I woke up feeling the tension from yesterday still hanging over the Port Townsend waterfront, but the marina had settled back into its normal rhythm—halyards tapping, gulls circling for scraps, and the sound of someone sanding a hull two docks away. Whatever those suits had planned, they were gone for now.
I spent part of the morning helping Eddie patch a tear in one of the sails at the loft. He showed me how to guide the canvas through the old machine without bunching it. I wasn’t much help, but he said the company mattered more than the stitching. That’s how this waterfront works—most problems go easier with a second pair of hands and someone willing to listen.
Later on, I walked by Mara’s shop. Her dad was out front changing oil on a small outboard, working with the kind of focus only forty years of experience gives you. He didn’t say hello—just nodded toward a rag. I held the motor steady while he loosened a stubborn bolt. When he finally got it free, he gave another small nod. From him, that’s a thank-you.
Toward dusk, I wandered up toward town. Music drifted out of a spot near the Port Townsend waterfront bar scene, the kind of sound that makes people slow down whether they want to or not. Thursdays are open mic nights, and the place was crowded—locals with guitars, a kid playing mandolin like he’d been born holding one, someone on harmonica blowing a tune that fought its way through the chatter.
Eddie spotted me from across the room.
“You play, right?” he said.
“Used to,” I told him.
“Good. That means you still do.”
Before I could argue, someone handed me a guitar that had seen as many miles as I have. I told the crowd I wasn’t a singer, then proved it by not trying. Picked through a slow blues tune I learned years ago in a beach bar down south. Three chords. Honest ones. Enough to quiet the room and earn a few nods from people who know what it means to play for yourself, not applause.
When I handed the guitar back, a woman at the bar yelled for another song. I just smiled, shook my head, and gave the mandolin kid his moment back.
Halfway through the next act, Mara walked in. She caught my eye, gave me a quick smile, then turned her attention to the stage. No pressure, no questions—just acknowledgment. Sometimes that’s all you need.
After closing, I walked along the Port Townsend waterfront, letting the cool air clear whatever the music hadn’t. Tide was high, and the moonlight turned the sand silver. Funny how some places pull you in without meaning to. Maybe the water knows before you do.
Sand rating: 8/10 — smooth, settled, steady.
– BG
Travel light. Swing hard
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