Christine and I took sailing lessons on a brigantine. We also each had a fling with a sailor, both local Kingston boys. Mine had the swashbuckling handle of Mike Cross. I believe he was one of the ship’s officers. He was in the process of explaining his important job to me, with all the gravitas unique to sixteen year old males when a seagull shit on his head. It was a colossal grainy shit that clung to his black hair like plaster. At the time I was wearing his cap and I’m not sure if that was a good thing.
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