The Trojan Sea

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Jane Ryan huddled under the dodger as the sailboat met the eight-foot swell head-on. It was almost 6:00 A.M., and she was cold and sleepy as she neared the end of her four-hour watch. Temptress took the swell easily. Jane loved the forty-two-foot boat with its cutter rig, classic lines, and strong hull. In many ways it was her alter ego, a seagoing version of what she was: sturdy, totally reliable, a little too broad of beam, and handsome in an old-fashioned way. No one would ever call Jane Ryan slim or beautiful. But perceptive people did look at her twice. Just like Temptress.

But she had a problem. Mike Stuart, the boat’s owner, had worked hard, taken all the required classes, and been certified by the U.S. Sailing Association for offshore passage-making. As a final touch he had hired her to be his instructor for a test in the real thing on a six-week cruise in the Caribbean. But something was not quite right. She moved the problem to a back burner. They could talk about it in Miami, another three or four days away. Automatically, she checked the barometer at the navigation station just inside the cabin. It was falling rapidly. Strange, she thought. The forecast twenty-four hours ago had called for good weather with the possibility of a tropical storm well to the south of them. She shook away the cobwebs of sleep as the eastern horizon glowed with the first golden red of sunrise. Mike Stuart climbed out of the companionway to take the next watch. She squeezed past him and stood on the ladder. “Coffee?” she called.

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