This time I've headed South, sunburned and tequila drenched skin - lanterns blazing in the salty night. My venerable Captain, Mr. Kurtz Boltonoff is a retired stump grinder from the Pacific Northwest. He's at times meditative, fit for nothing but placid staring. But intermittently he's bolts-on and bolts-off again, for whatever reason. He's not a fan of the flesh - not sea flesh anyway.
I don't care. I'm barbing anything that moves beneath this silvery varnished sea.
