Lost Creek Hollow I'm such a romantic,

he obliges her question with a crooked smile: aye, she's beautiful, but her teeth are sharp. how many times had he said the same thing? warnings about weirs and riptides and rogue waves... the occasional shark— some listened, some didn't, and for some fishermen, it would be the last morning they said goodbye to their families.

how many times had he trudged up to the doorstep of an Anderson or Mckay, of a something or other... taking his hat off and watching the wives pale, grip the porch post, and stumble to the floor as if they'd just been punched? 

the ocean had teeth, but it did not use them to mince words.

he gestures to her scarred shoulder. say, what happened there, if you don't mind me askin?