I’ve got work on a tender vessel named the Totem, an eighty foot steel scow straight outta Waterworld. We’re fixing the pluming, wiring, generators, hydraulics, everything. I have trouble eating lunch because my hands are a bloody, greasy mess. It’s a good thing my boss, Paul, doesn’t mind spending what it takes to get things working properly. Turns out he’s a state legislator, wicked smart, and relates with a very agreeable manner of diplomacy. He’s calm and thorough, real easy to work for, and a guy can really get a lot done when it’s daylight forever. I work with this other cat, Jason, up from Cleveland, fresh out of the corporate game and determined to earn his captain’s license. He’s a steady worker and likes to laugh, so it’s cool. Reinforcements should be showing up in a couple of days or so.

I haven’t been into Homer proper, but the Spit is pretty sweet. There’s action every day, the same but different. I watch people leave in the morning on charter boats, fishing boats, water taxis, whatever, a little trep in the step, just a pinch tense, like they’re not quite sure what to expect from the day‘s excursion - or maybe it’s just way early and colder than a polar bear’s toenails. But then later in the day the people cruise back into port, their faces mimicking the round, pale-red buoys dangling from the boats’ rails - plus a sweet smile pasted in between. They’re comfortable - sated. It’s refreshing to watch.

A good looking dog hangs with about every other person. It makes me want one more than I already do. Six days, 57 dogs, 0 barks - they’re all awesome. The other day my boss left the ignition keyed on in his truck all day. While we were jumping the rig he said he was surprised that no one came around and shut his lights off for him - what a nice thing to be surprised about. But that just seems to be the flavor of Homer.