So, on Saturday we found her. We found the boat in the water in Groton, just waiting there.
Turns out, she'd been for sale for a year. The owner finally threw in the towel, donated her to a charity in Newport, kind of an orphanage for boats, then the price was dropped a new owner found.
Just Rob and I walked out the long, cold dock; everyone else waited in the car. It felt a bit like going to a grave site, a visit to something that we'd moved on from. The boat represents, in a way, good times from the past, untarnished by darker times that were to follow.
She sat quietly at the dock while we walked around her and snapped photos like the paparazzi.
It was odd to be there. Rob felt it too. Like an old friend (ironically she now bears the name "Good Friend"), there was much to recognize and recall the fun times we had with her.
I am not sure if she recognized us - gone are the two boys with sun-bleached hair that would crawl all over her lovingly - replaced by two guys looking a her with dopey big eyes.
While I'd recognize her anywhere, it wasn't just as I'd remembered. The wood looked worse for the wear. The hull was a duller shade of green. It was clear that she, like the two boys before her, aged a bit.
It was a good visit, one that you leave silently from, reflecting on the memories of days gone by. She's not the boat for me, anymore; I've moved on, grown up (at least a bit). I mean, do you see all that teak?
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