CALL ME!I stuffed the note into my pocket and limped inside, where I saw that DJ Bonz had already piddled on the carpet. After spending the next few minutes sponging up, I took him for his regular walk, albeit slowly. Everything hurt, especially my bruised heel and bitten arm. All I wanted to do for the rest of the evening was to pour myself a glass of wine, slump into a deck chair, and not think about bears.But when I returned to the Merilee, I found two members of the Harbor Liveaboard Committee standing on the dock, eyeing my boat. They carried clipboards.“What’s up, guys?” Bonz whined at my feet. I freed him from his leash and let him jump on board, where he immediately vanished into the salon.“We’ve got trouble,” said Linda Cushing, who lived on the Tea 4 Two, a Catalina 30 sailboat. Years of seaside living had been rough on her, and she looked every one of her sixty-odd years.“Big trouble.” This from Walt McAdams, a burly San Sebastian firefighter with a hair-trigger temper, whose Running Wild, a decommissioned trawler similar to my own, lay berthed three slips away.
