dockmaster

“You gotta get it over,” the dockmaster said.

In 2011, Terry Sullivan was living aboard his 50-foot Sea Ray Powerboat, when his friend, the dockmaster, told him a new neighbor was moving into the slip next door.

When we reached the waterfront, I saw the old dockmaster coming along toward us, the smoke from his pipe trailing behind him like a dirty veil, and I hurried ahead to meet him.

“Come along, Crow,” Miss Maggie said, nodding to the dockmaster as we continued on toward the ferry that was tied up and napping, waiting to be let off her leash again.

“Gone for a run to Mattapoisett,” the dockmaster said through his wild beard, his long pipe clenched in his brown teeth.