“I miss the boat,” John sighed, his eyes nearly fixed on the waters.

“I know, honey.”

The RV rocked gently as they cruised down the interstate, Lake Qaneska to their left. “No, really. I really miss the boat.”

“I know, honey. You loved that boat.”

“We’re Ocean People, Mags. In our blood, we’re Ocean People. There’s salt water in our veins.” He held out his arm, as if she could check.

“I know, John, but you do remember why we had to sell it.”

“We didn’t have to-”

“We had to sell it, John Carl Wilson, III, because you get completely and violently sea-sick. There was bloody vomit all over the place. It wreaked like under-cooked tuna fish for weeks, and your suit has never gotten back to its original color.”

“I know, but-”

“John, end of discussion.”

They were silent, leaving the hum of the open road and the swaying to fill the space.

“I miss the house.”

“It was a houseboat, John.”

“I know. And I miss it.”