" He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the
sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack.
"Here, stow this, son," he said, pointing to an open bin just
inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away.
The boat's teakwood and brass cabin was clean, classy, elegant,
and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.
"Cast off," Byron told him, indicating the boat's mooring lines.
Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats.
The engine churned alive. "Now give us a good shove," Byron
ordered.
Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat
lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the
water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.
"Is it going to be windy enough?" Peter asked, shading his eyes
and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.
"Here," Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sunglasses.
Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in
the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails
puffed fully.
"Sail much?" Byron said.
Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both
hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched
Byron work the wheel.
The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his shirt. Holding
the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter
to the pipe's bowl.
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