The Whiskey Tide by M. Ruth Myers

water. Despite Pa's sweater she was bone cold. In two days they had come more than three hundred miles, north two degrees of latitude. She had not expected such change of climate. She held the helm stoutly and tried not to show her discomfort or her growing anxiety at the mocking waves.
          At the bow, Joe and the old man who was to pilot them stood shoulder to shoulder looking at charts and gesturing vaguely. Kate wondered, as her teeth tugged at the inside of her lip, whether Joe felt any trepidation at the force of the ocean now surrounding them. Moments later he glanced at her, said something to the old man, and came toward her.
          "How do you like Canadian waters?" he asked with a grin as he stopped beside the wheel. His hands were in his pockets and wind whipped his dark curls. He looked perfectly relaxed.
          "Much more exciting than the rides at the Willows," Kate said, determined not to shiver. She couldn't tell if the jaunty smile she attempted reached the chilled muscles of her face, but he laughed. His expression held the approval of one pleased by a surprise.
          "You've a sense of humor, Miss Hinshaw."
          He seemed to remember himself and the casual air left him.
          "Staying afloat and on course tonight is apt to be tricky. There's nothing you can do up here. Go below and get some sleep. Toward dawn I'll have Billy wake you to take his place at the sails."
          He kept his word, and when Billy woke her she emerged into a world where the darkness had become translucent and the waves were running higher than the night before. The old man had boiled coffee on the kerosene stove. Its fragrance reassured her as she checked the set of the sails. If the burner was lighted, the two men who knew the sea best must be confident there was no danger in these waters that seemed so formidable to her.
          "Care for some, missus?" the old man asked offering a mug.
          As Kate accepted with murmured thanks, she wondered whether he assumed she and Joe Santayna were married. Whatever its reason, his form of address seemed less formal than "miss" and she welcomed the comfort which lack of barriers brought. When daylight was fully established, after watching her take the helm for a bit against this more temperamental ocean, Joe went below and slept for three hours while the old man alternated tending sails and hovering watchfully at her elbow to tell her when to change course.
          There was landfall on either side now, Canada proper to port and the comforting peninsular mass of Nova Scotia a low green line on the starboard horizon. All morning great freighters and steamers moved past them, clearing Saint John for the New York-Liverpool route. Scattered through them Kate spotted half a dozen vessels whose rundown condition suggested to her they were part of the rum fleet. When Joe emerged from below deck, he took the helm. His expression became so intent, his gaze so narrowed, that he seemed to be listening to guidance from the water itself. After more than two days at sea, a stubble of beard made him look rough and dangerous. From time to time the old man from the fishing village came to his side and they conferred.
          They lunched hurriedly on spice-laden Portuguese sausages Joe had brought and rolls which the salt air had kept almost fresh. Just after midday they were sailing through the narrow mouth of Saint John harbor. To their right the city rose steeply, giving a view of red brick buildings set off here and there by occasional structures of dressed white stone. Height alone made the buildings a contrast to the wood and brick of Salem, but they also conveyed an elegance, and some intangible reminder that she no longer was in her own country.
          The harbor itself was huge and bustling. Piers and warehouses lined the waterfront as far as the eye could travel. More sat shoulder to shoulder along the opposite side of the harbor,