Owen McCuen

Tim, Grace, and their son Tyler were friends back home in cold New England, but this was the first time they were able to join us.

I think Grace was a little intimidated being so far from home, but probably more so from the news circulating about the two lost boats and crews.

We're probably in the bad part of a cycle.

Every so often tragedies clump together, then there's a stretch of nothing.

It happens everywhere, usually nothing more than bad seamanship.

Everyone had found spots to sit on the top of the cabin or at the bow.

No one said anything, letting the warm air flow over them as we sailed westward.

Tammy returned and handed out drinks.

I felt good for them because it was a feeling I never got over, just as I never got over the feeling of just keeping on sailing, going who knew where.

Tammy sat beside me, her hand rested on my knee while she scanned the sky, not looking for anything, more just taking in the blue and the clouds.

I think secretly she wished it was just the two of us, but we'd been promising this trip to the others for quite a while.

She sipped her drink and leaned back.

We were each in the grip of a dream we never wanted to end.

The sailing was easy.

It was one of those days when the wind stayed about as steady as it could.

We had no real plans and just let the direction of wind carry us along.

I barely had to trim the sails.

In no time, the island we'd left slowly lowered below the horizon until only the open ocean surrounded us.

The waves were running around afoot and there was barely any motion on the boat.

Two hours out, we had all settled down to relaxation with intermittent conversations.