"Tide goes out and that dingy there will look like it was set in a pile of muck waist deep. Few hours later, she'll be buoying up and over like a raft in a squall."

The sturdy fisher spit the fact through his clenched teeth that held a pipe securely toward the right side of his mouth. He finger-laced a hole in a large net that had recently ripped while hauling crab. He used a fine rope of what looked like shoestring and skillfully weaved the strands of netting until they formed a solid bond across the eighteen-inch hole. The precision of his stitch was impressive and I was mesmerized by his voice. It was a deep and soothing sound that split the eerie morning silence and caused me to hear the salt water bubbling at the back of his throat.

He had worked the boats all his life he said, and his presence proved it to me. His enormous hands were calloused and scarred from years of scraping fish fins. I assumed that the bright orange hat and tan waders held up by suspenders were his daily attire. I thought that the turtleneck shirt underneath looked as though it was only changed when absolutely necessary. The multitude of lines on his face was rugged, much like I assumed the life of a fisher to be. He was such an interesting sight that I forgot for a moment the questions to ask. I had taken leave of my mission and concentrated on his busywork instead.

A silence fell between us and he looked at me with a short smile.

"What are you doin' down here at six bells, Miss?"

The idea that anyone would call me "Miss" was absurd and made me smile inwardly. He was just as comfortable with company as he was with the net. I wanted to pack up his easiness with me somehow so I could remember it after I'd gone.

"I'm visiting here and had not yet seen the bay side. Thought I'd come and take a look before another tourist came around and spoiled my view."

We both then turned from each other and stared collectively at the sea. The bay was sized well enough to bring in several large fishing boats and, in its day, had probably done just that. The long boardwalk from the center of town now mostly housed whale watching tour boats on its right. The few remaining fishing boats on the left were well-worn and snug in their watery spaces. They lulled me with a creaking sound in their bellies that was a haunting consolation. The view from the end of the pier was an exercise in opposites. To the left, beyond the boats, was the sleepy town that stretched along the waterline and formed the arc of the bay. Straight ahead was the rock wall breaker, distant and vigilant in protecting the bay's inner cargo against the elements of the sea. And directly to the right was the reason I had come to the dock that morning.

There were four salt-stained pictures displayed side by side that ran the height of the oversized boathouse. The individual photo-like images made a quartet of grandmotherly women staring beyond the bay, keeping watch over the tiny town. I remembered why I had set the alarm and walked the pier that morning. I turned toward the side of the boathouse and spoke to my companion.

"Can you tell me about those pictures?"

He dropped his head toward his shoes as if he'd lost something. Then, moving his gaze up to my face, he caught my glance and held it. Honestly, I couldn't see a difference between his eyes and the color of the sea behind him.

"I can."

He still fixed his stare into me and I breathed a steady rhythm while waiting for his next words.

"What's your name, Miss?"

"Diane."

He smiled at the sound of my name and softy spoke a word that I couldn't hear.

"I'm sorry, sir, didn't hear you."

He turned his gaze toward the women and said, "Tokias. Long ‘i'. Tok-eye-us." Then he turned toward me and continued, "That's my name."

Pause.

"What interests you about 'em, Miss?"

"Diane, please, Sir."

"Tokias, please, Miss."

We both grinned at one another and let the moment of familiarity sit between us until I finally spoke.

"I guess I am intrigued by their presence. Who are they? And who decided they should be up on the boathouse for fishers and travelers coming in by ferry to see?"

"Those women were the beacon of hope for the men who fished. They stood and kept the town safe until their men came home from sea. At least three of them did."

"Why only three?"

Tokias gazed again toward the sea and then back to me. "Would you like ta' come aboard? Coffee?"

"That'd be great. It's freezing out here."

The fisher reached out to take my arm as I steadied myself on one of the dock's massive timber pylon supports. His watery fingers and firm grip dwarfed my hands as he guided me neatly onto the boat. The vessel had to be known around the tiny town as a rust bucket. Worn and faded paint on the stern looked like the boat must've been named after its present owner. The T O K, and I were barely visible and the A and S were only partially remaining. Its masts, paintless and weathered, were streaked with a color like red autumn leaves and her ropes were charcoal gray and frayed. The black shoulder of the starboard bow had a six foot crease running parallel to the water that had been patched recently. There were three hatches that tanked the fish and a small cabin was just above the one closest to the rear. Tokias stepped into the cabin and returned with two cups and an ancient percolator pot.

"Anything in it?"

"No, black's good, thanks. How old is this boat?"

"Old enough, I reckon. You married?"

I smiled and wondered how the old guy would take the news. "No. I've had a woman in my life for the last twenty years, though."

He didn't flinch or move a muscle. That was either a really good or really bad sign.

"Then you've got more in common with Elizabeth than I thought," he said. Tokias gestured toward the women on the boathouse.

. . . read the rest of the story in Remnants of Shadow and Light