From the starboard open-end of the shelter-deck, protected from the wind, Luke and I watched the separate white and orange lights of Stromness coalesce, grow lonely, and disappear. Luke was dressed in dark-blue overalls, like Jason’s, but they were even more impressively lived-in, action-stained with memories. Luke dressed precisely and without effort for every occasion here—I could see that—he was plainly at home in his own world, the only one that really mattered to him. I said, “So what happens now?” “Nothing or everything,” he said, with a snort of happy laughter. “It depends how you look at it! To reach his secret fishing-grounds Jason is going to steam north-west, flat out, straight into the weather. Right into a Force 8 or 9. Most young skippers say they like to behave like that, or they have to, because once you’ve mortgaged your life to a boat you can’t afford to waste a day or a night: but I’ve never heard of anyone actually doing it. Except Jason Schofield.
