Free Through Waters Deep by Sarah Sundin Page A

of cool air. A mild overcast hinted at coming rain. Wind played with the skirt of her dress, and she anchored the blue fabric sprigged with sweet little white and yellow flowers.
    Arch and Gloria headed for the bow, but Jim circled the main mast, face tipped up and glowing. “Two hundred twenty feet tall. Can you imagine her with sails unfurled, flying with the wind?”
    â€œShe’d be marvelous.” Mary imagined yards of snowy canvas snapping above her, sailors climbing the rigging and calling to each other. “It’s sad to see her sails trussed up to her masts, isn’t it? She can’t fly.”
    â€œAll she can do is float with the current.” Jim’s eyebrows bunched together. “She can’t let the wind move her. She can’t set her own course.”
    Mary laid her hand on the polished oak railing surrounding the mast. What a contrast to the painting in her apartment. In her painting, the tiny sailboat charged ahead, sails full, charting new territory. Yet here this grand old ship sat stagnant.
    She let a sigh join the sea breeze. Her sails were bound up tight. She might not capsize, but she didn’t go anywhere either.
    Jim frowned up at the swooping lines. “My sails are trussed too.”
    â€œYou?”
    His gaze turned to her, a bit bleary and unfocused, and he made a wavy motion with one hand. “I float wherever the current takes me. I don’t make waves, don’t push, and no one gets hurt. So far the current’s taken me exactly where I wanted to go.”
    That did fit his easygoing personality.
    He jutted his hand out. “But I don’t control the direction. The current chooses. Not me. Not the Lord.”
    She studied his intent face. “Your sails are trussed for a different reason than mine.”
    He grasped one of the lines hanging limp alongside the mast. “We have to hoist our sails. We have to let the Lord fill them. Then we have to resist the current if necessary to stay the course.”
    A sense of peace, of rightness, of exhilaration filled her lungs. “Then we can fly with the wind.”
    Jim looked deep into her eyes, his own awash with emotion.
    Mary caught her breath, capturing the peace and rightness and exhilaration and sealing it with the joy of shared experience. She’d never felt such an intense connection with another human being.
    In the cloud-filtered sunshine, his eyes gleamed green as spring, full of hope and promise. “Hoist your sails high, young lady. Let’s see how fast you can go.”
    Affection for him swelled inside, burst her restraints, and flowed into her smile. “And let’s see where your course lies.”

10
    Sunday, June 1, 1941
    Jim stepped out the door from the bridge superstructure to the main deck, and a cool mist tickled his face. Boy, did it feel good to get out to sea.
    Well, out to harbor at least. Under an overcast sky, the Atwood chugged past the islands in Boston Harbor, with the neat white tower of the Long Island Head lighthouse rising to starboard.
    Finally the Atwood was out for her shakedown cruise, to see what she and her crew could do. For a month, the men would perform drills and drills and more drills, until they functioned as one. He couldn’t wait.
    And yet . . .
    Jim gazed past the destroyer’s two funnels, where he could barely make out the piers of the Boston Navy Yard. Right after the Atwood had shoved off, Mary had come, waving a handkerchief, looking small and pretty in her light brown coat.
    Made him feel good to know she’d be there when he returned.
    Jim stepped down through a hatch, his hands guiding his descent down the ladder as his feet glanced over the steps. Like an old sea salt.
    He ducked his head at the bottom, but not in time. The top of the doorway scraped his scalp. After a quick glance to make sure no one had seen, he snatched up his cover and shoved it back on his head. Old sea salt indeed.
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