byThere was only a gentle swell on the Pacific, and the dying breeze barely filled the sails of the little thirty-foot sloop. Larry Cross let his stringy body slump over the tiller, staring at the little island of rock and strip of beach off his port. It was the first land he’d seen in three days, and improbable land at that, since it should have been a coral reef. But it was already slipping astern and didn’t really matter, anyhow.
A drunken snore sounded from the cabin, and Cross frowned, twisting his thin face bitterly. He blew out a breath with a snort that made a wisp of sandy hair quiver annoyingly in front of his eyes, and then shrugged, returning to his dark thoughts of himself and Al Simmonds.
A dozen times when the big man had funked out during a storm and got himself stinko on
