Tempest
Gathering the loose line at my feet, I coil it and go about checking the cleats and bolts, then take whatever else I have strewn about and stow it high in the cuddy but leave the lance stuck in the mast as a touchstone to my sanity or insanity. It’s a light, puffy wind filling the mains’l, though strong enough to finally carry me north. Sitting atop the stern, I see that Chatham and the other towns stacked along the spit are blanketed behind a cloud bank of thick fog, and I can barely make out our dueling weathervanes turning listlessly above the mist. Taking a port tack, I haul in and head for home, the now stiff onshore wind stretching the mains’l and helping me along.
With this fresh wind comes a renewed sense of urgency. I need to get to dry land, and I need to get there fast
