Peter checked his heading. He was a ship’s captain–someone who mattered on the sea, but was a nobody on the land. It is the way things ought to be. A boat means so much more to a man than something that floats. It drops anchor where it wants to. Peter’s ship had a galley, a library, sleeping quarters, crow’s nest, wheel house, and a deck. Like most worthwhile things, it was imperfect. The paint was chipped, the engine needed repairs, and the windows were cracked, but Peter saw its potential in the same way a woman sees the potential in a house.

“What’s our heading?” I asked.

“There’s a ship pinned against the reef about three miles out. Have you swum with sharks before?”

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“Well, you probably won’t have much choice on this trip. White tips are harmless enough, but you have to watch out for tiger sharks. They’ll go after anything they can’t figure out and scuba divers make their list of edible eats.”

Suddenly, the red sky lit up the morning clouds like they were on fire. “How does that saying go again?”

“‘Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning; Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’ But, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure.”

There were dark clouds on the horizon.

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