Rust Bucket

Entry: The creakin' sound she made at anchor, the first puff of coal powder smoke upon takin' 'er leave, the ever-peeling green, red and white paint that was slopped on fresh every other summer, on the first of June...those ashore, we could hear 'em talkin' and laughin' from time to time; they'd call 'er "rust bucket," but we'd just call 'er "home."

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