Chapter 6: Dockside

The Marigold sat at the end of the Rockport town dock with her sails furled and her varnish gone dull.

My father's hand-painted name was still on her stern, in gold leaf that had flaked at the edges.

I stood on the planks with my tote on my shoulder and looked at her for a long time.

Brynn's card was folded in my back pocket, and I had read it so often the creases had gone soft.

Love you, Sam.

I had not answered it, and I would not.

"She needs work," Finnegan said, behind me.

"She needs a week of sanding and a good wash."

"She needs exactly that. I had her hauled and checked in August, so the hull is sound."

He stepped onto the deck and held out a hand.

"Come aboard, owner."

I took the hand and stepped over the rail.

It was a cool September morning, with the wind coming in off the harbor and gulls arguing on the pilings.

The deck felt familiar under my sneakers.

My body knew where the cleats were before I looked.

"First test," Finnegan said. "Name the lines."

"That's a halyard."

"Which one?"

"Main."

"And that?"

"The jib sheet."

"Very good. Raise the staysail."

I walked to the mast, found the right line, and pulled.

It was heavier than I remembered, and it jammed halfway.

"Don't yank it."

"I'm not yanking."

"You are, a little." He came up behind me and reached around, and put his hand over mine on the winch handle. "Ease it first. Then crank."

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