Onboard, there was no alcohol, no drugs, no women and no music. They found some surf to the south and east of the harbor, about six miles away and anchored. I stayed on deck, sleeping, reading and rolling over into the water when I got too hot. Finally, I went below to hide from the sun. I spread out on the large bunk forward, a forbidden place during racing and fell asleep, dreaming (third floor) that I was back at the house, in the room with the curtains still blowing to the ceiling. In this dream I was exhausted so I lay down on the bed and fell asleep and started dreaming (fourth floor). In that layered dream I experienced, for the first time, a nightmare that recurs, still. The same boat, the same crew, the same everything leaves Newport Harbor to go on a race and I haven't with me a thread of gear. I am wearing only swim trunks and a T-shirt and have left my duffel bags on the dock. We are running too late to go back and retrieve them. I'm faced with racing many days without my own things, my own systems for comfort. The boat turns out of the protected harbor into a cold, biting wind.

In this dream, I hide below, find a bunk and some old, oily rags and cover myself. And there again I sleep and begin dreaming (fifth floor). This time, I am down below on the boat in the main salon looking at a photograph of an old, dark woman sitting on her porch, deeply wrinkled. I see her wisdom and her scowl and feel admonished for my foolishness. I climb on deck to find the boat anchored out by the finish line where there is no wind, like the first day after we finished. We are anchored offshore, outside the breaking waves. The boat is facing out to sea, the transom aimed at the beach. On shore, there is a huge crowd, like at a stadium rock concert. The crowd is roaring its approval as a song ends. Another starts. I sit at a keyboard at the exact time my solo begins and I play. I play well, making powerful sounds echoing off the shore, the crowd moving in slow uncoordinated waves. The solo becomes more intricate in structure. Ripples spread out from the boat caused by the hull vibrating to the music. My solo is followed by another played by a huge black man who stands up to a microphone and plays a flute. The bassist and the flute play with an occasional tambourine rattle, clear and bright making the crowd roar. The military helicopter has pontoons and floats quietly next to the boat, rocking in the swells, its long, heavy rotors flexing with each wave.

The fifth floor dream dissolves with a call for assistance on deck from the crew in the fourth floor dream. As I climb out from under the oily rags, out of the cabin I'm hit by the chilled air from which I have no protection. Then, driven by the wind holding the curtains at attention, the door slams in the room of the old house (third floor) erasing the cold. I sit up, relieved to be so warm and look out the window again and see our boat sitting quietly at anchor inside the harbor. I am awakened again by the sound of the engine (second floor) shutting down. The boys had surfed and returned at dusk. Up forward where the real me was sleeping there was no light. I had no idea where I was. When I realized I was forward in a boat on a bunk at night wearing only swim trunks I panicked, but nothing was moving. I worked my way to consciousness, reacting too quickly and hit my head. I ran aft in confusion toward the dim light of the companionway, climbed outside sweating. Reality slowly fused in around me.