A dank fog swallowed up Narragansett Bay, buffing its surface until it was smooth and black as marble. Matthew buried his chin deep in the hood of his Naval War College sweatshirt, a present from his mother, and pointed the bow of the little power skiff toward the gray void straight ahead. The air was cold for summer, and flecks of spray stung his face like grit as he opened up the throttle on the Zodiac. Visibility zero , he thought, glancing down at the compass in his open left hand, which in turn was pressing down upon a square of stiff chart paper on his knee. Sort of describes my future .
