Well, troops, I think we may have a problem up here,” my dad said, cinching his foulies a bit tighter around his wrists and neck.
It was just after dawn when he peered down the hatch to my mom and me, deep in the warmth of the cozy salon. We were halfway down the Eastern Seaboard, heading toward warm Florida waters.
Dad had hoped to cast off lines early for the next leg of adventure on our Hunter 31, Ragtime. Things obviously weren’t going according to plan. Twenty-one-year-old me sprang into action, joining him topside.
Late the night before, we had puttered to the sleepy sea town of Coinjock, North Carolina, which had already shut down for the night. There wasn’t a soul about. And with no response to our…
