Before dawn. The fleet sits quiet in the fog, waiting.
Everything here has a history. Most of it is rust.
Two kinds of American work, sharing the same water.
The William. The fleet. Still here.
Lucky One. The name does a lot of work down here.
The Gulf doesn't stop working. Neither do the people on it.
Go far enough inland and the coast becomes something else entirely.
Somebody built this, somebody played here. The coast is full of small claims like that.
You paint your house like that, you're not planning to leave.
Washed up. Still yellow.
Found on the shore.
They chose this shore to start something.