it was hot inside the cabin. I got as far as opening my mouth to call out his name, but said nothing. The boat was at anchor and I was alone.

     There was no need to call out his name. The boat was still, lying off City Island, and I was alone on a summer afternoon. I had come out to put a new battery on board. In the thick heat I had stretched out in the familiar vee-berth. There was no breeze coming through the hatch. With his name still stuck in my throat I held my breath and let my mind catch up with the past four years since he had died. He was gone, I told myself. He did not exist. It was just memory and longing that had produced this illusory vision. He had been here, before, that I knew, as my mind stumbled with the question of, what exactly is a person?