A sleek red hull was momentarily framed in the opening as the Racer slipped into the harbor. The diagonal white stripe amidships on the hull identified it as a Coast Guard vessel. It was Christine’s boat, or the one she served on, at least. My spirits rose as I contemplated a reunion. The anchor chain rattled as the Racer dropped its hook about halfway between us and the Coastal Provider. I’d give them a little time to get squared away, do their chores and such, then I’d pick up Mark and go over for a visit. George and Pete wandered down from the wheelhouse where they’d been listening to the radios. Radio chatter, on a harbor day with a large fleet anchored up, can be very entertaining. Even fishermen get bored after awhile with talking about fish. So they start telling jokes, some of which would be repeatable in polite company, or they tell stories or sing “Happy Birthday” to their buddies, or broadcast short spurts of their favorite tunes.
