The dory’s flat bottom was bone dry, not a drop of water or ocean born blood rolled about. Wicker sat and took notes. It appeared his grandfather hadn’t started trawling, the line and bucket remained untouched.

The foghorn, bailer, and halibut killer were found in their usual storage bucket, next to the anchor. The gurdy had a fresh coat of grease and the gob stick rested against the gunwale.

What wasn’t in the boat was the sail and the float marker. But the sail was securely stored in the boatshed, awaiting a different kind of fishing season.

A small wave rocked the solid little craft and Wicker heard something roll. He found a stranger’s monkey fist, it’s eye shredded through. Monkey fist’s are used for heaving a line, Wicker thought to himself; And who threw a line to grandpa Stavros?

Wicker reached out to pull himself up, but reached for air. Anyone sitting in this spot used the tholepins to steady themselves, they also held the oars too, and they were snapped clean away. And where was the float?