It took nearly nine hours to drive to Taylors Island, almost twice as long as it should have. He stopped every hour or so to spend ten to fifteen minutes walking off the pain and stiffness his hips…both hips today, lucky him. It was getting into the bone now, no doubt about it.

He'd reserved a room in a motel he'd found on the Internet. He arrived very late Friday afternoon, paying cash in advance for the entire weekend. The place was being refurbished by its new owners. It bordered on ramshackle, but there were signs of renewal everywhere: a Bobcat tractor at the edge of the parking lot; piles of gravel and new lumber; cans of paint. He knew these folks meant business. Too bad he couldn't come back in a year just to see how the job ended up.

He took a slow walk to inspect the rest of the place. There was a lounge near the front desk. He wandered in for a look. New wainscoting lay below recently painted blue walls. Cans of paint were on a drop cloth in one corner. Pictures of oyster boats, each with names: Bess, Reliable, Cathy… he didn't bother to read them all…were hung from the walls. Fishing poles and crabbing nets hung from the high ceiling. A bar was in place, brand-spanking new, but no liquor as yet and hence nobody parked at any of the new tables.