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I
said
there
was
no
ritual
involved
with
the
Place
but
that
is
not
entirely
true
.
Sometime
on
each
visit
I
reconstruct
Old
Harbor
for
my
mind
’
s
pleasure
—
the
docks
,
the
warehouses
,
the
forests
of
masts
and
underbrush
of
rigging
and
canvas
.
And
my
ancestors
,
my
blood
—
the
young
ones
on
the
deck
,
the
fully
grown
aloft
,
the
mature
on
the
bridge
.
No
nonsense
of
Madison
Avenue
then
or
trimming
too
many
leaves
from
cauliflowers
.
Some
dignity
was
then
for
a
man
,
some
stature
.
A
man
could
breathe
.
That
was
my
father
talking
,
the
fool
.
Old
Cap
’
n
remembered
the
fights
over
shares
,
the
quibbling
with
stores
,
suspicion
of
every
plank
and
keelson
,
the
lawsuits
,
yes
,
and
the
killings
—
over
women
,
glory
,
adventure
?
Not
at
all
.
Over
money
.
It
was
a
rare
partnership
,
he
said
,
that
lasted
more
than
one
voyage
,
and
blistering
feuds
ever
afterward
,
continuing
after
the
cause
was
forgotten
.
There
was
one
bitterness
old
Cap
’
n
Hawley
did
not
forget
,
a
crime
he
could
not
forgive
.
He
must
have
told
me
about
it
many
times
,
standing
or
sitting
on
the
rim
of
Old
Harbor
.
We
spent
a
goodly
time
there
,
he
and
I
.
I
remember
him
pointing
with
his
narwhal
stick
.
"
Take
that
third
rock
on
Whitsun
Reef
,
"
he
said
.
"
Got
her
?
Now
,
line
her
up
with
the
tip
of
Porty
Point
at
high
water
.
See
it
there
?
Now
—
half
a
cable
-
length
out
on
that
line
is
where
she
lies
,
at
least
her
keel
.
"
"
The
Belle
-
Adair
?
"
"
The
Belle
-
Adair
.
"
"
Our
ship
.
"
"
Half
ours
,
a
partnership
.
She
burned
at
anchor
—
burned
to
the
waterline
.
I
never
believed
it
was
an
accident
.
"
"
You
think
she
was
fired
,
sir
?
"
