PLANKING THE TANGO
A childhood memory. . .
Working with Harry, a Polish carpenter,I spent my sixteenth summer re-deckingthe teak of my father’s 42-foot cutter.We cut planks so dense they destroyed metal bladesas an acrid odor of smoking steelfilled our nostrils despite the Southerly breezeblowing in off the Sound each afternoon. The wooden tongues—snuggled securelyinto grooves—waited for the black resinto be spread: tar so pervasive that only a monthlybuzz cut could get it out of my hair,and although my father wasn’t always thereas I would go through each sweat-soaked day,it is still the closest I ever felt to him.