navigating home

I met a young commercial fisherman down in the Outer Banks the other day.  He was cleaning his boat after a day on the water.  The decks of another boat nearby were covered in blood as waterman sliced and boxed their catch of the day.  The fisherman was from a local village, one that most tourists would not know existed behind the tee-shirt shops and tall summer vacation homes.  He loved that village.

He took great pride in the fact that he was part of a family that had lived in the village for generations.  He had the family name tattooed on his arm, the village name on his chest.  He said he would soon be getting another tattoo, this one of two buoys.  "Buoys?" I asked.  "Yeah, like buoys at the entrance to a harbor.  So I can always find my way home."

steve