It was one hell of a week. My boss was finally satisfied that I had gotten enough done when I left at seven yesterday.
This morning we brought Captain Tom to the marina. Luckily the antiseptic and bandages were unnecessary, because once we reached The Poinsettia, he dropped his pickaxe, grabbed the mop from my hand and stepped onto the deck. He hesitated a moment before beginning to wash the boards at a fevered speed. Tracey and I smiled at each other, heartened by what appeared to be a sign of his recovery, and we sat and ate our portions of the picnic lunch while he cleaned.
When he was finished, Captain Tom climbed back onto the dock, sat cross-legged next to his daughter and said, “Hand over one of them thar sandwiches, Chief.” I obliged, and then, while he was eating, I nudged his pickaxe over the edge of the dock, into the water. As far as I know, he didn’t notice.
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