ALBACORA 81 



my breath away. A gale was blowing in from the north- 

 east. The tuna had probably just ridden in from New- 

 foundland, carried along by the gale, I told myself. The 

 party suddenly seemed absurdly glamorous. 



By the time we reached the boat dock, my best dress 

 was soaking wet and the wind was defying us to try 

 the boiling ocean. I was defied; Lou and Clint didn't 

 seem to notice. They helped me onto the boat and we 

 were off for Shrewsbury Rock, with the boat bucking 

 like a bronco and Lou and Clint muttering excitedly. 



"Lou," I shouted, "I've forgotten the words." 



"What words?" he shouted back. We were standing 

 near each other on the rolling deck, but even when we 

 shouted, the wind made our voices barely audible. 



"The words to the song, you dope," I called. "My 

 Helen Morgan song." 



"Oh," Lou shouted. "Urmph." 



Moving carefully in my high heels, I inched my way 

 below decks to search for something both drier and 

 more functional than my floor-length black velvet dress. 

 In the hold I spotted a small pile of dungarees. "Per- 

 fect," I thought. There were three pairs in all and each 

 one belonged to Lou. Even in those distant days my hus- 

 band was no minnow, but I had only one logical course 

 to select. It was either swim in a pair of his pants or 

 sink in my own evening dress. So off came the dress and 

 on went the pants and with that single speedy change 

 of costume my whole life turned around. I did not 



