Governed by a gossamer wind, our approach seems interminable. The breeze barely brushes our sails, which are like the skin of me when James my husband touches only the tiny hairs, just enough for me to sense him there. This lull, this gentle swell, this prelude—will be noted in history, James maintains. We seek to fill it with our murmurings. James said the dawn haze was made by the stars coming down. It was the dust in their trails. There the stars are, sparkling on the blue water. They have come in their millions. Without speaking we look again through…