By my dearest, author friend.
It nearly took an hour to arrive at the Isle of Key. Johnny was an expert sailor. He was practically raised on a boat. His father and uncle raced boats in college. In true blue-blood fashion, Johnny and his cousins were expected to follow in their winning footsteps. However, most of the ribbons and medals he had won were on the walls of my bedroom, not his. Despite his fathers protest, he gave up competing after his cousin’s near fatal accident last year.
Johnny’s boating skills may have been only to please his father, but today I was thankful for them. The shoals off the coast of the Isle were deadly. That is the reason the lighthouses were built in the first place. He expertly maneuvered his boat through the dangerous shallows as if it were a canoe, instead of a yacht.
We pulled up to a small pathetic-looking…
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