We’ve been getting out so much and I’ve been so caught up in it that I forgot to mention that Briggs is here.
Not here in our house, but here on Fog Island.
Yes, he returned to Saggy Neck Sailing Camp, even after everything that happened last year—all the stuff you’ve read about (I hope) in the book about us.
I have to admit I used to lie awake sometimes, my heart pounding, when I think back about the stuff that we went through—Briggs almost drowning, Marty and Jake threatening us, and all the rest of it. I wouldn’t want to go through that again, that’s for sure.
But sometimes I get this feeling that maybe I liked it—all that craziness—more than I should have.
(Don’t worry, Mom: I’m not going out looking for trouble, and besides, no one’s been stealing lobsters since Jake and Marty got put away.)
Anyway, here’s the letter that Briggs sent me in July, when he arrived at camp.
My trepidation upon my return to the scene of last summer’s violence and humiliation (and ultimate vindication) was unfounded: Those who knew of our adventures greeted me as if I were a hero returned from a daring and harrowing voyage. Even Sally, my sailing instructor from last year, if you recall, told me how gratified she was that I had decided to return. Of course, I return in a different capacity—as a junior counselor—a position which commands some respect, at least from the youngest campers, the Swabbies.
Will this euphoria of mine last?
I would most certainly enjoy seeing you, Eddie, should you be so inclined, though I hazard that our various responsibilities may impinge on our free time. I’ve thought a lot about our adventures, and this year I would enjoy going out on the water with you without bloodthirsty pirates dogging our every step, should time permit. Let’s try to talk soon.
Briggs “Finest Kind” Fairfield
P.S. I toyed with the idea of writing you a postcard instead, but you know my propensity to be prolix. Here’s the postcard in any case. You’ll recognize the boats: They’re Beetles, just like the one we sailed to the brink of a most untimely end last summer.
We haven’t had a chance to get together yet. I’d like to take him bassing, and maybe he can make a trip with us to haul some traps if the summer doesn’t slip by before, gulp, school starts up again.