Sue and I got to the boat around 2:30 and were underway by 3:00. My plan was to head due east from Manasquan Inlet until 5:00, turn around and be back around 7:00. The forecast called for 73 degrees and southwest winds between 10 and 15 miles per hour. The weathermen failed to notify the wind of their forecast so the reality was a gentle but steady breeze from the southeast. With the exception of the wake from passing motor boats, the water was calm and the angle of the wind made for an easy tack eastward.

Around the two mile mark, I was still able to hear the horn from a passing train and the occasional siren coming from shore. At four miles out, I realized that the only sounds were the chatter of the rigging in the wind and the splash of the water as the boat cut through the waves. Even the occasional airliners were silent in the sky. There was a cluster of about twenty fishing boats dead ahead on the horizon.

Around the six mile mark, the wind freshened and gave us a little boost in speed. We soon passed the fishermen with the perfunctory waves and inquiries of "Gettin' any?" At seven miles out there was nothing but a container ship heading south about three miles off the port bow. By 5:00, we had made it almost 10 miles and it was time to turn around.

I was pleased that the GPS showed Manasquan Inlet was exactly due west of our position. It meant that although I was mostly steering based on the angle of the wind, I had held a true easterly course. I realized though, that I had miscalculated the sunset by a few weeks. I had been planning on sunset at 7:00 but my rough calculation showed that we had a little over an hour of daylight left. If you hold your hand horizontally at arms length from your face, the width of each finger between the horizon and the sun is approximately 15 minutes before sunset (a trick I learned from Darien Buchanan). We had just over four fingers of daylight left. Sailing into the sunset is a romantic cliché. The reality is, that it is hard on the eyes.

The wind was beginning to blow stronger and the seas were building. Whitecaps were forming and we were now rolling through four to five foot swells. I realized how trustworthy this little boat was and welcomed the explosion of spray as the bow fell into the troughs. The salt spray flying over the bow is one of the things that made me fall in love with sailing in the first place. Around six miles from shore the wind had turned and was now blowing from the southwest (but stronger than the original forecast).

The sun set behind Point Pleasant in a spectacular red blaze shortly after 6:00. "Red skies at night…" How true, I thought to myself, as this was truly a delight. Although the sun had officially set, there was still about fifteen more minutes of useful daylight. We were still a little shy of the one mile buoy when I noticed that with all the pounding, the main halyard had slipped from the jam cleat it was set in and the sail was starting to sag. I took this as a sign to drop the sails. I secured the main and stowed the jib, switched on the running lights and headed for port under power. By this time, it was dark.