Quiet Morning at the Marina
The Port Townsend boatyard was quieter this morning. Not calm—just the kind of quiet that comes after a hard wind when everyone’s waiting to see what’s still standing. People nodded when I walked by, like we were all in the same unspoken conversation, but nobody really said much.
Meeting Walt at the Boatyard
I spent the first hour by the old covered shed on the far end of the Port Townsend boatyard. The one with cedar dust in the air and hand-painted signs that hadn’t changed in decades. That’s where I met Walt.
He looked up from a hull he’d been sanding—an old troller stripped to bare wood, frame showing like ribs. Not young, not weak. The kind of strong that age doesn’t erase.
“You’re the guy with the golf club,” he said, not looking up long.
“That’s me.”
He nodded once. “You swing it, or just carry it so people keep their distance?”
“A little of both,” I said.
That earned a half-smile. “Used to carry steel myself,” he said. “Different shape. Similar purpose.”
We didn’t say the word military. Didn’t need to. Some things you recognize without a patch or a salute.
I asked how long he’d been working down here.
“Long enough to build half the boats tied to those docks,” he said. “Long enough to watch every outsider who tried to take this place apart. Some succeeded. Most didn’t.”
He studied me a moment, reading more than I was saying.
“You planning to stay in this fight?” he asked.
“Planning to see it through,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Good. This town needs people who don’t scare easy.”
Coffee, Conversation, and Shift in the Air
Before I could answer, Mara walked up carrying two coffees. She handed me one without asking what I wanted. I thanked her.
“You two know each other?” she asked.
“Just met,” Walt said. “Seems like the right kind of company.”
He headed back to his work, leaving us standing there with fresh steam rising from paper cups. We walked toward the seawall, not in a hurry.
She said, “You didn’t have to step in yesterday.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve walked away.”
“Thought about it.”
She glanced over, half smiling. “But you didn’t.”
“No.” I took a sip. “Some lines you don’t let people cross.”
We stood there for a while, watching gulls dive and the ferry wake roll in slow. When she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, I felt something shift—not the dramatic movie kind. Just a quiet recognition.
“Drink later?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Wouldn’t mind that.”
Nothing more. No promises. Tide still moving.
Sand rating: 8/10 — solid underfoot, unpredictable ahead.
– BG
🌊 Travel light. Swing hard.
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