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around. Spray splashed over the sides. Harold threw me a jacket. The wind was picking up steadily now as we got further from shore. The waves grew bigger and bigger, some as high as seven and eight feet.
    Harold turned west, away from the wind. The boat slid smoothly down the face of awave. This old fishing tug of his was a big, heavy boat, but it felt like a matchstick in this powerful sea. “Most likely they’d come this way, with the wind. That old boy wouldn’t be able to row against a breeze like this. We’re far enough out now. I think that if they’re anywhere, they’ll be between us and the shoreline.”
    â€œAnywhere along here is going to be a pretty tough place to go ashore,” I reminded him. “I know from experience.”
    â€œJoin the club,” Harold said. “I sank out here once back in 1957. Got caught in a storm that came up out of nowhere. I was in too close and a bloody rock punched a hole in my old crate big enough to let in half the Atlantic Ocean.”
    The wind was behind us now and we were picking up speed. We were cruising up the back of a wave and then skidding down the front. If I hadn’t been so worried about Tamara, I would have called it fun.
    â€œHow’d you get in?”
    â€œWell, I had a pile of lumber on board Iwas bringing back from the mill. Just tied it up in a bundle, tied myself to it and washed in with the waves.”
    â€œYou were lucky,” I said.
    â€œThat’s the name of the game.”
    Right then I was thinking that luck was about all we had going for us. It was a big ocean, an impossible coastline. I guess Ravi was good and scared and wanted to get somewhere far away. He figured that he’d get away quicker in a rowboat. But I’m sure he hadn’t been expecting this weather. I kept thinking of Tamara out here somewhere. It made me shiver.
    â€œOnly so much luck to go around, though,” Harold added. “I’ve seen it all. Some boys go straight down the first boat they sink. Others get away with it. But around here, in these waters, luck’s only good enough to save you once. When the second time comes around, you don’t stand a chance. The bloody sea remembers the first time and feels cheated.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” I found myself saying.“That’s like some stupid old superstition.”
    I could tell I’d hit a sore point. Harold frowned. “You grow up around here, you don’t call it superstition. You count the men who go out and you count the men who come ashore and you study the facts.”
    I wanted to debate with the old fart just then, but I knew it wasn’t the time or place. I kept my mouth shut and studied the sea.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Harold said, realizing we shouldn’t be arguing about anything. “A kid from Toronto can’t drown out here. He’d never let himself die on account of mere superstition.”
    I thought about my first dunk in the waters here. I thought about the ice—the bergs, the bergers and the cold, cold water. I thought about the fact that Harold saved me the first time I lost it out here. I wondered if I was ready for number two after all.
    Harold handed me a beat-up pair of binoculars. “Up periscope,” he said. He pointed a finger towards the top of his boat’s cabin. “Get up there and look. Just hang on good.”
    The waves were still getting larger, the wind stronger. I grabbed onto a brass hand-hold and hoisted myself up on top of the cabin. I looked for something to hold onto and saw a steel pole. At the top of the pole was an antenna.
    â€œI didn’t know you had a radio,” I shouted down. “Maybe you should call for some more help. This sea looks pretty impossible. We might not find them in time.”
    Harold yelled back. “Good idea,” he said. “I might have thought of it myself except the radio hasn’t worked for three