CAPTAIN BELL: Stake in the Timbers

Too many mornings inside walls will dull any navigator's senses. I marched out toward the salt air, hitching a lift along the harbor boardwalk until I reached the outer slip of the pier. Wedged deep into a split pine plank was an abandoned iron tackle hook, crusted with dried brine. It stood at an awkward angle, blocking a clean vantage of the harbor entrance. I stepped up, planted my heels firmly against the weathered wood, and gave the iron shank a solid, measured heave. The hook gave way with a crisp scrape, tilting straight upright. Now it makes a sturdy mooring post for my eye.