Sweet Spot.

I found my spot and sat down. 

Here I was able to tune out work, tune out the helicopter smattering above my head, tune out the city traffic it’s probably reporting on to the very same people who are making up the jam. I say “here” as opposed to “here and now” because here, no concept of time exists.

Rusty nails grow like pea shoots out of the sun-bleached planks, worn smooth by thousands of passengers eager to get home after another day in the rat race.  I bet they never saw the nails nor the grooves and knots in the wood. Underneath the gangway leading down to the lowest float, protected from the weather, flaky, stock metallic blue marine paint awaits a fresh coat. Maybe it’ll happen this spring.

I hear the unmistakable chug of a diesel engine. I can tell the vessel it propels is on the smaller side, maybe 18-26′. M/S Thunder pulls up and a lone passenger disembarks. The gentleman Captain asks if I’m there to catch a ride and I sheepishly explain, now feeling like an intruder, that I just found his dock incredibly sweet… Might I stay? He merely smiled, put his vessel in reverse and saluted me with a tip of his hat. He’d understood completely: I am a child of the ocean who’d needed to stop by home for awhile.

I’ll be back.

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