I leave him to his brooding and salvage and wander back down the wharf I could not reach in my canoe (which has been, of course, stolen).

I look out at the yet surly swells from the public landing below the wharf, my former private entrance. Big twenty foot floor planks have popped up from the slap of waves beneath like broken teeth. And I feel like I myself have washed up on the landing with the flotsam against creosote blackened pillars all ringed with colorful sponges and barnacles. And I think that from here I will fashion a craft of my own.

I will fashion a journal, a magazine about the sea, about boats, about the surf and the lives of the Pacific; I will fashion it from the shards of the Por Favor and the crumpled pieces of my heart send it out across the beautiful Monterey Bay. It will trail net of imagination and with it I will catch the luckless, the restless, the wandering, the curious, and we will marvel, together, over the sea's great beauty and death.