San Juan, Puerto Rico
I was ready to leave the boat. My work was done and my bags were packed.
I swung my seabag over on to the dock, took one last look at the Mezza Luna as she sat contented in the marina.
Peter walked me half way up the long dock. We shook hands and said our good-bys. It seemed like a shallow gesture. I wasn't sure why, but I suspected that as competent and helpful as I had tried to make myself during our association, I was after all, just crew.
We had met as...