Sigh

Sometimes, at the end of the sail that takes you way out beyond the lighthouse, the bell, almost to the whistle buoy out near the shipping channels, when the wind blows steady and right for everyone--with enough speed for the captain and agreeable balance for the drowsy crew--you see Boston, a rippling hot haze blur in the distance, and black cormorants hanging out wings to dry on a low-tide rock up close.

Sometimes, you watch a tall sail melt into the horizon then come about to squint into a glittering path of sun on black water—and enter the harbor still under sail like a whisper. Once in a while, as you wind your way through bobbing Bristols and Cape Dories and Hinkleys to approach the mooring, to lean down to grab the marker and tie up, you turn to survey the brightly painted lobster boats swinging slowly in the harbor and raise your eyes to see something like this.