Beth was yelling, "Go! Go!"

I had already opened the throttles and the Formula was picking up speed.

I could see flames licking around the bridge of the Chris-Craft. Beth and I looked at one another, both wondering if maybe we'd gotten lucky. But as we watched Tobin's boat behind us, the flames seemed to subside. At a distance of about forty feet, we again heard the hailing horn crackle and again the little bastard had something to say.

"Corey! I'm coming for you! And for you, too, Ms. Bitch! I'll kill you both! I'll kill you!"

I said to Beth, "I think he means it."

"How dare he call me bitch."

"Well… of course he's just taunting you. He doesn't know you, so how can he know that you're a bitch? I mean, if you're a bitch."

"I know what you mean."

"Right."

"Haul ass, John. He's getting close again."

"Right." I gave it more throttle, but the extra speed made the Formula unstable. In fact, I hit an oncoming wave so hard the bow pitched up at too steep an angle, and I thought we were going to back-flip. I could hear Beth scream, and I thought she'd been pitched overboard, but when the boat came down, she rolled across the deck and dropped halfway down the companionway stairs before she came to a stop. She lay on the stairs, and I called out, "Are you okay?"

She got up on all fours and crawled up the companionway. "I'm all right…"

I cut back on the throttles and said, "Go below and take a break."

She shook her head and positioned herself between her seat and the dashboard. She said, "You watch for waves and channel markers. I'll watch for Tobin."

"Okay." I had the thought that maybe Beth was right, and I should try to circle around and come up behind him, rather than him coming up behind us again. Maybe if he was sitting in his nice dry cabin, he wouldn't see us and we could board him. But if he saw us, we'd be looking down the muzzle of that rifle again.

The only advantage we had was our speed, but as we saw, we couldn't take full advantage of it in this weather.

I said to Beth, "Nice going. Good thinking."

She didn't reply.

"Do you have any more signal flares?"

"Five more."

"Good."

"Not really. I lost the flare gun."

"Do you want to go back and try to find it?"

"I'm tired of your jokes."

"Me, too. But it's all we've got."

So, we continued on in silence, through the storm, which was getting worse if that were possible.

Finally, she said, "I thought I was dead."

I replied, "We can't let him get that close again."

She looked at me and said, "He passed me up to get you."

"That's the story of my life. Whenever somebody has only one shot, I'm the one they pick."

She almost smiled, then disappeared below. Less than a minute later, she came back and handed me another beer. She said, "Every time you do good, you get a beer."

"I don't have many tricks left. How many more beers do you have?"

'Two."

"That should work out."

I contemplated my options and realized I'd run out of most of them. There were only two possible harbors left now-the ferry slip at Orient Point and the cove at Plum Island. Orient Point was probably coming up to the left by now and Plum Island was two miles farther. I looked at the gas gauge. The needle was in the red but not yet touching E.

The sea was so bad now I couldn't even see the channel markers for long periods at a time. I knew that Tobin, sitting high in his cabin bridge, had a better view of the markers and of us. As I thought about that, it suddenly struck me that he must have radar-ship-hazard radar, which was how he'd found us. And he must also have a depth-finder, which made navigation much easier for him even if he lost sight of the channel markers. In short, the Sandra was no match for the Autumn Cold. "Damn it."

Every once in a while with increasing frequency, a wave broke over the bow or sides, and I could feel the Formula getting heavier. In fact, I was sure we were riding lower in the water. The extra weight was slowing us up and burning more gas. I realized that Tobin could overtake us at the speed we were going. I realized, too, that we were losing the battle against the sea as well as the naval engagement.

I glanced at Beth, and she sensed me looking at her and our eyes met. She said, "In case we capsize or sink, I want to tell you now that I actually like you."

I smiled and replied, "I know that." I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry. I never should have-"

"Drive and shut up."

I turned my attention back to the wheel. The Formula was moving so slowly now that the following sea was coming over the stern. In a short time, we would be swamped, or the engine compartment would be flooded, and/or Tobin would be on top of us and we weren't going to outrun him this time.

Beth kept looking for Tobin and, of course, she saw the sea washing over the stern and couldn't help but realize the boat was lower and slower. She said, "John, we're going to swamp."

I looked again at the gas gauge. The only chance we had at this point was to gun the engines and see what happened. I put my hand on the throttles and pushed them all the way forward.

The Formula moved out, slowly at first, then gathered some speed. We were taking on less water from the stern, but the boat was slamming hard and heavy into the oncoming waves. So hard, in fact, it was like hitting a brick wall every five seconds. I thought the craft was going to break up, but the fiberglass hull held.

Beth was holding on in her seat, rising and falling with each encounter with a wave.

Leaving it at full throttle was working, as far as keeping control and keeping from getting swamped, but it wasn't doing much for fuel economy. Yet, I had no choice. In the great realm of trade-offs, I had traded off the certainty of sinking now against the certainty of running out of gas shortly. Big deal.

But my experience with fuel gauges-ever since I had my first car-was that they show either more fuel than you have left, or less fuel than you have left. I didn't know how this gauge lied, but I would soon find out.

Beth said, "How's the gas?"

"Fine."

She tried to put a light tone in her voice and said, "Do you want to stop for gas and ask directions?"

"Nope. Real men don't ask directions, and we have enough gas to get to Plum Island."

She smiled.

I said to her, "Go below awhile."

"What if we capsize?"

"We're too heavy now to capsize. We'll sink. But you'll have plenty of warning. Take a break."

"Okay." She went below. I took the chart out of the open glove compartment and divided my attention between it and the sea. Off to the left in the far distance, I caught a glimpse of a flashing strobe light, and I knew that had to be Orient Point Lighthouse. I glanced at the chart. If I turned due north now, I would probably be able to find the Orient Point ferry slips. But there were so many rocks and shoals between the ferry and the lighthouse that it would take a miracle to get past them. The other possibility was to go on another two miles or so and try for the cove at Plum Island. But that meant going into Plum Gut, which was treacherous enough in normal tides and winds. In a storm-or hurricane-it would be… well, challenging, to say the least.

Beth came up the companionway, lurching from side to side and pitching forward, then back. I caught her outstretched hand and hauled her up. She presented me with an unwrapped chocolate bar. I said, "Thanks."

She said, "The water's ankle deep below. Bilge pumps are still working."

"Good. The boat's feeling a little lighter."

"Terrific. Take a break below. I'll drive."

"I'm okay. How's your little scratch?"

"It's okay. How's your little brain?"

"I left it onshore." As I ate my chocolate bar, I explained our options.