“Anchors rusting in iron rows, their upper cross members close to breaking off. Braces and mounts for masts and their crosstrees. Great coils of rope or chain each thicker than my arm. There was even a suite of offices built into what would have been the fourth storey of the warehouse, facing out toward the street and reached by rickety stairs ascending along the high interior wall. Everything including the building itself looked worn, used, aged. Which made me wonder who would bother to pay to ...store such gear. Iso and Osi had made a nest of boat furniture and tarps near the back of the warehouse. Judging from the tracks in the dust, no one but them had been here in a while. We sat down and one of them—Iso, I think—lit a small stove powered by alcohol. Without any comment, his brother readied a copper pot to boil water, three plain porcelain cups, and a small bowl of loose tea. “This is our custom,” Osi told me. “On receiving a friend in one’s home.” “Home is where your bowl is,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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