P R O L O G U E
Sarabande swayed gently at anchor off Cypress Island. Marvin Baynes clutched his coffee cup, savoring daybreak from the pilothouse bench. A pale blue sky backlit the crisp white dome of Mount Baker. Muted cries of seagulls broke the early-morning quiet. The coffee ’s rich aroma seduced Marvin, relaxed him, the warmth of the cup a buffer against the morning’s chill. He smiled and sank into the leather seat.
Outside, the buzz of an outboard engine grew steadily louder. When the engine throttled back to a soft, steady hum, Marvin stood. He slid open the pilothouse door. A skiff floated nearby.
“CJ, that you?” He called to the woman in the skiff.
“Stopped by to say hi,” she said.
“You’re up early.” He raised his cup. “Care to come aboard for some coffee?”
“Love to but not today. Boating season’s begun and I’ve got lots of work to do. Tree falls on some of the paths need clearing.”
“And there ’s no one to help you?” CJ smiled. She raised her arm, made a fist, and tapped her biceps.
“I’m one tough broad.” She laughed. “I can outwork any man they’ve ever sent me. Besides, with cutbacks the department only has the budget for one ranger on Cypress. Though I might get an intern this year.”
Marvin took another sip. “You’ve been out here what? Five, six years?”
“Almost ten.”
“And by yourself no less. I admire that.”
“It’s . . . well . . . sometimes difficult being alone on the island, but I love it here.”
“This summer’s our last cruise north,” Marvin said.
“Last?”
He gripped his cup. “It ’ll be the fortieth year Angie and I have cruised the Inside Passage.” He sighed. “Much as we love it, we ’re getting old and being aboard for three months is getting harder.”
“Old? Marvin, you look great.”
“Stop or you’ll make an old man blush.”
CJ laughed. “Come back by when you return from Alaska and we ’ll celebrate.”
Marvin waved. “We will.”
CJ stepped back to her helm. The engine revved. She spun the skiff around. Marvin watched her head toward the far shore as Sarabande rocked gently in her wake.
Marvin stepped back inside the pilothouse. Forty years. Five boats. One wife. He sipped coffee, then raised his cup forward in a toast toward the berth where Angela slept. Then he sipped some more, raising his cup this time in honor of the boats that had marked the passage of their lives together: Prelude, the twenty-six-foot wooden sailboat that he’d taken Angela on for their first date; Allemande, a thirty-foot ketch they’d bought the first summer of their marriage; Minuet, the fast, thirty-three-foot fin-keel sailboat they’d raced for years; Cantata, the steel sailboat they’d built with the intention of making a circumnavigation.
Marvin winced, clutching the coffee cup even tighter, recalling the times spent on Cantata with their daughter. After losing Amy, he and Angela had found it difficult to sail Cantata, so they’d purchased Sarabande, their current boat, an older motor sailer that chugged along at seven knots, with an inside helm where they could escape harsh Northwest weather—a perfect boat for two retired concert musicians, two aging sailors.
