Saturday, May 3, 1997 - Antigua, West Indies

   A bottle of Samuel Adams lager sat half empty on the glass-top patio table. He reached for it and took another sip. Room service would arrive in a few minutes with his dinner and an excellent Bordeaux that he had carefully chosen. Curtain Bluff, one of his favorite hotels in the Caribbean, boasted the most extensive wine selection in all the islands.
   Captain Erik Andreassen had signed off the cruise ship Morning Star this morning and now planned to enjoy a few days of solitude before returning to Norway for his two months’ home leave. He had noticed that a few passengers from the ship were staying at the hotel, extending their vacations beyond the cruise. He had greeted them but did not accept any of their invitations to dinner. He had dined with passengers for the last four months. He now wanted to be alone, to relax and unwind without obligations to anyone. Occasionally, he considered himself his own best company.
   At thirty-two, he was thought to be an attractive man, tall and at times quite imposing in appearance, especially in his crisp white uniform. His eyes were blue and intense. He had a good sense of humor, but it was frequently masked by his economy of conversation and Nordic reserve. The one inconsistency to this reserve was his hair. Light brown, almost blond, it was wavy and on the long side, looking as if he had just run his fingers through it instead of a comb. No part. "Appealingly disheveled," a friend had once called it.
   Erik checked his watch. The Morning Star would cruise past the point at any moment now. She had another master for the next four months, but it didn’t matter now. She was his—he thought of her as his ship—and was simply waiting for his return.
   He reached for the Zeiss binoculars sitting next to the Sam Adams. He removed his sunglasses and focused the magnifiers. He smiled. There she was, in full regalia, her four masts and six sails silhouetted against the luminous sky of the setting sun. The ship was as unique and exquisite to him today as she had been when he first boarded her eight years ago as a junior officer. His eyes followed her as she sailed out to open waters and began to slowly melt into the horizon. Soon she would disappear from his sight. He focused a few seconds longer and then set the binoculars back on the table.
   He picked up the bottle of beer and flopped comfortably on one of the two vinyl-strapped lounge chairs. He emptied the bottle in one large swallow, lazily stretched, and clasped his hands behind his head. He was content.
   But his contentment would have faded quickly if he had known that the spirit of destiny had already begun its yearlong journey to him. Several thousand miles to the northwest in New York City, a decision was being made that would have a profound effect on this man. 
   Fate had stepped in. The mischievous, connecting thread that would weave its way through unsuspecting lives, opening one door and then another until finally, it would usher Carla Montgomery onto the decks of the Morning Star and into Erik Andreassen’s life.
   A knock at the door.
   His dinner had arrived.
   A decision in New York.
   His fate had begun its flight.