"It's a lovely day," she said.
"Perfect," I said.
"There'll be hardly any wind at all."
I hoped there wouldn't be any wind, because when the wind comes, the sea comes later, and I thought of her down in the main cabin on one of the sofas curled up with an Agatha Christie and a cup of tea, trying to stay on the couch in a real cross sea.
The Sarah started to slow down and she said, "We're there." I stood up and looked around to see where "there" was, but it wasn't any different from where we'd been, just water all around as far as I could see. The Sarah was moving steadily through the water pushing up a little wake. Paul came over to my side of the boat.
"It's time to put the lines out," he said.
It took him a while, but he got all three rigs into the water with the outboard lines attached to the red clothespins and then pulled up to the top of the outriggers. Nothing got tangled, even with the 90 feet of piano wire, and the rigs ran along behind the Sarah in three perfectly parallel lines.
There were 37� squid bouncing along on the surface of the ocean. The two outboard baits were outside and beyond the wake on top of the dark-blue water, and the one in the middle, the one attached to the rod in the fighting chair, was just beyond the peak of white water raised by our wake, about 20 yards behind the boat. The squid streamed and bubbled and foamed along, and I thought that if there were any bluefin tuna around, they'd sure know we were around, too.
"You better move that bottle of beer," Paul said.
I picked up my empty bottle of Heineken's, decided we were far enough from land and started to heave it, but Paul said, "There's a can for those inside the cabin."