1. NICK

When the chubby little weatherman from Channel 7 actually puts on his rain gear and starts reporting live on location from the storm, I know it’s time to finally go down to the dock and secure my boat.

Samson and Delilah take my flank as they always do whenever I leave the rambling old mansion on the cliffs of Montauk. Shepherds are smart, loyal dogs, but they’re not keen on being left alone, especially in that 30,000-square-foot mausoleum I call home. Some robber baron built it at the turn of the last century as a monument to greed; I bought it because it’s hard to get to.

My long grey slicker shields me from the horizontal rain – the weatherman said winds were gusting up to fifty miles per hour – as I follow the path that leads from the gardens of my house down through a series of switchbacks on the bank and finally to the rocky shore below. The dogs range ahead until they’re out of sight, ignoring the weather.

It takes about five minutes to reach the single-vessel slip where I keep my vintage 30-foot Trojan. I normally just leave her anchored, but with this squall I figure it can’t hurt to get some chafe protectors down and get her moored in. I didn’t spend three years restoring my baby to her full 1974 glory to have it lost at sea, or worse, tossed up onto the rocks.

The dogs see it first and come bounding up to the dock from the rocky stretch of beach, barking their fool heads off. They’re normally very quiet for shepherds, so I take a glance around to see what’s set them off. The Atlantic is roiling with the storm and the horizon is mostly an ashen canvas of rain and fog, except…

Now I see it, too: a shadow maybe a hundred yards out, being tossed about by the waves. The general shape indicates a catamaran running on its sails. If the engines are out, there’s no way it can make it safely to my slip on its own, and if the winds pick up any more, it might end up flipped over and capsized.

God damn it. I just wanted to moor my boat.

“Looks like I won’t be dry anytime soon,” I grouse to the dogs, which they take as an invitation to join me on the Trojan. They hop in and trot down to the saloon as I climb the ladder to the cockpit and hit the toggle to bring up the anchor.

I cruise towards the catamaran at a slow and steady clip, fighting the waves and staying on course as best I can. At fifty yards, I can see her mainsail is just spinning freely – the boat must have gotten loose from its moorings somewhere up the coast and just blew out here. My work here is done.

“That’s what insurance is for,” I mutter as I crank the wheel to head back to the slip.

But now the dogs are barking again.

“What’s up your noses now?” I holler, but even as I do, I see it: a shape on the catamaran’s deck, listing and stumbling with each swell of the storm.

A human shape.

God damn it.

I spin the Trojan back in the other direction and quickly close the distance between us before dropping anchor. Suddenly, the catamaran bobs violently and the person on the deck is pinwheeling backwards towards the stern. There’s no way I’ll be able to pull up alongside and lash my boat to it before whoever it is goes overboard.

“GOD DAMN IT!” I bark. I toss off my slicker and throw my arms forward, leaping from the cockpit into the heaving waters.

My balls shrivel as I plunge into the cold waves and start kicking toward the catamaran. It’s only a matter of a dozen yards, but the storm throws up enough resistance that I’m huffing by the time I reach the ladder.

The shifting waters threaten to pitch me off as I pull myself up. That’s when I’m finally close enough to see that the hull is full of small black dots. I wipe the seawater from my eyes to get a clearer look and realize that they’re bullet holes.

It’s been a lot of years, but my body still welcomes the adrenalin like an old friend as it rushes into my system, quickening my heart rate and widening my pupils. If whoever’s on the deck has a gun, he’s going to regret ever sailing onto the little patch of the Atlantic that crosses my property.

“Help!” a high voice shrieks, and I realize that it’s just a girl. “Please, help me!”

She’s clutching the guardrail on the catamaran’s stern, desperately trying to keep from going overboard. I can see her more clearly now through the driving rain and spray: it’s not a girl but a young woman, late teens or early 20s, long hair, athletic build. No weapon in either hand. Whatever caused the holes, it’s a safe bet it wasn’t her.

I reach the deck and steady myself with the rails. My own sea legs are pretty good after all these years, and I list my way towards the cockpit, where I kick down the handle that drops the anchor to the ocean floor. Then I make my way over to her in just a handful of seconds.

Her blue eyes widen as she sees me. Even drenched by the storm and her current circumstances, she’s striking. But she’s definitely not dressed for the weather: her black cocktail dress barely reaches mid thigh and high heels aren’t doing her any good in this weather. No wonder she can barely keep her footing.

“Thank you!” she blurts as I take her arm. “I thought… I thought I was going to…”

At that moment, the bow heaves up, tossing us both backwards. I lose my grip on her and she loses her grip on the guardrail. A second later and she’s a splash in the ocean ten feet below.

Without thinking, I dive back in, my heart thundering. Through the grace of God, there’s still enough daylight for me to make out her shape underwater. A few powerful kicks and I have her in my arms. I pull her to the surface with me, but I can tell by her sluggish movements that she’s taken in water.

Samson and Delilah are barking up hell as I drag the girl to the side of the Trojan. I manage to hook one arm around her torso and pull myself up the ladder with the other, until she’s on her back on the deck. Suddenly I’m not just a rescuer but a paramedic – her life is in my hands.

The dogs watch nervously as I cross my palms on her ample chest and press in rapid succession, until she finally coughs out a clot of seawater. She rolls onto her side and vomits more out onto the deck. It’s not a pretty sight, but I’m enormously relieved by it.

My reaction surprises me. Since when do I care about complete strangers?

“Easy,” I say, lifting under her arm again and carrying her down into the saloon. She needs to get below decks as soon as possible.

“Thank you,” she mumbles once more in a dazed voice.

I look her over, trying to gauge if she’s injured. Her dress clings to the curves of her dancer’s body; if there were any broken bones, they would stand out. As far as I can tell, the only thing physically wrong with her is that she’s exhausted and has swallowed seawater.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Before she can answer, she’s out like a light on the sofa, clutching the thick wool blanket I’ve tossed over her. Within a few seconds she’s snoring softly, despite the chaos swirling around us.

I shake my head. An hour ago, I was warm and dry and enjoying my coffee. Now I feel like a drowned rat, and I still have to haul this woman back up the banks with me once I get the Trojan back to the dock.

“Your name should be Storm,” I grumble as I head back up to the cockpit, leaving the dogs in charge of my new companion.