The third day. Dead tired, no sleep, dehydrated, seasick, feeling sorry for myself, hating the boat, fearing the mindless ocean. One wrong move, and I could wind up overboard. The boat would sail on with the automatic pilot engaged, and I would be dragged by the life harness—like shark bait—not unlike a husband tethered to a bad marriage, bait for a feeding frenzy of lawyers.

In The Gulf of Mexico, my imagination bullied me— as my wife would, I’m ashamed to say— until I found the courage to chan...