No, it didn't. It came up like a semi-trailer cresting a rise on an interstate highway, over the godforsaken blighted accursed Robert Moses-haunted sad spoiled landscape of Long Island. And in due course its busy old beams peeped into the cabin of the Scapegrace and fell on my sleepy eyelids and I slowly, reluctantly, roused myself and poked my head abovedecks and took stock of my situation.
I was still miles from shore and a few miles further toward my destination and had a hundred feet of water under my keel, all to the good. The air was clear and the breeze mild and the seas calm -- quite a contrast from the lively night before. I made some coffee and then freed the tiller from its lashings and let the jib come over to starboard and then I sailed for a while. In fact I sailed most of the day, not very fast.
Truth to tell, I don't remember a thing about this day, after that first matin observance. I probably listened to the radio a bit, and no doubt gobbled some raisins and peanuts, and may have made a call or two on my cell phone. But it's a lost day -- which probably means it was a good day.
That afternoon I anchored off Old Field Point, just west of Port Jefferson, and spent the night riding calmly at anchor.