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  • Third summer with the canned fish conglomerate; that would be enough. This year (or was it the one before?) August was rain each day. In the top of the tree (way up, just a knotted rope) where I'd made a platform to sleep and look at the sound (4. an inlet, arm, or recessed portion of the sea) my tent went clammy and listless.

    Hours were down to less than 80 a week, in what should have been the season's lucrative peak. The filipino cohort boarded tenders, the big floating processors that guaranteed 14 x 7 plus room and board at just under minimum (fuzzy naval math). The Cali-forlorn collegiates increased malt liquor ration in the beachhead cove, fished iridescent dolly varden, and group-mooned the daily outgoing ferry ship.

    I remember some good campfire guitar with fresh coho, a baby humpback finding me at the dock one day; the library where I somehow picked up Solzhenitsyn (Cancer Ward) and Black Spring (H. Miller). I remember thinking, it would be important to see this all again from a small wooden row-boat in the sunshine.
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