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was on watch. He asked me how I was doing, if I needed something to eat. He said that he was watching for the Zubair Islands, that he was glad wewere passing them in the daylight, that sometimes the lighthouses don’t work and a sailor can run right onto the rocks. Then he told me about a book he was reading, a biography about a woman pilot in Africa before there were airfields. He said that back then pilots only flew in the daylight so they could see to land. This pilot, though, got caught out after dark, but her servant, who knew nothing about flying but did know the depth of African night, lit fires along the landing strip so she could land. Then he told me about one of the Apollo 13 astronauts who as a young pilot training in night flying from an unlit aircraft carrier, shorted out all his instrumentation and radio. He only found his ship from the phosphorescent trail of its propeller. Duncan started on another story, but I said thanks, that I got it, that lights are important if you’re a screw-up pilot or astronaut. Fascinating, I said, that they lived to tell the tale. Yawn, I said, suddenly I’m ready for a nap.
    Actually, I wouldn’t mind reading that book about the woman pilot in Africa.
    I’m hungry, so I make supper: soda crackers for Mom, warmed-up lasagna for Duncan and me. We eat in the cockpit so that Duncan can keep his watch. We always stand watch when we’re sailing, especially at night. Freighters and fishing boats can’t always see sailboats. We need lots of time to get out of their way; a sailboat doesn’t outrun anything. On passage, I usually stand one three-hour watch each afternoon, although no one called me from my cabin today so I didn’t have to do it. Duncan and Mom do all the rest.
    A white-winged bird buzzes the boat so close that I duck my head. The sea is still narrow here, and birds pass easily from Africa to Saudi Arabia. The bird dive-bombs again, narrowly missing the wire shrouds that hold up the mast. “Crazy bird!” Duncan follows my gaze to the circling flock overhead. The birds’ movements seem tumbled and erratic, like socks in a dryer. Only Mom doesn’t seem concerned that the birds have lost their minds.
    The islands Duncan mentioned this afternoon are pale purple humps behind us now, or I assume it is those islands. It’s not like the sea has signposts with arrows and mile markers. In sight of land we compare lighthouses and landmarks with those indicated on the chart to figure out where we are and check the GPS , an electronic positioning device, for our latitude and longitude. Even with the GPS , I’m always a little surprised that we find exactly the right entrance to a harbor. It’s like finding a house address when none of the houses are numbered or the street signs are missing.
    The faded islands are the only land I can see. Ahead of us, there’s just water, the edge of everywhere and nowhere and only a pencil dot on the chart tells me we’re anywhere at all.
    As we eat, Mom’s gaze never leaves the sea. I resist, I try, and then I ask her, “Watching for pirates?”
    Duncan shoots me a warning look. Mom turns the color of toothpaste. “That’s not funny, Lib.”
    Duncan unclips his tether from his harness and passes it to Mom. “Lib and I will wash the dishes. You stay up here.” He gathers our plates and forks, and with a determined nod, motions me down the companionway.
    Duncan washes, I dry. Apparently, I use too much fresh water when I rinse. He hands me a glass to dry. “I’d like you to stand watch with your mother tonight.”
    â€œWhy? What did I do?”
    That tiny muscle in his cheek clenches. “It’s not a punishment, Lib. Your mother’s stomach is upset from being at sea, she’s not getting her rest when she’s off-watch, and she’s nervous. She could use the company.”
    I dry the glass. It has a label, the letter