of trees and interesting semitropical foliage providing a soothing contrast to the sand and rocks and stock plantings that predominated on many of the oceanside properties on the other side of Route 12; though a lot of those were also impressive in their way.
He passed the Sands of Time campground, cheery-looking and well-kempt as always, and the Baskins Gallery, probably his favorite place to impulse-shop on the infrequent occasions he indulged in that quintessential American pastime. He briefly considered stopping there today, but decided against it. They'd undoubtedly have some new piece of nautical bric-a-brac or artwork that he'd have to find a place for in the house, and he should save the saddlebag space for the food he needed to buy. He should also watch his time, he supposed.
The houses in this part of town varied in size and age, and m ost were not new - including his own, which had begun its life as essentially a four-room bungalow on stilts. The living room and dining area in the front, and a galley kitchen in the back behind the dining area, were now open. One of the two adjacent back bedrooms included a full bath, and there was a half-bath with a washer-dryer stack along the inside wall of the kitchen. The flooring was rustic wood plank throughout.
Wooden riser steps led up from the front yard to a covered deck that ran the length of the front of the house and continued down both sides, where it was screened-in; and a set of open wooden steps led down to the back yard from the kitchen door at the end of that side deck. The tan-stained decks and deep brown cedar shake siding were in fair shape all around.
There was no shed, but he had a sizeable though low-ceilinged enclosed storage area under the house that served the same purpose. Since it was an older property that predated the recent building boom, he had a relatively large lot irregularly bounded by lush wild scrub on both sides, which provided some privacy; and he had some grass, which he kept neatly mowed. There was no garage, but he could park a car on the gravel driveway under the kitchen-side deck; also no pool, but he didn't need one since his back yard abutted the sound and he had a small boat dock he could swim from.
With its simple design and about a thousand square feet of living space on its single floor, it was nowhere near as impressive as the newer places around town - but still, it had cost him about half of the savings he'd managed to accumulate over the years, which included the proceeds from the sale of the last house he'd owned. A similar place on a lake where he'd lived back North would have cost him half as much or less - but a similarly aged oceanfront bungalow, if any still existed here, would cost twice as much or more, and then he wouldn't be able to keep a boat. In any event, he was on the water and he felt it was worth it. It wasn't fancy and it wasn't huge, but it was all he needed - and it was his , damn it.
He turned onto Harbor Road and proceeded east toward Route 12. As he passed the firehouse , he decided to take a little time out after all and stop at the dive shop before hitting the market. He didn't enjoy biking along the highway as a rule, but the shop wasn't too far up the road and it wasn't a freeway, just a two-laner; but it was that time of year and there would definitely be traffic.
The Sea Dog Scuba Center sported a colorful sign on its roof, complete with the traditional American red and white diver-down flag and a pirate dog inspired by an unfortunately deceased pet, but that was its only notable feature. Otherwise it was a nondescript unpainted wooden building that was completely incongruous with its more modern strip mall neighbor. It did however house something special that made it another of Ketch's favorite places.
She was no Miss America, nor that young if truth be told; but she was attractive and perky and in good shape, and though Ketch had figured he was pretty much done with women now, something
He passed the Sands of Time campground, cheery-looking and well-kempt as always, and the Baskins Gallery, probably his favorite place to impulse-shop on the infrequent occasions he indulged in that quintessential American pastime. He briefly considered stopping there today, but decided against it. They'd undoubtedly have some new piece of nautical bric-a-brac or artwork that he'd have to find a place for in the house, and he should save the saddlebag space for the food he needed to buy. He should also watch his time, he supposed.
The houses in this part of town varied in size and age, and m ost were not new - including his own, which had begun its life as essentially a four-room bungalow on stilts. The living room and dining area in the front, and a galley kitchen in the back behind the dining area, were now open. One of the two adjacent back bedrooms included a full bath, and there was a half-bath with a washer-dryer stack along the inside wall of the kitchen. The flooring was rustic wood plank throughout.
Wooden riser steps led up from the front yard to a covered deck that ran the length of the front of the house and continued down both sides, where it was screened-in; and a set of open wooden steps led down to the back yard from the kitchen door at the end of that side deck. The tan-stained decks and deep brown cedar shake siding were in fair shape all around.
There was no shed, but he had a sizeable though low-ceilinged enclosed storage area under the house that served the same purpose. Since it was an older property that predated the recent building boom, he had a relatively large lot irregularly bounded by lush wild scrub on both sides, which provided some privacy; and he had some grass, which he kept neatly mowed. There was no garage, but he could park a car on the gravel driveway under the kitchen-side deck; also no pool, but he didn't need one since his back yard abutted the sound and he had a small boat dock he could swim from.
With its simple design and about a thousand square feet of living space on its single floor, it was nowhere near as impressive as the newer places around town - but still, it had cost him about half of the savings he'd managed to accumulate over the years, which included the proceeds from the sale of the last house he'd owned. A similar place on a lake where he'd lived back North would have cost him half as much or less - but a similarly aged oceanfront bungalow, if any still existed here, would cost twice as much or more, and then he wouldn't be able to keep a boat. In any event, he was on the water and he felt it was worth it. It wasn't fancy and it wasn't huge, but it was all he needed - and it was his , damn it.
He turned onto Harbor Road and proceeded east toward Route 12. As he passed the firehouse , he decided to take a little time out after all and stop at the dive shop before hitting the market. He didn't enjoy biking along the highway as a rule, but the shop wasn't too far up the road and it wasn't a freeway, just a two-laner; but it was that time of year and there would definitely be traffic.
The Sea Dog Scuba Center sported a colorful sign on its roof, complete with the traditional American red and white diver-down flag and a pirate dog inspired by an unfortunately deceased pet, but that was its only notable feature. Otherwise it was a nondescript unpainted wooden building that was completely incongruous with its more modern strip mall neighbor. It did however house something special that made it another of Ketch's favorite places.
She was no Miss America, nor that young if truth be told; but she was attractive and perky and in good shape, and though Ketch had figured he was pretty much done with women now, something
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