I follow through on Captain Reg’s invite to watch the western sky aboard his twenty-six-foot-wide Naughty-Call. On the Harbor Walk, I try to remember where in the seaport’s maze the commercial boats are segregated as I pass the docked private ones that make the fire pits and outdoor cinemas of our neighborhood seem feeble. Unoccupied for months, these boats are nevertheless impeccably kept, mahogany bows so buffed you could check your lipstick in them. Twilight catches in a face craggy before its time as Captain Reg smiles. He’s genuinely surprised I’m here. “Look who’s all dressed up,” he observes of my linen pants and light sweater.
I’d packed everything else for my return flight tomorrow. “And look who’s dressed,” is what I reply.
“I didn’t want Wessie to catch a cold in the night air
