The rain drove in sheets against him, its icy fingers piercing through his rain gear in volleys of daggers from every direction. Kirk had never considered the possibility of actually drowning while standing upright. It now seemed not only possible, but downright probable. His fingers bit fiercely into the wheel he held.

Chekov was bent over the chart table, a sextant in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The Captain didn't know what he could accomplish in the dark and in the pouring rain, but if there was anything to be accomplished, it was this young man that could do it. Chekov was simply the best navigator he had ever met.

While still in the Academy, he had successfully developed a system to navigate a starship with a sextant and Chekov's paper detailing the technique was what had intrigued the Captain in the first place. Kirk was determined to learn the skill. The method necessarily involved bringing the ship to a complete stop, however, and the Captain hadn't found the opportunity to try it yet. He was now more determined to do so than ever.

When the Enterprise had recently encountered the worst storm Kirk had ever seen, Chekov had guided them through safely using only the starcharts burned into his memory and an innate talent that was astounding. He had done his job without bothering the Captain with the details of how he was doing it, leaving Kirk free to handle the crisis at hand. It was only afterward that the Captain had discovered how extensive the damage that had killed the Chief Navigator actually was.

The maturity he had shown in the situation earned him the Department Head posting.

Chekov swept the water off the chart table with his hand. "Haul her to starboard," he ordered Kirk, glancing briefly into the darkness behind him. "We're drifting to port."

The Captain leaned his weight into the wheel, fighting the pull of the tempestuous water beneath them. Pulled toward what? Frankly, he didn't want to know.

A deep crack split the air. Uhura screamed, diving into a ball onto the deck and shielding her head with her arms. McCoy instantly followed suit.

"Just the flag," Chekov identified the sound and glanced toward the bow to confirm it. A stunted piece of jagged wood jutted out from the top of the foremast. "We never took it down."

Kirk's gaze followed the Navigator's and saw that the string of signal flags that had once flown at the bow had been swept away as well. A quick check of the mainmast told him the house flag that identified the ship's owner was missing as well. Small losses, he considered.

Another, more ominous sound, followed. The eerie straining, creaking noise built into a deafening crescendo until a sharp snap split the air.

Chekov's face went white.

The mainsail's gaff rope shot outward, whipping into the air with unequaled fury and slicing through the air in a vicious slingshot as it wrested itself free. Kirk winced as the writhing cable came within a breath of tearing the Navigator's face open. He wasn't sure it didn't until the man spun around to look at the main boom.

The sail flew upward into the night and threw itself out in the darkness, furiously straining to capture every bit of the raging wind that it could. The Captain stared in horror at the massive sheet of canvas, luminescent with light reflected off the deluge of rain that pelted the small ship.

"Thank God," McCoy said. "Maybe we'll get out of this storm now."

"We're going to die," Kirk declared. The mainsail had reset itself.

Tearing off his rain gear, Chekov scrambled up the mainmast and ran out to the center of the gaff. He leapt up into the darkness. Gravity jammed more than his body weight onto the wood and the sail inched downward.

"Bones!" Kirk shouted. "Take the wheel!"

"I can't steer!"

"Don't steer!" the Captain declared. "Just hang on!"

Sulu was already at the base of the mast, straining to wrench the mast hoops down as soon as they were in reach.

Kirk swung himself up onto the boom as Chekov continued jumping. The heavy, wet fabric laid open the new callouses on the Capain's hands as he struggled to push it into folds so that it would lay as flat as possible on the wood. Uhura instantly climbed up onto the other end of the boom to do the same.

They worked on for eons. Every minute held an hour of fighting with the struggling beast. With the last hoop finally down, Sulu swung around, sat on the end of the gaff, and clutched the mast.

"Uhura, get more rope!" Kirk ordered. He lay down on his end of the gaff, hugging it fiercely to keep the sail down."Here!" he called, grabbing the rope from Uhura when she reappeared. He wrapped it around the boom, sail and gaff--wrenching them all together tightly and knotting it despite his frozen fingers.

He quickly shimmied backward then, lashing the sail down as he did so. Chekov jumped off to let him pass before continuing his own task of rebinding the original gaff rope in the opposite direction.

After securing the other end with another knot, Kirk lay spent and exhausted on the gaff: his cheek pressed against the wet wood as the rain drove into his back. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel the vibration in the lumber beneath his body. "Pavel," he growled. "I'm giving you a medal."

"Medal, hell," Chekov retorted as he ran past to take the wheel. "My name is NOT going down in history as the man who killed James Kirk!"