Thanksgiving weekend, 1975. After breaking up with Circus Lady, I decided to go sailing anyway. But it was still early, the theaters were empty for the matinee hour. I stopped to see "Jaws", which had just opened in Tampa that day. It was a big mistake.

"We had planned the sail weeks ahead of time. It had been scheduled for a long weekend; supplies and camping gear prepared and the weather forecasts eagerly consulted up to the last minute. But as lovers often do, we quarreled -- for the last time as it turned out -- and I found myself towing the Pelican to the Gulf and launching her without any help. The island was four miles offshore and the wind favorable; I was confident I could make it there and have camp set up in time to get some fishing in before dark."

"I had often sailed with green crew but never by myself, and the experience was not quite what I had imagined it would be: not only was I truly alone on the water, but I realized I had no real business there. Any minor accident or emergency could easily turn into a catastrophe, and I found myself acutely aware of my precarious position. Alternating with this realization was the recurring memory of the unpleasantness of a few hours earlier . . . the harsh words and the missed opportunities. The sea also has a way of finding our weaknesses, and this trip was no exception. The wind died briefly, then shifted and kicked up into a brisk breeze from the northwest. The little sloop was committed to a series of alternating long and short tacks into a steep and whitecapped sea. By the time I made it to the lee of the island and anchored securely, waded ashore, and pitched the tent, it was well after sunset. I was exhausted and, although I had not been in any real danger, I was disappointed at my reaction to what should have been a very pleasant sail. The sea and sky had sparkled with a dazzling intensity, but I was alone, and I was afraid."