In my thirties, I rented an old Alaska fishing boat at a small marina for my new residence. There were a variety of pleasure craft and sailboats. Looking out the stern, I had a beautiful view of the bay, sensational sunrises, and stunning sunsets. Early one morning, the lived-in owner of a majestic ocean cruising sailboat moored beside me introduced himself. He asked how I was enjoying the marina and wondered if I knew the history of the fishing boat. I found little comfort in his enigmatic smile.

He wistfully looked toward the bay and shared that a woman newspaper reporter was the previous renter. He mentioned that my new home had been used for many years as a productive fishing boat in Alaskan waters by successful fishermen catching king salmon, silver salmon, halibut, and various other species.

Then, after a long silence, with an unfathomable smile, my new neighbor described how the boat occasionally quickly sank to the bottom of the marina and suggested the owner was a maritime slum lord. I pondered his comments for the remainder of the day.  

From that day, early each morning, after waking up and holding my breath, I looked up at the small single porthole in the cabin to see if water covered it before breathing a sigh of relief. This was quite an adventure until I relocated to an inland apartment months later. This was one of the many unusual places I’ve lived in. I did miss the calm rolling motion of the water, sitting at the stern, drinking coffee, and enjoying the incredible views of the bay.