The wall of fog had been moving towards us over the empty sea like a great, flat-topped Antarctic iceberg, shining whitely in the gold light of the Western sun. Beside me, the mainsail hung slackly from the mast, the edge flipping idly in a stray puff of wind. Slowly the white cliff approached, and as slowly changed to an amoeboid mass of vapor, tumbling lazily, sending out streamers that twisted and vanished as they reached too far from the cool mother mist. One, stronger than the rest, waved a filmy pseudopod over my head and, for an instant, the gold light whitened. Another came, and another, and then we were gone, into the soft wet coolness of the seaborne cloud. The light faded, both from the fog blanket and from the setting of the sun. I hauled in the fishing lines and stowed them. I lit the running lights. I was shivering as I secured the sail, checked the gear and went below. In the little triangular cabin, tucked under the forepart of the sloop, Pat was busy. The hissing of the pressure lamp and the crackling of hamburgers on the stove made a pleasant, home-like sound. It was cosy and warm here, in contrast to the fog-chill above. The smell of onions and beef drifted back to where I stood and I sniffed hungrily. She'd be a good wife, I thought as I watched her, and a good mistress too. She was still wearing her bathing suit and, as I looked from her full brown thighs up over the curving hip-line to the small breasts pushing against the thin bra, I felt the slow pounding pulse and deep excitement of desire. Quietly I came close behind her. She started as my cold hands touched her, the instant of realization passed, and then she came back hard against me and her eyes were on mine as she turned her lips for my kiss. For a moment only she stayed, then, with a backward shove of her body, she tried to push me away. "Look, darling, this is all very nice, but the hamburgers are burning." "Let them," I whispered, my hands roving a bit. "I'm burning too." "That can wait." Her eyes seemed to promise me as she brushed at a stray brown curl with the back of her hand. The spatula, waving above her head, flashed in the flickering gas light. I let her go. "Why don't you fix us a drink? There's time before we eat." "If I drink too much I won't want you or the hamburgers either," I complained, but I went to the cooler and pulled out the gin and vermouth. "Someday," I thought morosely, "someday, she must give in." I put her drink in the shelf where she could reach it as she worked and squeezed between the bench seat and the folding table while I watched her toss a salad. As a medical technician she was good, and the same thoroughness and skill went into her cooking; into everything she did for that matter.