Hank came to the window again. It was sunny and blue but still too windy, whitecaps all the way to a tiny freighter that held down the far horizon. On the beach, waves were tall and broke far from shore, giving long rides to the kids on boogie boards. A perfect day—except for boating, at least for launching through the surf. The boat was a problem; it altered his way of looking at the ocean, where winds, tides, and currents had never much mattered for fishing or swimming. The first year they came to the island, they didn't even fish. The second year, they dug for clams in the flats of the sound, discovered oyster beds in the marshes. Third year they caught mullet out of the surf. In following years came the crab traps, flounder gigs, pier fishing, live bait, and lures.

Now the boat, a small inflatable Zodiac. Not quite right for catching kingfish, Spanish, or amberjack. Possibly a mistake altogether. But without the kid, Hank might put the boat out of mind, yet there he was, a lanky teenager, stretched on the sofa in wet red surfer trunks, staring at a TV greed show: buzzers, flashing lights, hysterical contestants. Hank wished the kid would go down for a swim with the others. Jim, his father, came up the boardwalk, shaking the stilted house, and opened the door. "Joey, c'mon, we're gonna play some ball."

"Nah, I'm gonna stay," the kid said, "In case Uncle Hank needs some help with the outboard."