Gannet and I were weeks ahead of the herd. The long marina breakwater, of which the northern 200 yards are the quarantine dock, was empty. I turned the Torqeedo tiller arm to neutral, glided the last few feet, stepped off, and tied dock lines. Then I went back aboard to duck into the cabin for a bottle of Laphroaig in which I had saved an inch for this moment. My two crystal glasses had not survived the Pacific, so I poured the single malt into a plastic tumbler, straightened up, and, still wearing foul-weather gear, stood in the companionway indifferent to light rain, which was nothing compared to the total immersions of the morning. The little sloop's deck came to just above my waist. I looked around at familiar hills and took a sip. Then another.