The shapes moving across the surface could hardly be called waves. There were no discernible patterns, only random mounds and hollows that changed so quickly that the water couldn’t keep pace. Waves heaved upward in tall steep-sided pyramids that turned into ropey fathom-tall columns of silvery water suspended for a moment in midair. Spike waves. When they fell, they slipped downward, intact for a moment, and then disintegrated into white froth.
Hanging on a pegboard is a 10” steel spring-joint divider, the very first tool I bought in 1977 when I decided to build a boat and needed to tool up for lofting a dory skiff. I bought the divider for $6 in a second-hand tool store. The store occupied a two-story clapboard building that was torn down decades ago and replaced with a welding supply store; that was torn down and replaced with a pumphouse for one of Seattle’s new sewer mains. The divider has a brass ball on the end of the screw and a threaded brass knob for adjusting the span. The knob spins so freely that it’ll travel a full inch along the screw if I give it a good flick with my thumb. Every time I use it I see my 24-year-old self, looking for a direction to take in life, and finding one in boats.