P
A dried flying fish revolved on a string above Phaon’s cabin door. His boat rose on a gradual swell, seemed unwilling to glide down.
“Let me sail with you when you sail next time,” I said.
“How could I take care of you?”
“Right in this cabin.”
“Would you sleep on the floor?”
“Why not?”
“What about food? Food goes bad...our cheese spoils...our meat...our water. Sometimes we can’t land a fish.”
A smile wrinkled his face, as he hulked against the cabin wall, his smile vaguely reassuring.
“What about the heat and cold?” he went on.