Hooked. Jane May

ruminate about the grip the Sponge had on him—emotionally, financially and physically.

      As all veteran wooden boat enthusiasts knew, “In order to get to the bad it’s necessary to destroy just about everything good.” This, translated, meant stripping the Sea Sponge down to its shell. The frame completely replanked with hard pine. The teak deck salvaged, refinished and caulked. Every bronze fastener—the two thousand or more pegs that held the entire boat together—pulled and substituted with new ones. Plumbing and electrical updated, including the engine which Woody bought secondhand, of course. He rebuilt the deckhouse—from the sole to the ceiling—from scratch. And now with approximately eight months out from dropping her into the water, Woody was frantically installing cabinetry and framing out his sleeping quarters.

      After dinner, as was his routine, Woody and Sweetie headed for the Sea Sponge. Hoisting his dog on his shoulder, he climbed up the ladder. The focus of tonight’s project was to put the finishing touches on the forward berth, but a half hour in, it was obvious he just wasn’t into it.

      Madalina.

      Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind, reviewing every moment shared with her. The good and the embarrassingly horrendous.

      No sooner had Woody concluded that all things considered it was safer to steer clear of any female entanglements, than a mosquito, thrown off course by the glare of several pot-lights, decided to use his right eyebrow as a landing strip. With his one free hand, Woody attempted to smash the wayward aviator, but missed.

      In a second attempt, he miscalculated the amount of space between his head and the ceiling and knocked himself out cold.

      The mosquito, however, lived to tell the tale.