“But we have a lot of day left to us, so let’s not get in any hurry to turn back. Besides ...” I pointed ahead. “We’re almost there; the dock is just ahead. And we’re in luck; no other boats are here. We can tie up instead of anchoring out. The tide is almost slack now, so it isn’t going to be too difficult to get to the floating dock. But if you will, go stand at the rail, and when I put us against the dock, take that line you see there and throw it around the cleat on the dock. I’ll take care of it from there.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said as she snapped me a salute and then left the pilothouse to stand by at the rail.

Up on the fixed portion of the dock, a lone figure, with two fishing rods at hand, sat on a folding stool. I saw him stand and stare, and when he recognized the boat he quickly reeled in his lines and rushed down to lend a hand. As we came slowly alongside, he motioned to Patricia to throw him the rope she held. I brought us to a halt and cut the engine as the man quickly indicated to Patricia which other lines to toss him. By the time I cleared the pilothouse we were securely snubbed down.

“Parker,” I called as I stepped on deck and leaned over to shake hands, “how you doing, man?”

Parker returned my grip and said, “What it is, Kennesaw? You’ve been scarce for a while, good to see you again.”

Patricia was eyeing the man with what could only be called a police officer’s discernment, and it wasn’t hard to guess why. Parker Wells is a self-described Zen Bum, and he completely looks the part. Tall and lanky, he stands leaning forward slightly, in a way that always reminds me of Boris Karloff.

On his head he wore an ancient, ragged canvas hat festooned with feathers, small bones, and the large scales of a tarpon he had caught years ago. His well-brushed beard, falling to the center of his chest, ended in an elaborately woven braid. The sleeves of his flannel shirt stopped midway between the elbows and the wrists, and his jeans looked like he’d owned them since the time of Woodstock. He was shod in a pair of deerskin moccasins that I knew he had made himself.

With no fixed home, no job, no mortgage, no car, no insurance, no bank account, Parker is the type of person instantly distrusted by the guardians of society, because intuitively they know they have no hold upon a person like him and never will. A totally independent man, Parker is the perfect example of a modern nomad. And for that very reason, he makes those of us laboring under the harness of modern life rather uncomfortable, and often (me, for example) envious, in his presence.