Spring Tides
''This is my earliest memory. I am three years old and I sit in the bottom of my great-uncle''s pot boat and take off the bands from the lobsters'' claws. The deepest of blues, they creak over the bilges with robotic limbs towards my father''s bare feet as he rows. Over the scent of the herring bait I can smell the fresh, sweet smell of wrack on the shore. This book has come out of over twenty yea...
''This is my earliest memory. I am three years old and I sit in the bottom of my great-uncle''s pot boat and take off the bands from the lobsters'' claws. The deepest of blues, they creak over the bilges with robotic limbs towards my father''s bare feet as he rows. Over the scent of the herring bait I can smell the fresh, sweet smell of wrack on the shore. This book has come out of over twenty yea...
