Flashes of Panic

We were anchored in Quahog Bay (as my father puts it, we had “dropped the lunch hook,”) near the rope swing at low tide, doing the most sensible thing to do in that situation (i.e. picnic lunch and swimming off the boat,) when the marketers cruised by.

And I do mean, “cruised.” It was a mother and son team, the mother piloting a medium-sized Boston Whaler and the son holding up a sign reading, “Cookies for sale.” They had a good-sized black dog sitting in the bow.

On their southbound pass, we waved them over, and while the dog investigated our boat for sandwich scraps, we bought two “blondies” for a buck apiece, following the “always patronize lemonade stands” dictum.

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