-beachgolfer-

I’m writing this from the bench outside the harbor office, rain blowing sideways under the overhang and collecting in the cuffs of my sleeves. The docks are quiet now, but it isn’t peace — it’s that heavy silence after something breaks. And the marina crisis in Port Townsend isn’t speculation anymore. Today it became real, and loud, and dangerous.

Anna

Mara and I walked over to Anna’s place first thing this morning. She opened the door before we knocked twice, like she’d been standing behind it waiting for any sound that might be news. Eyes red, voice thin, hands shaking even when she tried to hide it.

“He always checks in,” she said. “Every night. Every morning. Even when he’s tired. He always calls.”

She said Eddie told her he was going to speak up today — that today was the day things changed. She hadn’t heard from him since. Not a text. Not a voicemail. Nothing.

She asked if we thought Greaves was involved. Mara put a hand on her arm.
“We’re not done looking,” she said. “We’ll bring him home.”

Anna nodded once, but she looked like she was trying not to fall through the floor.

The Dock

Back at the marina, the air felt wrong. People stood outside shops pretending to check hardware or coil line, but their eyes followed movement instead of work. Conversations stopped when we walked past, like words were something dangerous.

That’s when Walt saw Greaves walking the dock with his suits — calm, slow, unbothered. Walt didn’t wait. He charged across the planks, boots hitting the wood hard enough to echo across the harbor.

“Where is he, Greaves?” Walt shouted. “Where the hell is Eddie?”

Greaves stopped, hands clasped behind him like he was posing for a portrait.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice smooth and light. “People come and go around here.”

“You’re lying,” Walt said, shaking with anger. “Eddie wouldn’t disappear without a word. Not from his wife. Not from us.”

Greaves let a small smile grow — slow, thin, deliberate.
Like a man enjoying a win nobody else knows about yet.

“You give a little pressure,” he said quietly, “and people go where they’re already headed.”

I stepped forward before Walt swung.

“What did you do?” I asked.

Greaves locked eyes with me.
“Careful,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

And then he turned and walked away, his suits trailing behind him like shadows with expensive shoes.

None of us knew what had happened to Eddie.
Not then.
Not yet.

Police Lights

The cruisers showed up fifteen minutes later, lights painting the fog red and blue. Officers moved through Eddie’s sail loft fast, flashlights cutting through dust and canvas. They taped off the entry and worked the room like they already knew what they were looking for.

Mara stood beside me, arms wrapped tight across her chest.
Walt leaned against the wall, breathing like every inhale hurt.

A detective stepped out holding a clear evidence bag — the yellow envelope with EDDIE written across the front.

And then he said the words that split the day open:

“Edward Ramos was arrested early this morning. Possession with intent to distribute. Large quantity of narcotics found in his truck, along with a significant amount of cash.”

The envelope wasn’t in the truck. It was right there in the shop.
Which means the cash they’re talking about wasn’t his — and somebody planted the rest.

Mara gasped and covered her mouth.
Walt kicked a metal bucket so hard it slammed off the bulkhead and rolled until the dock stopped it.

Across the lot, Greaves watched — hands in his pockets, rain dripping off his coat, smiling just enough to make you feel sick.

Where It Stands

This is the story they’re selling now:
Eddie the criminal.
Eddie the drug dealer.
Eddie the guilty man.

And some people will believe it.

But the marina crisis in Port Townsend isn’t just about Eddie.
It’s about who gets to decide what’s true.
And whose voice gets buried when the wrong man wants something badly enough.

Sand Rating

5.5/10 — foundation cracking fast.

Tomorrow isn’t about finding Eddie anymore.
It’s about tearing their story apart.

– BG
🌊 Travel light. Swing hard.