PurgatoryCove

Drink what you brung, not ours

Well, it’s been a slow week here in Purgatory Cove. We did have a visitor earlier in the week. Seems like one of them fancy boating magazines up north sent this reporter down to do a story on the cove. She looked a little frazzled when she got here, claimed nobody in these parts could give her the right directions and she’d been on the road for a whole day tryin’ to find us.

That made Sam kinda happy as the only people he wants at the cove were the ones who already knew how to get here. Said it kept out all manner of undesirables, like OSHA and the EPA, whoever they are.

Anyhow, this reporter gal starts asking questions about the cove and how Purgatory Cove Fish Dock & Marina came to be. Well Sam starts spoutin’ off about the Indians who originally populated the cove, while Wade started talkin about the colonial settlers. Lefty was busy relating the activities the coves inhabitants took part in during the “late unpleasantness” as the folks around here call the Civil War. Don’t know why their so feisty about it, they sold fish, crabs and clams to both sides.

The reporter gal is busy scribbling away, trying to make sense of the three different conversations being directed at her. Her eyes started glazing over as all three started in on the convoluted genealogy of the cove inhabitants so Lefty offered her a longneck. For some reason that didn’t seem to help. The more empty longnecks, the slower she wrote.

The end came as she slowly slid down onto the dock beside the bait shack. Wade and Lefty were a mite perplexed as to what to do with her. Neither had any room in their single narrow for an overnight guest and Sam’s grandmother didn’t tolerate visitors well at all. Finally, Wade pulled an old sail out of the boat shed and Lefty took one of the seat cushions out a the pickup. They covered her up with the sail and put the cushion under her head. The weather was warm enough that leavin her out on the dock wouldn’t be a problem. Besides the smell of Willy’s crab bait in the bait shed would keep most folks well away.

Next morning the old sail was neatly folded with the cushion sitting on top. The reporter and her Jeep were no where to be found. We thought that she might stay around long enough for a cup of Sam’s coffee but I guess good sense prevailed. Never did see no story, though.

Other than that, it’s been a slow week here in Purgatory Cove.

Channel (Mis)markers

Well, it’s been a slow week here in Purgatory Cove.  There was some activity earlier in the week. We got a case of longnecks courtesy of those tow boat fellas. Couldn’t figure out why at first, as they kinda refuse to come into the cove anymore. We sat out by the bait shed trying to figure out why the gift, while samplin’ of course.

Home of the famous “Thirty” guarantee (thirty days or thirty minutes, whichever comes first)

Well, it’s been a slow week here in Purgatory Cove. Slow but not quiet. We was takin a break out by the bait shed when we thought we heard thunder in the distance. Trouble was, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And it kept getting louder and louder. Well pretty soon one of them go-fast boats rumbles up to the fuel dock. You know the kind, the ones with thirty yards of foredeck and a cockpit big enough for two, followed by a stern full of enough engines to drag the back end down.