The sea rolled out from under the Sofia, hissing as it went. She settled momentarily into the trough, only to be lifted quickly as another swell overtook her. She was a double-ender and rode the seas easily. She was “sea kindly,” and Mary loved the feeling as she moved through the water. The swell had been running out of the north for days, and it built up as it approached the bay. The bar at the mouth of the bay was treacherous under these conditions, and boats had been lost attempting to navigate the confusing seas. Mary braced herself against the cabin and faced aft, into the wind. She watched the following seas so she could warn her father if one came from an unexpected quarter. He stood at the helm, guiding the Sofia through the breakers. His face was weathered and wore a perpetual squint from keeping one eye partly closed while looking into the wind, the salt spray, or the glaring sun. Now he had a look of intense concentration, and Mary knew he was judging the wind, the movement of the sea, and the changing bar. It was not so much a mental process as a sensing of things, something intuitive.
Suddenly, the Sofia was lifted on the crest of a breaking sea. Mary grasped the railing as the boat rushed forward into the churning water, then surfed down the face of it. They glided into the bay. The seas immediately laid down, though the wind had lost none of its intensity. Her father looked at her and smiled.
