between boats

His head reeling from the sea
he hadn't shaken, he rolled
uneasily in unsettled step
towards the weathered clapboard tavern
where it all began. Again
his weathered eye caught the rudely
carved and painted driftboard plank
that served the place for a sign,
letters rough-hewn hacked out and whitened
against washed-out grey: "SKIPPER'S
LAST DIVE." Heaving a sigh,

feeling temporarily settled,

he rolled forward
and in, his hips listing
with the effort of steadying his head. Adjusting
to the dim realization of the interior - which
unfailingly disappointed - he saw
to his distressed satisfaction
that Margaret, yes, was on duty. Good,
relatively. He could handle this all
at once. Or possibly
not at all. Her eyes

had already met his,
before his had even focused
and adjusted. Her face was white.

This was remarkable
as she was full-blooded Bantu.
Their eye contact was no longer voluntary.
Her gaze was flying ahead of a mounting storm
within her, and he knew as much as he'd needed to come,
it had been a mistake. Her eyes made a line
that held in time with his as they crossed out
of the world's currents, into a breaking storm
on a sea of their own. They were between boats
dangling over wind-whipped water, holding
a line between them, each torn between
the other's changing and unknowable intent,
unsure whether to rescue
or cut.

He has about to get either
the strongest or weakest rum and Coke
he'd ever had in his life, and he wasn't
dying to find out which.