She was always there for me.
She had patience during our humble beginnings learning a J-Stroke with Dad in the brown Houston bayous. Those weren’t quick lessons; I was a stubborn learner. She had toughness getting recklessly slammed into the gunnel of a loaded down Penobscot 17.4 for eight-days and just short of one hundred miles. I never heard a peep sitting for hours catching fish off the coast of Carolina as I jammed her off of the unforgiving oyster beds to push myself closer to the action – only to leave her alone on the porch all night after.
I’m a terrible person. She would never make me sleep on the porch.