The yacht Valiant plowed diamonds out of the turquoise channel, sweeping swiftly and gracefully . . . The flippant little ship, picking up knots, slapped the waves of its wake against the frowning walls of Fort Santa Cruz on one side and Fort São João on the other. It refused to be dwarfed by the heights to port and starboard, sailing impertinently out to sea with the Sugar Loaf rearing to the west and the Pico soaring all green and tan to the east.Ahead lay the broad immensities of the South Atlantic, lined with long green swells and washed by a hot, damp wind. The starboard almost touched the Tropic of Capricorn and then the spinning wheel pointed the clipper bow northeast.Captain Lars Marlin stood solidly on the bridge, the stirred wind cool against his shaven cheeks. The excellent drill of his white uniform felt like silk as it was pushed against him.Outward bound, in command of a beautiful vessel, he reverently watched the wide-ranged pattern of clouds and waves. He knew he did not deserve this but, for the moment, the thought was submerged.
