From a shopping bag that Larry dangled her way, Grace now pulled two tourist caps. White ones made for “Sea Captains,” they were all polished black bills and cheap gilt braid. They recalled to me my silly boarding-school uniform. Grace’d had my daughters’ names stitched across each crown in gold thread (though she’d accidently stuck the “H” back onto our Sara). I guessed my snooty daughters would see at once how touristy “cheap” these were. But no. They modeled the hats and, of course, being beautiful and fourteen and seventeen, looked certifiably delightful. You have to see them to believe them.

Grace now led us past three clanging gates; Larry buzzed each one in turn. Ahead of us, the old girl still moved well, secure atop her straw wedgies. I found myself busy not looking at my mother’s still-spectacular ass. Other boat-owners now eased down their short gangplanks to greet us. They were prepared with our names and everything. Retired doctors, lean elderly execs sun-cured toward beef jerky. Their creasy pretty second wives wore floral-printed low-necked muumuus and all-too-real overplentiful yellow-gold jewelry.

One guy introduced himself as a former eye-ear-nose from Shaker Heights. “We just think the world of your Gracie. Life and soul of our little fishbowl down here. Don’t mind telling you, she’s mighty darn proud of you. Always talking up your books. Hinting about your reputation and all. Beautiful daughters you got. One dark, one more a blond, perfect. The older one could be our Gracie at sixteen, hmm? ‘Heartbreakers’ for sure. Oh, to have another shot at being nineteen. I mean, while knowing what little I know now. This go-round, I’d study less. Oh, I’d get so much tail this time….”

Then he seemed embarrassed: hadn’t my children, my mom inspired this fuck-witted flight of his? But I laughed him toward ease. “I’m used to hearing it, believe me,” I said, “my whole childhood …” and stopped.

I saw he was right at least about the resemblance. It’d taken a stranger to point it out. Our Deirdre, who’d always seemed to me so unique, so full-steam-ahead, and yet quite spiritual, now moved arm in arm with Grace. And I swear to God it was the same saunter, same round perfect arms, same stunning high-riding buttocks, twice. Can a person become seasick on a stationary dock?

I was relieved, then pleased, next confused when More Trouble Than It’s Worth II proved less “boat,” more “ship.” A handsome sixty-footer, or maybe eighty? As few do, it earned the term of “yacht.” The thing looked all teak and ebony and brightwork, Art Deco. It was perfectly maintained, and its lines must’ve been conceived during the early or mid-thirties. An ideal “screwball-comedy” set. Apt for Grace.

Buck stood waiting. He looked nervous but only about what we’d think of his boat. Just as I had pictured, he was wearing Abercrombie safari gear. His tunic had enough flap-ammo pockets to start another Zulu War; but underneath, the collar of Buck’s favorite ragged orange T-shirt showed, frayed. This spoiled the Great White Hunter effect and forced me not to loathe the man on sight.