Inner Harbor
Sea Gypsy’s rust-marked mains’l billows with wind as I head for the tideway east of the channel marker. I stretch out in the cockpit and let my free hand drag in the temperate water, watching a group of kayakers round the tip of Money Head before disappearing behind the grassy hedges of Hog Island Creek as if they were never there. A sleek cigarette boat races past on my starboard, towing a bikini-clad girl on water skis and leaving Gypsy rocking in its wake. I feel a part of it all, like being in a painting some artist might be sketching from the beach. It’s a feeling that I rarely have on land these days.
Most of the townsfolk I grew up with are either dead or they’ve moved on, no longer able to afford the town’s high property taxes, the Year-Rounders’ having been replaced
