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feel a lot worse.” The Eagle Eye II , one of the other boats that would be competing with us for the catch, was tied to the dock directly behind us. At close to a hundred feet in length, she dwarfed the sixty-three-foot Seahawk. No doubt she was younger and more beautiful. But jumping ship was not an option.
    â€œI don’t want to feel worse. Let’s go check in.” The men reluctantly agreed, and off we went to the “dormitory,” where we left the door open between the two rooms and talked and laughed about the predicament that I’d gotten the group into, until finally drifting off to a very short sleep. I wondered whether the boat was as bad as I perceived or if perhaps I’d been spoiled by captaining the Hannah Boden most recently, which in comparison was a yacht. I remembered my years fishing the Gloria Dawn. Now, that boat was a wreck. I was young and proud to be captain of her. My greatest accomplishment during my four-year reign of the Gloria Dawn had been returning to the dock each trip. Even the owner looked surprised to see my crew throwing lines. I wondered whether I would feel the same pride running the Seahawk or if that, like youth, had passed.
    The men and I spent a full week working from sunup to dark and laughing ourselves to sleep in the dormitory. Jim Budi worked along with us and managed a small army of professionals who patched, condemned, and replaced everything that time and budget allowed before the well was declared dry and the hourglass empty. Our time had come. It was my last chance to back out.
    Captain Scott Drabinowicz had arrived at the Eagle Eye II in time to throw grub and bait aboard, and he was ready to go. Scotty hadn’t changed a bit, I thought. The only exception was the addition of a ponytail. He was a big, blond juggernaut of a fisherman who’d been very successful. I remembered that Scotty had always been extremely scientific in his approach to catching swordfish. He had freely shared information and lent good insight. I had always enjoyed fishing around him in the past and was looking forward to doing it again. He was certainly the right guy to hold my hand as I reentered blue-water fishing. Although we had a friendly competition between us—a buck to the catcher of the single biggest fish—I truly believed that Scotty wished me success. Steaming and fishing in his company gave me peace of mind. His boat was the mother ship of the small fleet, and Scotty was like the godfather of sword. Just seeing him was enough to bolster my resolve and check any misgivings. I just couldn’t falter with Scotty as a witness.
    We had certainly transformed the Seahawk, I thought proudly as Archie lowered the outriggers while I steered toward the Cape Cod Canal. I was plenty nervous about the age and condition of nearly every system on the boat. But I would keep those reservations to myself. We could have spent another month working at the dock, but here we were, heading to sea. Arch stuck his head into the wheelhouse. I smiled and pushed a thumb into the air. “We did it. We got her ready for fishing.”
    â€œI’m a little worried about leaving port without everything working,” my friend confided. “The weather fax and computer software for weather information weren’t fixed. You don’t have any fish-finding technology working. All you have is the surface-temperature gauge and a barometer. And the glass is broken on the barometer.”
    â€œYeah, it’ll be like old times.” I feigned excitement and optimism. “The old gal may look a bit rough. But she’s stable and capable.” Although I was referring to the boat, I couldn’t help but think the same could be said of her captain. Jeez, I thought, maybe I should spend a little less time inventorying the ship and start taking stock of myself. Maybe the Seahawk wasn’t the weak link. Age and lack of use were certainly liabilities in terms of the