[3<br >"Peter，" I said， late on a white summer afternoon about fifteen years<br >ago to Peter Start， who had sailed with me since he was thirteen<br >when he began looking after my boat during the summers， "let s<br >face it. Some day we ll have to sail across the Atlantic." We were<br >walking gingerly about the mossy rocks that surround York Harbor，<br > ~u~a~ne， getting some exercise after a long day s sail from Glouces-<br >ter， before returning to The Panic， moored in the Hansel-and-Gretel<br >39azbor， for dinner. The first three daFs of our cruise ，~e m3r ，s~(e，<br >Peter， and our friends--raced with<br >struck out to cruise in Maine.<br >the New York Yacht Club， then we<br > ~t~ a~reed.<br > I first acknowledged my unalterable affection Ior Peter on medL<br >taring that in the five years I had known him， he had never said No<br >to any request I made ("Please repaint the hull black by next week-<br >~22D}， ~ever betrayed b ~ an ~ intteetiou the im~ausih~t，~ o~ ~.u，~<br > 2e27nuda with us /，1 0ctofler.e"J， never ~etrayed any [ac~ o~ en-<br > from my own， at eleven or twelve at night on a Friday， late in the<br > season. "Peter， let s sail." "Sure]" "I ll pick you up in ten min-<br > utes"--Peter wasn t old enough for a driving license in those days--<br > and in twenty minutes we would be powering out of Stamford Har-<br > bor; in another ten minutes the sails would be up. In an hour or so，<br > depending on the wind， we would make out the little flashing red light<br > signaling the entrance to the tortuous channel--rocks on either side<br >--winding into the little harbor<br >off what we called Treasure Island<br ><br >