The sun’s shining. A light nor-easter is wafting. The boat is clean, the engine smooth. All blocks and tackles are stowed. All sails furled. What else is a bloke to do?
A box of fish’n’chips goes down apace at the fisherman’s wharf early in Spring. Peter thought it was the best location in the world, with the best weather in the world. Not that he was an expert on other places in the world. Some perhaps, but not many. He was just giving a ball-park statement. He was a man content with his lot.
He had heard all the dire warnings from well-meaning aunts. But not from his mother, he was pleased to note. Not directly from his mother. Although he suspects she felt his bachelorhood keenly, him being an only child.
He had no idea a whirlwind of the female variety was striding down the pier as he munched.