Dr. Takahashi removed his stethoscope from Billy’s back. “You’re good to go,” he said. “I’m releasing you today. But remember, you’re not the hotshot you once were.”

Billy, his face drawn and colorless, his stiff gray hair matted to his forehead, hunched forward on the table. His ribs ached when he breathed. “I’m not dead yet.”

“You nearly were,” the Doctor said. “You forget that?”

Billy didn’t answer. He flinched as he buttoned his shirt and stared at the floor.

“You’re seventy, Billy. What would Frances say about you sailing alone?”

Billy grunted.

The doctor faced him. “I’m serious. Get someone to go with you.”

But with iodine still on his chest from last night’s hospital bed, with hands rough and sunburned from half a century on the water, the man who had once sailed through storms causing other men to beg for mercy—Billy, could not remember a name, a single soul to call. “I’m the captain of my own ship, Doctor. When the sea calls, I go.”

The doctor laughed.

Later, Billy angled his white Ford Pinto by parallel parking into a tight spot a block from his apartment. He took a photo of the Pinto buried in the line of others on the long city street, making sure he included the apartment building behind the car. After trudging up the stairs to his fourth-floor walkup, the sound of his heels clicked and echoed on the apartment hardwoods. He found his wife’s bureau and straightened the clothing already folded perfectly. Gently sorting each blouse the way she’d want, he breathed her talcum scent on the fabric, lavender, and apple. Leaving the bedroom, he roamed the halls. He then straightened the family photos in the den: he and Frances twenty years before with their two boys. One of the photos had all of them on a sailboat with the name Promise on the stern, a sun-dappled day. After touching his finger to the framed photograph, he held it against the glass.

His phone chimed, and his son’s familiar baritone greeted him for his Sunday call.

“Checking in, Dad. How you doing? Do I need to book a flight?”

“Can’t talk now, Matthew. The guys are here for poker.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Hold on—” Billy yelled, “I’ll be right there!” then went back to talking with his son. “The guys, I gotta go.”

“Ok. Love you. I’ll call next Sunday.”

Freddie, George, and Sylvester waited for him at the poker table in his living room. Spread across the green felt table were cards, poker chips, Cheeto bags, a bottle of bourbon, and beer cans.

“How’s your son, Billy?” asked George. He wore a blue cardigan and still had white hair, which he let dangle across his forehead.

“He’s good.”

Freddie wore a white wife-beater t-shirt and itched his greasy stubble. “Better than my piece of shit in Detroit. At least your boy calls.”

“You’all got a great kid, Freddie,” Sylvester said. “You shouldn’t talk like that.” Sylvester had a southern accent and wore a pink bowtie. Billy thought he’d never seen him without a tie.

“I love him. But he doesn’t call,” Freddie said.

“Where’s Noah tonight?” George asked. George was an accountant and wore his white dress shirt sleeves tied up. A visor on his head.

Freddie chugged his bourbon and smacked his lips. “Noah’s taking care of Martha. She’s got the big ‘D’”

“What? Are you six?” Sylvester growled. “You moron, have some heart.”

“Well, she does,” Freddie said.

“Are we playin’ cards, or what?” George said. “Whose deal?”

“Billy’s,” Sylvester said.

Billy picked up the cards and shuffled. He then laid out one card at a time in front of each of the men, but was confused when he lost count. “Don’t lay out like they used to. Seven-card stud, right?” He laid out the cards again. Was confused again. “Shit.”

The men looked at Billy in silence. A wince was fixed on Freddie’s face.

The room sparked. The men were gone. Billy stood in front of the poker table. It was leaned against the wall, the folding chairs stacked next to it. The table would be better stored in the extra bedroom.

The house silent, Billy made sure the phone was on no-ring and turned on the TV. He stared at Cory McElroy slapping at a nine iron on the 18th hole. As he watched, a polished ship’s compass lay in his lap he’d been meaning to get in working order. They get more complicated every year.

His mind drifted to Frances, what she’d say.

What do you think you’re doing?

“Sailing. I’m going to sail. It’s what I do.”

No, you’re not. Not alone you’re not.

Cory sunk the putt and gave a fist pump to the crowd. The roar filled Billy’s living room with an empty sound. The Irishman’s broad smile flashed, a winner at the top of his game.

You’re not doing this again.

“Doing what?”

Running off when you don’t want to talk.

“I’m sailing, not running.”

You call it whatever you want.

***

The Coffee Shack was open at the marina, and Issa called out. “Double espresso, Mister Billy?”

Issa poured coffee into Billy’s thermos. “Great day for sailing. Are you headed out?” Issa had a beard that reached his breastbone. He wore a black skullcap and was working alone.

“I believe I will.” Billy took back his thermos. He turned and walked away.

“Mister Billy?” Issa called out to him. He then laughed. “Are you going to pay for your coffee?”

“Pay for what? My wife has it.”

“Your wife? Are you ok?”

Billy dumped the coffee onto the ground. “Are you accusing me of stealing?”

“No. But your wife. She’s not—”

“I damn well know!”

“Of course, sir. Let me refill your thermos.”

Billy watched while Issa poured the coffee. “I’m sorry, son.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mister Billy. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“That long? How long is it now?”

Issa blew air out his nose. “Don’t kid me.”

Billy glanced around the coffee shop, the airtight brown glass jars of different coffee brands lined up carefully, the broom in the corner. “I noticed your sign.”

Issa swept off his skullcap and rubbed the back of his bald head. “Help sure is hard to find. You want a job?” He chuckled.

Billy gazed out into the bay. The fog was lifting. “These kids. Won’t ask for help if they need it. Stubborn is what they are. Stubborn stupid.”

Issa looked puzzled. “No, they don’t ask. The sign don’t help neither. They should ask for help.”

****

Billy manned the helm of his 35-foot sloop as it slipped the dock. He called it a sloop, but that was an exaggeration. It was a forty-year-old sailboat with ragged sails and badly in need of a coat of paint. The diesel coughed and sputtered. Billy smelled diesel but didn’t care. For him, what mattered was the pink sky rising in the east, seagulls screeching and diving, the ocean breeze on his skin, and his being in command.

Only the shrimp boats were on the move, their wakes spreading in the harbor, the outriggers extended like lost arms feeling their way. Billy breathed deeply. The diesel was behind him now. The smell of fresh shrimp, ocean salt, and clean air blowing off the morning tide. His heart ached.

The sailboat soon left the land behind, and he felt the calmness that came when the world couldn’t get at him. He turned the VHF to Channel 16 just to be safe. Nothing but a hiss. The antenna cable must’ve come loose. He made a note in his head to fix it and then glanced at his phone. The display SEARCHING caught his attention. He smiled. “Searching all right,” he said out loud.

Wind, cold, and the bristling at his throat from the yellow slicker pulled tight. A sky alive with gulls. He had a gnawing certainty that he was the only soul on earth. All he wanted at that moment was to go where he hadn’t been.

After throttling back, he slipped to neutral and drifted. The wind snapped the canvas and he trimmed the sheet. He then unfurled the jib. The boat heeled leeward and, like a feral animal, gained its stride and broke for open water. Spray misted his face as the hull hammered the swells. Billy swallowed hard, relishing the shiver in his spine. In command.

His thoughts, however, drifted inward. Fear gripped an empty hollowness in his stomach. The more he stopped calling his friends, the less they called him. Forgetting like this, living with embarrassment and dread, scared him, a place he’d never thought he’d be. Lately, he saw a future where he’d forget Frances, and this he couldn’t abide.

He was aboard a 35-foot Catalina with the wind rising, a single-masted lady with gentle lines called Promise, a name Frances had come up with. A promise he had made. A curtain of rain swept the south, a flash of lightning in the early morning gray. He’d have to chart north to avoid the storm and edged the wheel starboard. He swore he heard Frances in the galley. She’d come topside in a while and bring hot coffee. Once underway they’d brace the wheel and gather together in the stern, one arm holding the other. They’d been in some hard nor’easters in their time, but Frances had a way of always getting them back on course.

And now he was out past the sight of land—staring at each horizon under a gray sky. There was a lost feeling in his gut, each direction merging with the others. Panic rose from his feet planted on the deck and scurried up the back of his legs, then up the back of his neck. In the overcast sky above, there was no sun to reckon with. He suddenly felt dizzy and stumbled to the wheel. The compass spun lazy circles and teased him with no true heading. He checked the VHF, but all he heard was static. His anger spiked. Had he known about the radio? Maybe. His eyes flashed from one horizon to the other. Grabbing the wheel for balance, his head whirled. Finally, he doubled over with his stomach heaving, then fell to his knees, then to the deck and passed out.

As he gained consciousness, he lay on his back staring up at the opaque quilted sky. The boat rocked and calmed him, the sun still hidden. He stood up with his hands still shaking to bring the boat about, to turn back. After swinging the wheel hard to starboard, the sails slacked, losing the wind, but the mainmast caught on a line he’d forgotten to secure. It was a stupid thing to do.

That’s when the boom swung around and hit him square in the head.

As he went over the side, his thought before hitting the water was he’d forgotten to tie in, forgotten to tether himself to the boat, forgotten, dammit, to use his lifeline. The ash-colored water clutched at him—cold and merciless—and he gasped, freezing. A wave swept over him and dragged him down. When he came up sputtering, he clawed the swells to keep from going under.

The boat’s stern floated just beyond his reach. Kicking hard, his hand touched the swim platform, but the sea dropped in the next swell and pulled at him like a jealous lover. The whole vessel drifted steadily away, indifferent to his desperation.

Exhausted, he tread water, staring at the hull with the mast rising above, Promise inscribed on the stern. Shortly he saw only the mast, then no mast at all. The boat was gone.

The slicker dragged him under, so he pulled one arm at a time from the rubber-like sleeves and let it sink. Feeling numbness in his arms, he grabbed his knees and bobbed in the waves, rising and dipping in the icy swells. When he floated up, he exhaled his burning lungs. He’d then pull as much air as he could. Now, the freezing water numbed his legs, the tingle going dead from his knees down.

The water calmed, and he fell into a pattern, bobbing and breathing. Sometimes he’d tread water, but this became harder. With his arms numb and legs gone, he glanced at the sky’s scarlet horizon and took as large a breath as he was able.

The weight of his body took him deeper. Above him, a brightness glistened. But the light faded as he dropped.

His lungs felt bursting.

He exhaled… tasted salt.

At first one leg kicked, then the other.

Frances’s face blurred. It was their wedding day, the world bright.

His arm pushed down.

Now he kicked harder.

The surface just above him.

He breathed in,

but it wasn’t water.

His throat howled with air rushing into his lungs as he broke the surface. He was in the shadow of Promise in front of him, the diesel puttering. She had circled around, rudderless.

The fiberglass swim platform swung just out of reach. In the next swell, he was not swept away, but lifted and gently placed on the wide berth. And there on the slick deck—with the sun now blinding, almost holy—he lay for a long time, every nerve alive, the world suddenly urgent and precious.

***

Promise motored slowly by the other boats lined up in their slips. Billy threw the wheel and the water churned in reverse. He tied down to the cleats and stepped onto the dock. The yacht club looked the same, the happy hour crowd just starting to show up. The sky was the same. He’d seen the late afternoon sun fall off the western bay many times. And Frances looked the same at the end of the dock. She’d stayed younger than Billy, like he remembered her. Her black hair fell loose and her face shone in the sun with the same well-worn worry, but also the same love.

I would have called the Coast Guard. Frances said, like a boatswain drill sergeant. She gave Billy a once-over. What’s wrong with your head? You look awful.

Frances?

Frances looked at him, curious. What?

“The thing is…” The words caught in his throat. “I almost broke my promise.”

But you didn’t. You’re home. She flashed her brown eyes. Lavender and apples.

He smiled, loving her, breathing in the sea, the gentle jostling world coming back.