"Cast off," Byron told him, indicating the boat's mooring lines.
Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats. The engine churned alive. "Now give us a good shove," Byron ordered.
Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.
"Is it going to be windy enough?" Peter asked, shading his eyes and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.
"Here," Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sunglasses. Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails puffed fully.
"Sail much?" Byron said.
Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched Byron work the wheel.
The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his shirt. Holding the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter to the pipe's bowl. "You'll get used to it," he said, pointing his pipe at Peter's rigid knees. "Just gotta go with the flow."
When they reached the ocean, Byron began yelling orders to Peter, who followed them with colt-like shakiness. Within minutes the mainsail and jib were swollen fully in the eastern wind.
Byron shut off the engine, and Peter observed the silence, the power of the wind as it pushed the sleek vessel along quickly and quietly, as if by magic.