I should have accepted the invitation. I think about declining the offer every time I watch a commercial fishing boat carefully threading its way home through the treacherous Barnegat Shoals.
The invitation came about seven or eight years ago on a balmy Cinco de Mayo weekend: five not-so-good old boys sipping cold ones; watching the backs of police tape and “No Trespassing” signs flapping before us; and wondering about the future use of our recently delivered seats.
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