The Old Line's flag laid board-flat against the marbled gray sky as crisply as if it had been pressed by a hot iron. I double checked my lifejacket, clipped the boat's kill switch onto its nylon strap and eased the 25-foot center console beyond the breakwaters of Matapeake. White caps that had rolled past Point Lookout three hours earlier continued to barrel northward toward Rock Hall. I took a quick look around, briefly questioned my decision-making faculties and then punched the throttle to get on top of the rumbling three footers.