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"
How
rigged
?
"
"
Boom
and
gaff
,
sir
.
"
Whack
—
whack
—
whack
—
narwhal
stick
against
the
water
-
logged
pile
.
As
his
hearing
got
fuzzier
,
he
accused
more
and
more
people
of
whispering
.
"
If
a
thing
’
s
true
,
or
even
if
it
ain
’
t
true
and
you
mean
it
,
sing
out
,
"
he
would
cry
.
Old
Cap
’
n
’
s
ears
may
have
gone
wonky
toward
the
end
of
his
life
,
but
not
his
memory
.
He
could
recite
you
the
tonnage
and
career
of
every
ship
,
it
seemed
like
,
that
ever
sailed
out
of
the
Bay
,
and
what
she
brought
back
and
how
it
was
divided
,
and
the
odd
thing
was
that
the
great
whaling
days
were
nearly
over
before
he
was
master
.
Kerosene
he
called
"
skunk
oil
,
"
and
kerosene
lamps
were
"
stinkpots
.
"
By
the
time
electric
lights
came
,
he
didn
’
t
care
much
or
maybe
was
content
just
to
remember
.
His
death
didn
’
t
shock
me
.
The
old
man
had
drilled
me
in
his
death
as
he
had
in
ships
.
I
knew
what
to
do
,
inside
myself
and
out
.
On
the
edge
of
the
silted
and
sanded
up
Old
Harbor
,
right
where
the
Hawley
dock
had
been
,
the
stone
foundation
is
still
there
.
It
comes
right
down
to
the
low
-
tide
level
,
and
high
water
laps
against
its
square
masonry
.
Ten
feet
from
the
end
there
is
a
little
passage
about
four
feet
wide
and
four
feet
high
and
five
feet
deep
.
Its
top
is
vaulted
.
Maybe
it
was
a
drain
one
time
,
but
the
landward
entrance
is
cemented
in
with
sand
and
broken
rock
.
That
is
my
Place
,
the
place
everybody
needs
.
Inside
it
you
are
out
of
sight
except
from
seaward
.
There
’
s
nothing
at
Old
Harbor
now
but
a
few
clammers
’
shacks
,
rattlety
things
,
mostly
deserted
in
the
winter
,
but
clammers
are
a
quiet
lot
anyway
.
They
hardly
speak
from
day
’
s
end
to
end
and
they
walk
with
their
heads
down
and
their
shoulders
bowed
.
That
was
the
place
I
was
headed
for
.
I
spent
nighttide
there
before
I
went
in
the
service
,
and
the
nighttide
before
I
married
my
Mary
,
and
part
of
the
night
Ellen
was
born
that
hurt
her
so
bad
.
I
was
compelled
to
go
and
sit
inside
there
and
hear
the
little
waves
slap
the
stone
and
look
out
at
the
sawtooth
Whitsun
rocks
.
I
saw
it
,
lying
in
bed
,
watching
the
dance
of
the
red
spots
,
and
I
knew
I
had
to
sit
there
.
It
’
s
big
changes
take
me
there
—
big
changes
.
South
Devon
runs
along
the
shore
,
and
there
are
lights
aimed
at
the
beach
put
there
by
good
people
to
keep
lovers
from
getting
in
trouble
.
They
have
to
go
somewhere
else
.
A
town
ordinance
says
that
Wee
Willie
has
to
patrol
once
an
hour
.
There
wasn
’
t
a
soul
on
the
beach
—
not
a
soul
,
and
that
was
odd
because
someone
is
going
fishing
,
or
fishing
,
or
coming
in
nearly
all
the
time
.
I
lowered
myself
over
the
edge
and
found
the
outcrop
stone
and
doubled
into
the
little
cave
.
And
I
had
hardly
settled
myself
before
I
heard
Wee
Willie
’
s
car
go
by
.
That
’
s
twice
I
had
avoided
passing
the
time
of
night
with
him
.
It
sounds
uncomfortable
and
silly
,
sitting
cross
-
legged
in
a
niche
like
a
blinking
Buddha
,
but
some
way
the
stone
fits
me
,
or
I
fit
.
Maybe
I
’
ve
been
going
there
so
long
that
my
behind
has
conformed
to
the
stones
.
As
for
its
being
silly
,
I
don
’
t
mind
that
.
Sometimes
it
’
s
great
fun
to
be
silly
,
like
children
playing
statues
and
dying
of
laughter
.
And
sometimes
being
silly
breaks
the
even
pace
and
lets
you
get
a
new
start
.
When
I
am
troubled
,
I
play
a
game
of
silly
so
that
my
dear
will
not
catch
trouble
from
me
.
She
hasn
’
t
found
me
out
yet
,
or
if
she
has
,
I
’
ll
never
know
it
.
So
many
things
I
don
’
t
know
about
my
Mary
,
and
among
them
,
how
much
she
knows
about
me
.
I
don
’
t
think
she
knows
about
the
Place
.
How
would
she
?
I
’
ve
never
told
anyone
.
It
has
no
name
in
my
mind
except
the
Place
—
no
ritual
or
formula
or
anything
.
It
’
s
a
spot
in
which
to
wonder
about
things
.
No
man
really
knows
about
other
human
beings
.
