The Goldfinch Catastrophe

Morning.  0745.  Up on the ship’s bridge to relieve the watch. So bright!  These first warm days; always so redolent with smell and memory.  Alex, the 4-8 wheelsman, be-toqued, be-blundstoned and be-bearded, directs my...

The Grilse’s Return

‘I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to go for a run tomorrow morning and I’m going to overdo it, and I’m probably going to hurt myself.’ That’s what I told Jeff. We were standing outside, drinking a beer as the final minutes fell out from the interminable...