Two Columns

The one you held turns for open water in a long curve, and her lantern clears the rocks. The other goes on in the dark.

By first light the fog is still on the glass, and the beam is where your shoulders left it, pointing at nothing. You turn the lamp off. Across the window the flags are up on a line, one for each ship that was out in the night. Fourteen. Thirteen show a C, for yes. One shows a U, for danger.

You open the Log to today's page. Weather: Fog. You do not write lifting at four. The saved go down the left side, and you write 13. The lost go down the right.

Nobody ever told you the name of the one you did not hold. You write the first name that comes.

If you wrote down NAMED, it is the name you left on the Portland's page.

Then the last two lines that are always there. Out at dawn. Kettle on. You carry the Log down to the table, and pour two cups, and leave them steaming.