Rumi, knots, and the sound of a stone

Dear anyone,
the Day is 4:30 in the AM and I am drinking Coffee. The second Half-hour of my day was spent relearning which rope goes where. and how. we may be well into the age of fiberglass and diesel angines, but fishermen have not given up their love for Fiber and Knots.

On somedays I would have to Hold any mug as we rocked, but as today is like a game, it restsfirmly on our cabin's rimmed table. Cpt. Leland Todd is taking us deeper into the inlet and my cap is forlded squarly and the one-and-one-half-inch line. The stillness of the water is welcome and admirable, but not quite to the point of stillness at which one become invariably nostalgic. Sometimes irked. This is a Silent thing.

Our Engine, a 'Detroit Diesel', a 'jimmy', is not. I am watching, between whatevers, for jumpers- hints on where to set our net- but find it hard to keep my eyes off the streetcurb of mountains or the ripples. Pure enough to have made Rumi stop a moment: lobbing stones into it, thinking about his highschool days and wondering what he was and wasn't trying to relive.

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