Dropping Anchor

Christopher was startled from his musings when a woman approached the gate that kept unwanted night visitors out of the marina. She fumbled with the lock for a few seconds before walking out onto the dock that ran parallel to the one Christopher's boat was moored to. She glanced over and smiled "Morning."

"Morning," he answered. "Looks like we're in for a nice day."

She nodded. "I hope so. Can't ever tell, though."

"Yep." He watched her walk on to the end of the pier and step down into a small fishing boat.

The marina was so dead quiet that he could easily hear every move she made, though she was a good distance away. He turned then, and went below to get a carton of milk out of the cooler. He poured himself a glass; his usual breakfast. He was not much for eating early in the morning. Most of the time though, something cold hit the spot and got him going.

Next came the job of rigging the sails, which were still laid out on the deck. The job went smoothly; partly because there was no one around to get in his way, but mostly because he had no idea what he was doing. He was afraid that the crash course in sailing George gave him over the phone was not going to be enough.

There was absolutely no wind, so he used the onboard motor to get out of the cove. The five-gallon can that sat on deck was half-full. Enough to get me by in a pinch, he decided. And another thing to add to the list if put in to a port somewhere. Slowly working the rudder with his right hand, he angled the boat out of the marina and across the bay.