In those last days, when the lump of plaque, dislodged from elsewhere, has snagged the inside of the carotid, leaving me with but infrequent bursts of lucidity, I would arrange now if I could to have this memory rise from time to time. There is much connected to it. Monica and I had, a week or so before, successfully completed the race back from Bermuda to Newport, RI. It was a fantastic voyage, with everything we could have wanted -- dead calms, rough storms, incredible sunsets and sunrises. She had to return to her desk, her job. But my job was aboard Robin, and so I headed for Maine for two weeks. The day before I would point Robin down Penobscot Bay, I sailed from Castine on a westerly course to Belfast. At first, there was no wind. Then I passed north of Islesboro and a whisper of air began playing with the raised mainsail. In a short time, Robin was sailing on a beam reach, her autopilot steering, her rig perfectly balanced. I was a passenger, bathing in the afternoon sun. Breathing was shallow, delicious draughts of air, flavored by the saltwater, tucked into my nostrils and, held but a moment, expelled for yet another greedy sampling. Robin's pulse was slow, her motion on the small waves reported in delicate splashing about the bow. It lasted about an hour, probably more than enough to bring a smile to my face in that fog to come.