“I’m Hank”, I told her, “Hank McElliott”, expecting similar identification from her, and hoping for some kind of small talk that would break...up the iceberg that my ship was steaming toward. She smiled a little wider, and I saw that she had freckles that very much suggested youthfulness and vigor, and that were a lovely companion for her face and for her long, thick medium-blonde hair, with those wide, bright, banded highlights that young women were wearing. She was five-foot-one, smaller than. This all happened almost seventeen years ago, when I was only 23. I hope you read about it. The women, including me, were topless, although unlike the others, I had on a crocheted white cover-up, a kind of netting that was more holes than fabric. We all had on bikini bottoms, except for Leslie, who was constantly naked except when eating. The guys wore t-shirts and bathing suits, probably for fear of spilling coffee on their private parts. “Let’s go outside,” Gina said to me, “I think it’s. More

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