Interface
It was early dusk and, with a cloudless sky, it was still clear enough that the lights along the harbor were only a promise of things to come. The water was calm and dark as befitted a harbor of industry and commerce. Years ago the Europeans had invaded this virgin coast with ambition, avarice and salvation. Civilizations had fallen and risen. Yet this interface of land and water was little changed. And in the last hundred years the town had the same narrow streets and one and two story houses. Yet the town was but a spot along the huge water mass. In a world of earthquakes and mirages, there was nothing older or truer than the sea.
He stood on the yacht behind the Jerry-rigged bulletproof Plexiglas as they slowly moved away from the dock towards the sound. Security hated these trips but he loved them. Ever since he was first in a boat as a child in New England he took time to sail. He loved the challenge, the outdoors, the connection to history. And the people. He loved the people. Sailors were more than a community, they were some small unidentified genetic subset. It was harder now, of course, but whenever he could get on the water, he did. He had introduced holding official meetings on the water as well; somehow it changed the footing and made discussions less political. He thought this meeting had gone well too.
He felt a twinge of regret at what he had brought to this lovely scene, this huge sea, this old town trying to live with it. The yacht was incongruous enough among the old fishing boats while high above an AWACS throbbed silently and somewhere below a security submarine strained at its leash.
The pilot boat edged closer and the President smiled. The harbor was small for a pilot --probably a patronage job--and he wondered if this attention was needed, whether it was officious, polite or ceremonial.
Jeb Stein, his speechwriter approached him. "Should we say 'will improve relations' or 'should improve relations?"
"Should," he replied. Stein jotted on a notepad and left.
The yacht continued its slow progress. On the pier on the starboard side a trim young woman was keeping pace with them. Her features were indistinct, her light hair was clearly pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a tailored white uniform and her high heeled stride was slightly restricted by her skirt. Her face was turned towards the yacht as she walked. She wore no hat but was probably a Coast Guard officer. He did not remember meeting her at the reception but he might have.
The pilot boat turned back towards the harbor. The girl had reached the end of the pier and continued to look towards the yacht. She was an elegant figure in her white uniform at dusk. He walked aft on the starboard deck to be a bit closer. He wanted to be sure she could see him clearly. Perhaps she wanted to wave. He did not think it appropriate for him to wave first but he brought his right hand up midway on the Plexiglas, just in case.
The girl stayed for several moments looking out towards them, then turned and walked back along the pier towards the harbor at the same pace she had come out.
He dropped his hand and moved forward to look out over the empty sea.
It was early dusk and, with a cloudless sky, it was still clear enough that the lights along the harbor were only a promise of things to come. The water was calm and dark as befitted a harbor of industry and commerce. Years ago the Europeans had invaded this virgin coast with ambition, avarice and salvation. Civilizations had fallen and risen. Yet this interface of land and water was little changed. And in the last hundred years the town had the same narrow streets and one and two story houses. Yet the town was but a spot along the huge water mass. In a world of earthquakes and mirages, there was nothing older or truer than the sea.
He stood on the yacht behind the Jerry-rigged bulletproof Plexiglas as they slowly moved away from the dock towards the sound. Security hated these trips but he loved them. Ever since he was first in a boat as a child in New England he took time to sail. He loved the challenge, the outdoors, the connection to history. And the people. He loved the people. Sailors were more than a community, they were some small unidentified genetic subset. It was harder now, of course, but whenever he could get on the water, he did. He had introduced holding official meetings on the water as well; somehow it changed the footing and made discussions less political. He thought this meeting had gone well too.
He felt a twinge of regret at what he had brought to this lovely scene, this huge sea, this old town trying to live with it. The yacht was incongruous enough among the old fishing boats while high above an AWACS throbbed silently and somewhere below a security submarine strained at its leash.
The pilot boat edged closer and the President smiled. The harbor was small for a pilot --probably a patronage job--and he wondered if this attention was needed, whether it was officious, polite or ceremonial.
Jeb Stein, his speechwriter approached him. "Should we say 'will improve relations' or 'should improve relations?"
"Should," he replied. Stein jotted on a notepad and left.
The yacht continued its slow progress. On the pier on the starboard side a trim young woman was keeping pace with them. Her features were indistinct, her light hair was clearly pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a tailored white uniform and her high heeled stride was slightly restricted by her skirt. Her face was turned towards the yacht as she walked. She wore no hat but was probably a Coast Guard officer. He did not remember meeting her at the reception but he might have.
The pilot boat turned back towards the harbor. The girl had reached the end of the pier and continued to look towards the yacht. She was an elegant figure in her white uniform at dusk. He walked aft on the starboard deck to be a bit closer. He wanted to be sure she could see him clearly. Perhaps she wanted to wave. He did not think it appropriate for him to wave first but he brought his right hand up midway on the Plexiglas, just in case.
The girl stayed for several moments looking out towards them, then turned and walked back along the pier towards the harbor at the same pace she had come out.
He dropped his hand and moved forward to look out over the empty sea.
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