The bulkheads, pilings and docks along the bay seem to reappear as the boats, one by one, head for winter storage. Wrapped in plastic cocoons, they go dormant for the longer part of the year. Gradually you can see who the die-hard fisherman are, for their boats are among the last to retreat to dry ground. Other than those, the rest of the boats that linger on do so out of neglect or pre-occupation with other pursuits.
Anticipation hates to concede to reality.
Then there are the workboats that remain. A little rougher in appearance perhaps, than their summer fair-weather companions, they are the work horses of the bay. A weathered few tend these boats, the entrepreneurs brazen enough to think they can draw their livelihood from the shallow waters of the bay. This is perhaps the best part of their year, the buffer between summer with it s tourists and personal watercraft, and the stark solitude and biting winds of the dead of winter. Not that spring isn t good too, with the gradual greening of the meadow grasses and the switch of the wind to the southerly, but the bay water is warmer in the fall, hanging on to the stored up sunshine of summer now past.