Circling gulls watched them coil the dripping rope. The sky hung like bunting over the mountains and there was a mist in the pines behind the beach. The marine radio was still reporting fifteen-foot seas out in the gulf. The storm was moving slowly north and east, the forecaster said, and there was a warning to boats to watch for gales. They laughed when they heard that. The tide was going out, and Bob Doyle stood near the railing and looked down at the water, as gray as the sky, and listened to the bow part the chop. As soon as they slid out of the bay he heard the deeper hum of the engine, felt the bow lifting and the wind coming sharper and colder and, squinting into the wet wind, saw the horizon dark and not ugly. He blew on his hands and went to the galley for a coffee. They dogged down the hatches, stowed main line, topped off the gas-powered bilge pump and the main engine and lashed the fuel and water jugs to the whaleback. Bob Doyle was pulling out the scupper plates when he heard a loud hoot and laughter coming from the wheelhouse.
