And a chain ties the metal buoy to the bottom where the engine blocks are. I go back into the cabin of the Por Favor, a thirty two-foot cabin cruiser that I have been staying on as a caretaker and friend of Gamil's all summer.

To steal a line from Mark Twain, it has been "heaven on the half shell," Santa Cruz is quite possibly the most beautiful place in the world, especially from my point of view on the Por Favor kitty-cornered right between the wharf on one side and the boardwalk on the other. Schools of anchovies have come in from the ocean and taken up residence in the bay and under the wharf since July, and have attracted legions of pelicans and terns as well as several kinds of gulls. Halibut and salmon, jacksmelt and mackerel follow the masses of anchovies. In the purple dusk of summer, the pelicans plunge and the lighted ferris wheel and roller coaster spin, the moon rises singing beyond hearing, and half naked women parade down the beach. It has been heaven on the half shell. But now, gloomy clouds have oared in from the northwest and trail squals and showers as they shoulder on inland.

A few leaks in the roof of the Por Favor make themselves known marking their locations with the steady drip drip of water. I move the stack of printed pages that comprise the novel I am nearly finished with. It has been slow, joyful work. I am continually distracted by the wink of lights and reflections, by the wheeling of pelicans that plunge right next to me after their food, by the tenement of a boat for roving sea lions next to mine, and by the fishing rods on the boat-which just have to be exercised.

The chop and swell of the bay picks up with the increasing wind. The waves begin to lumber in from around pleasure point across the bay and through the pilings of the wharf that stands, eerily now, like a flock of herons' legs above the water. The waves lift the Por Favor and lumber on to the shore where they noisily crash against the sand. I look out at my canoe that taxis me back and forth from the landing to the boat, but I don't think I will try and go on my errands ashore tonight. I could do it, but from now on, paddling through this jilting tossing water will be wet work. I resolve to stay on through the night-it will be an adventure. So I switch on the flashlight to write by and pop a beer to watch the weather. It is going to be a fine storm. The sea glowers with life and tosses up frothy caps of white in the gloom.