Today, the Keelhauler came down with a fever and a flu, and when I called Franklin to say he wouldn't be joining us, I learned that Franklin and Everett's father had died. Franklin was looking forward to sailing, to clear his head, I think, and so we raced without the Keelhauler.

Yesterday's torrential rains had cleared, leaving the air scrubbed and fresh, and the sea swollen and choppy. The three of us--Franklin, Everett, and me--raced well, beating our nearest competitor by ten minutes.

In the clubhouse afterwards, we drank a toast to their father, and the normally reserved and formal pair gave only the slightest hint of the challenge they faced in keeping a good face on things as we talked about the race.

They discussed arrangements for their father's service, which segued into a discussion of his last few months in the hospital, relating every aspect of his decline, and the doctor's care, to the sport of sailboat racing. It seemed easier for them to speak in analogies, and an outsider would most likely have thought that they were discussing strategy for the next race.

It was only when the normally arch and buoyant Everett turned to me, suddenly, and said earnestly, "Life goes very fast..." and held my gaze that I realized how difficult it all was for him. My conversations with Everett are always short, and generally confined to niceties about the wind angle, or the location of the upwind mark, or some minor point of amusement. I was unprepared to look him in the eye and see a capacity for sorrow, or respond with anything but a simple agreement to his statement.

Not part of the family, I sat quietly during their discussion, and raised my glass along with them, in a toast to their father, to the beautiful evening, to the passing of the storm, to the successful race, and to life. Outside, the sun had set, but the waves continued rolling in, crashing white and sending spray and foam into the air.

Star of the day. . .Tom Wolfe