“I learned most of what I know about fishing from Clay,” Cooper said. “He was always right here, ready to give me pointers on how to catch red drum, or gig for flounder. They broke the mold when they created him.” He looked back at the house and a flicker of sadness crossed his features. “Let’s go fishing.”

It was clear that Cooper knew his way around a boat. John was chagrined to see that Gordon did as well. They moved quickly, in tandem, bringing in the gear, standing aside without being asked as they worked on the fuel line, checked the engine, and untied the hitch.

“All aboard,” Cooper called out.

The water slapped lightly at the hull of the boat, a gentle smacking noise that was hypnotic. The small, tattered American flag secured above the pilothouse flapped in the wind. The hull of the boat was weathered, like everything else, in need of a scraping and paint job. Clay was long past the days when he cared about barnacles and paint.

“Nice call with the choice of beer,” Gordon called out when he took a sip. “Were they out of battery acid?”

“Hey, I didn’t know what you liked,” John said over his shoulder. “I thought this was a safe middle-ground kind of thing. I guessed you were a mai tai or daiquiri kind of guy but figured there wouldn’t be a blender on this tub. Make do.”

“I’m more of an IPA guy,” Gordon replied soberly. “Though we Brits prefer ours warm. And for your edification, a mai tai is not a blended drink.”

“Good God!” Cooper shouted over his shoulder from the wheel. “Are we fishing or negotiating terms for World War Three? Gordon, untie the line. John, just—just sit down. Get out of my line of sight.”

John sat, noting Gordon’s twitching lips.

With the engine purring, Cooper expertly guided the seventeen-foot boat away from the dock.

“Nice boat,” Gordon said, taking it in. “It’s a smaller model of a classic design. If I’m not mistaken, it has hydraulic steering and no autopilot.”

“Right you are,” said Cooper.

John narrowed his eyes, wondering if all that was just to show him up.

“Clay may be a bit lacking in housekeeping,” Gordon said with appreciation, “but he knows his boats and follows the safety guidelines to the letter.”

“Speaking of which, put on those life vests,” Cooper instructed. “At least until we get out on the water. They’ve got cops all over the place and I don’t feel like getting a citation.”

The engine gurgled quietly as Cooper guided the boat along Hamlin Creek. No other boats were on the waterway, a sign of the times. But the ever-present seagulls called out their mocking song, dipping low close to the boat’s stern, looking for a handout.

“Do we want to fish the Intracoastal or go out with the big boys?” Cooper asked, turning away from the wheel.

“Big boys,” John and Gordon blurted simultaneously.

“Yeah, right,” Cooper replied with a sorry shake of his head. “No way we’re going out that far.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to be one of those days,” he muttered more to himself.