After the emergency broadcast, he got busy, talking the whole time.
“My great-grandfather was a whaler,” he said as he slid a heavy-duty cable over the bollard, cranking the capstan to draw the hull tight against the fenders.
“He wrote about rounding the horn down by the roaring forties.” He tightened down the hatch battens. “Waves as tall as the mainmast, the sea foaming white as a wedding cake.”
He placed the plywood deadlights over the ports to protect the glass. “This little hurricane would have been nothing to him.”
He smiled, but the deep-set eyes looked worried to me.