The Fishing Boats at Gloucester

Ryder Pittz
Nov 4 · 3 min read

Dawn breaks on the fishing boats at Gloucester.

Callused hands with broken fingernails raise the mainsail. They pull and tug the rope until white canvas snaps in the breeze. A figure-eight knot keeps the shackles taut and the halyard just so. Ian rolls up the sleeves of his faded plaid shirt. The shirt is blue, dark like the ocean. The flannel foams like whitewater, and reflects the color of the sky. He rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing tattoos of waves swelling to a hairy peak. The waves crest and crash down and wash away the cobwebs from his veins. He runs his…

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