A Day Out With Linda — and a Quiet Hello to Jim

Today felt like one of those rare Port Townsend days that manages to be both lighthearted and quietly profound. We took our dear friend Linda out for lunch to Port Ludlow at the Fireside Restaurant in the Port Ludlow Inn — sunshine on the water, easy conversation. Frances Mae carried us across the bay like she knew she had good company aboard.

The bay was in a generous mood, all soft light and tidy ripples, as if it had been brushed into place just for us. Lunch was lively — laughter, the familiar cadence of Linda’s bright laugh carrying across the table.

And then, on the way back, we made our quiet turn.

Paul steered us toward the waypoint he keeps marked on the Garmin — the place where we returned Jim to the water two years ago this April. It’s a simple dot on a screen, but out there it becomes something else entirely: a small, sacred geography of memory.

The boat slowed. The breeze softened. And the three of us settled into that shared stillness that doesn’t need narration. We didn’t make a ceremony of it — Jim would have rolled his eyes at anything too solemn — but we gave him what he always loved: a beautiful day, people who adored him, and a moment of honest presence.

We said hello. We miss you. We let the water say the rest. Two years gone, and still his absence has its weight — but so does his memory. Today, the memory won. It felt like he was right there with us, leaning in with that dry humor of his, pleased that Linda was out on the water again, pleased that the day was unfolding exactly the way he would have liked.

Afterward, we carried on home — sunlight, the easy rhythm of friendship. Because that’s how you honor someone like Jim – you keep living the kind of days that he would have loved.

And today, we did exactly that.