Sea watchers

For a summer there my wife and I spent long days in a French boatbuilding yard. Every evening after work, I would peel off my dusty overalls, kiss my wife and go down to watch the sea. It became a necessary ritual, the shedding of my skin and the short walk from the boatbuilder’s yard to the shimmering waters of the Bay of Biscay.

We spent our days in the yard, working on a beautiful Swan ketch named Talina, with the air filled with the whine of electric sanders and the soft banter of boatbuilders’ French. By the time I escape the place on my daily ritual, the heat of the day is radiating off every surface.

Along the way to the sea, I note which brand of beer the derelicts are drinking and know that it is on