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by Elaine Rosenberg Miller The sea was green. An hour or so earlier, it had been steel gray. Now, like some animated blanket, the verdant water cover spread towards their eighteen-foot motorboat. She had never been on the sea before, having been born and raised in a large, noisy city. The silence and empty space of the horizon were unsettling. The boat was made of fiberglass. Discarded beer cans rolled on its bottom. The vinyl seats were worn and cracked, the plastic windshield dull … They had borrowed the boat for the day. She held her fishing pole lamely in her hand, reluctant to reel in the line, lest she discover that she had no bait and would have to reach into the bucket and pinion a squirrelly, tomato seed-eyed shrimp. The boat had no radio, no flares and no water. Feelings of restlessness swelled her body. “What am I doing here?” she thought. She would have liked to have stayed back in the apartment and work the crossword puzzle in the out of town newspaper. The local paper published announcements of picnics, bible meetings and the county fair. “I can’t live in a place that has no sidewalks,” she had cried. But he asked her to stay. It was his hometown. She

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