Stars were beginning to fade in the Western sky as the first gleams of the new day began to beat back the darkness. A fin broke the surface off the port bow up near the shallows on the edge of the narrow channel. Slow, graceful, like a bride striding towards the altar.
“Jimbo”, the old man said, “like I tol’ yo’ father lahst week, Ya jus’n cain’ get no good conch frittahs Nor’ a Marathon. Dun’ tried last seas’n wen’a we went up ‘hat way in ya ole man’s boat. Dun’ burn up a good tanka gas learn’n ‘hat, too. “
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