Over The Bounding Wabes

"You can say that again," Phil said.

My own conception of marina life was epitomized by the little pink-dyed poodle that had fallen off a cruiser and was swimming in circles around the pilings while a size 18 woman in a size 12 bikini emoted around and cried, "I'll die! I'll just die!" Her husband grappled for the poodle with a boathook but the pup was in no hurry to come back aboard; he was doing the first natural thing he'd ever done in a life of being coiffed and shampooed and trimmed and walked and curbed. As soon as the kids came back from a trail ride, we got away from that marina and back to the sweet smell of failure coming off the sea and the beaches. Julie told me that Soupy Sales had been killed, hit in the face with a lead pie, and the captain told me one of his four-a-day jokes about a Brooklyn kid and a bird that choiped like a boid, and Phil Portrey lifted little Barrie high in the air and told her she was cute as a bug, and I played a simple card game with Evan and went in the tank for two chocolate cookies and a vanilla, and we were all as happy as hooty owls. If I had to spend my life on a boat, I'd spend it right there on the Allu, rollicking around the San Juan Islands with Phil and Captain Al and the three kids. And if that hot-rod ferry wanted to cut us off again and give us the back of its wake, it would be perfectly all right with me. I like wabes, too, and you better durn believe it.