Sleeping in a Canoe-Catamaran

Since I haven’t spoken to Claire in three years, not since she graduated and started university two years ago, I don’t know if she always acts like this. I’m feeling a bit embarrassed about not knowing my twin sister that well, so instead of answering Kate’s question I ask her why she called me Coast.

“Coast, because you’re a fisherman, and you moved from one coast to the other. So now I’m calling you Coast. Be happy, I could call you worse things.”

We continue looking for Claire, walking along the sides of the yard down towards the water, where I spot her. She’s sleeping in a canoe-catamaran — two aluminum canoes lashed together with old wood paddles and polypropylene rope. It has a tarp sail that’s held up with tent poles, and one of the canoes has a heavy green nylon sheet clamped to the gunwales of the front half so that the sheet forms the hammock bed that Claire is sprawled out in.