Started the morning down at the Point Hudson launch. If you’ve ever spent time near a boat ramp, you know it’s its own kind of entertainment. Some folks back a trailer in like they were born doing it. Others look like they’ve never seen water before. Nobody means harm—it’s just the tide testing patience. Good reminder to breathe before you make a mess of things.
A golden retriever came barreling toward me, soaked and happy enough to share it. Rusty, according to the man on the dock calling after him. Rusty didn’t listen, of course. He leaned against me like we were old friends. I gave him a scratch and told him he had better manners than most people I’d met this week. He wagged like he agreed.
Walked to the Port Townsend marina repair shop with two coffees. Mara was already elbows-deep in an old Evinrude, hood open, sleeves pushed up. She gave me a look that said she didn’t need help—but she took the coffee anyway.
I asked about her dad.
“Stubborn,” she said. “Forty years running this place and he still thinks duct tape solves grief.”
Her dad came out of the office a minute later. Gray hair, solid build, hands rough like rope.
“You’re the guy with the golf club,” he said.
“That’s me,” I said. “Cheaper than therapy.”
He laughed once—just once.
Then the dark SUV rolled in. Same suits from the tavern. This time they brought someone new—clipboard type, looked like a lawyer. They parked crooked. On purpose.
“Here we go,” Mara muttered.
The suits started in with words that sound official but mean pressure: lease compliance, redevelopment timeline, transitional opportunities. All phrased polite enough to print on a brochure. Her dad stood his ground, but I could see the weight of it on his shoulders.
I stayed back, leaning on the 5-iron, watching a couple at the launch argue about who forgot the drain plug. Timing matters.
Then one of the suits raised his voice.
I walked over.
“Something wrong?”
The lawyer looked me up and down.
“This is private business.”
“You’re standing on a public dock,” I said. “Looks like everyone’s business.”
He didn’t like that. Told me to move along.
I said, “Happy to. Soon as you do.”
Silence.
The tide held its breath.
They backed off with a promise to “return with the lease officer.”
I told them to bring the state licensing board while they’re at it.
They left without answering.
After they pulled out, Eddie from the sail loft wandered over. Said they’d tried the same routine on him—light pressure first, heavier if you didn’t flinch.
“Folks with shiny shoes around a working marina are never here for the right reasons,” he said.
He wasn’t wrong.
That evening the tavern was full. Word travels faster than the tide in a town like this. Mara’s dad sat with a quiet beer while people checked in—offers to help, stories of other fights, the usual solidarity you only get in places where weather and work matter more than pride. He listened. Didn’t promise anything. But he listened.
Wind came up after dark, rattling halyards against masts across the marina.
Couldn’t shake the feeling the suits weren’t done.
Not even close.
Sand rating: 5/10 — shifting underfoot.
– BG
Travel light. Swing hard.
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