The late morning air coming off the water was cold and damp and gray clouds covered the sky. Maybe it would rain later. The Bridgot Denise lay alongside the dock with her engines idling and work lights shining in the rigging even though it was broad daylight. Stacks of packing crates and pallets were piled here and there and the ground was littered with green fish nets. They looked hopelessly tangled. An orange extension cord snaked across the parking lot. I couldn't see where it went. There was no one about.
Presently a man came out from somewhere, got into a car and drove off in a hurry. No time for questions. I wondered if the Bridgot Denise had just come in or if it was getting ready to go out. How does one pronounce Bridgot anyway? What do the fishermen catch and put in those packing crates. A L I E N.
Life is full of little mysteries.
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