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to starboard had me panicked. I could hear the brittle staghorn coral snapping off against our bow as the sail dragged us up and
onto a reef. I dropped the beers and scrambled up the ladder to the main deck. Instead of steering between the port and starboard buoys marking the deep channel through the reef, Hamilton steered to the outside of the port marker. Now he stood at the wheel and scowled at me as if I had charted the course. “Don’t just stand there,” he barked, “lower the sails!” I hurried to get them down before we did any further damage to the hull. For all I knew we would sink. As I lowered the main, the keel struck a solid wall of coral heads and we heaved forward and came to a grinding stop. I flopped awkwardly onto the deck.
    â€œIdiot!” Hamilton shouted. “Get up. You’re making a fool of us.”
    â€œDon’t blame me!” I snapped.
    â€œDon’t you dare talk back to the captain!” he snapped. “Now get to work.” Then he went below and didn’t return.
    â€œRemember the money,” I muttered angrily to myself. “The money. The money.”
    While I secured the sails I began to realize why he ducked out of sight. Boats passed out of the harbor and into the harbor and each one slowed to remark on my sailing gaffe and give me advice. It was clear that we had to sit there like wooden carrion until, if we were lucky, high tide would float us off. Four hours later, it did. Hamilton returned from below and I raised the sails.

    â€œTake the wheel,” Hamilton ordered, “and head for the Buck Island beach. I’m going to check the hull.”
    Buck Island was a small island just off the northeast coast of St. Croix. Before the racial trouble started, hundreds of tourists sunbathed there, and it was especially popular with scuba divers, who could follow an underwater park trail through the coral on the east side. Now, it was mostly deserted.
    I aimed for the sandy west side. The wind was behind me and the mainsail was full out. The boat cruised along. Down below I could hear Hamilton knocking about, lifting boards and looking for leaks. It occurred to me that I knew nothing about survival at sea. The only commonsense facts I knew were to get in a life raft, have protection from the sun and plenty of fresh water, and drink your own urine when you run out of fresh water because saltwater will certainly kill you. My father had thought to teach me this after he had been in a sailing accident and stranded on a life raft for two days.
    When Hamilton emerged he said the hull was fine, then checked the trim of the sails. He frowned at me as he pulled the main in a bit and tightened the jib. I just kept moving the wheel a little to the left and a little to the right, pretending that my small adjustments actually made a difference.
    Hamilton stretched out on the deck and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there,” he said.

    I just stared at the huge mainsail and kept the wind behind us. I didn’t want it to start luffing or Hamilton would hop up and get after me. In the few days we had spent outfitting the Beaver —checking the ropes, repairing sails, sealing the deck—he treated me like Billy Budd. I couldn’t do anything right, and he just glowered at me like Claggart when I made a stupid mistake. I was thinking about what it was going to be like spending a month on board with only him when suddenly I noticed we were rapidly closing in on the island, and we were still under full sail.
    â€œHamilton!” I shouted. “Get up.” I spun the wheel hard to port and began to lower the main. But it was too late. Our momentum took us directly toward the beach. We ran aground, softly, onto the sand. Only the bow was stuck, like a knife in a rum cake. A few locals ran toward us, laughing and shaking their heads in disbelief. We were the Keystone Kops of the sea. I waved back to them and grinned.
    Hamilton was