Journal Entry — Morro Bay
JR left in the morning. He had things to take care of in town—paperwork, calls, the kind of business that doesn’t need explanation. We took the skiff in together and tied up at the marina. He said he’d be back later and headed off without hurry.
I stayed behind.
Red Tide’s boat was still tied up where it always was. Same slip. Same lines. From the dock it looked untouched, like nothing had changed. That bothered me more than if it had.
I waited longer than I needed to, letting people pass, letting the moment stretch. When the dock cleared, I stepped over. The door was locked. It wasn’t a challenge. Just a fact. Old habits came back without effort. A pause, a small sound, and the door opened.
Inside, the boat felt paused rather than abandoned. A cup left where it had cooled. A chair not pushed back in. Nothing packed. Nothing disturbed. It looked like someone had stepped away expecting to return.
On the small table, folded once and placed neatly in the center, was a note. Plain paper. No envelope. Two words, written steady.
Take the money.
No name, no explanation, no urgency. I stood there for a moment longer than I needed to, then folded it the same way and put it back where it had been. I locked the door behind me and stepped off without looking around.
Morro Bay filled the rest of the day without asking anything from me. I walked the harbor, sat where I could watch the water change, let the town move at its own pace. The note stayed where it belonged.
Later, I made a call.
Shaw answered right away.
“Still stepping into things,” she said.
“Looks that way.”
I told her where I was. Gave her a name, a club, another name. Said there was money involved.
“Who?” she asked.
“Mason Kline. Owns The Switchyard.”
There was a brief pause.
“I’ll look,” she said. “Don’t move.”
The line went dead.
JR came back in the evening. We took the skiff out to the boat as the light dropped. He didn’t ask how I’d spent the day, and I didn’t offer. We cleaned the fish we’d caught earlier and cooked them on the small grill. Ate slow. Had a couple beers. Put some music on low enough that it didn’t compete with the water.
We talked about Red Tide. About what it costs to stay where you are, and what it costs to leave. JR said sometimes the edge is the only place you can breathe. I listened.
The harbor settled as night came on. Lights stretched and broke across the water. The boat rocked once and then found its place again.
I didn’t tell him about the call.
Some things move better when they don’t have an audience.
Sand Rating: 4 / 10
Condition: Cool, compacted, disturbed only near the tide line
— BG
Travel light. Swing hard.
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