"Fo'ard the sail!" Harry yelled downwind to Gil, enjoying the feeling of sea spray on his face as the ship was tossed up and down in the storm break. He steered the ship expertly through a wave the size of a clock tower, laughing heartily as a bolt of lightning illuminated Gil's green face. "How're you doing, mate?"

"I'm going to be very, very, very sick!" Gil hollered back, both his thick arms wrapped tightly around the mast. "Why in the name of Cruella's fur coat is Uma letting you steer the ship? And why'd we have to go to the stormiest place you could find?"

Harry grinned widely to himself. "Oh, no reason," he called. "Nothing a good first mate can explain, really."