The man and the sea.

Weighing a grouper at Smuggler’s Cove.

I used to be married to a fisherman.

Not a Saturday fisherman togged out by LL Bean.

Mine was a white-boot fisherman who lived with one ear tuned to NOAA weather.

A man who could stand poised on the transom of a bobbing powerboat the lead-line of a twelve-foot cast net in his teeth watching the surface of the water for the nervous boil of a school of bait fish before flinging that impossibly heavy net.

And I was a fisherman’s wife.