One beckoning September day four years ago, sandy-haired, 21-year-old Dwight Long, restless son of a Seattle builder, chucked his junior studies at the University of Washington and pointed his snug, white, 32-foot ketch Idle Hour out of Puget Sound. Before him lay the glamorous uncertainty of the western horizon; behind, Foulweather Bluff and the fouler prospects of graduating into a depression. One afternoon last week, with 35,000 miles in her wake and her bows scoured with the spray of more than seven seas. Idle Hour breezed in from the blue Atlantic and hove to off Manhattan's Battery wall. At her...
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