Sarah sat in the oncologist's office in her favorite blue sundress, holding my hand so hard I could feel her pulse through her fingertips. And the first thing she said after the diagnosis wasn't about treatment or survival rates. She said, "We need to finish the boat, Jack. I want to see her in the water."
We worked on the Sarah Grace every weekend for 14 months. Sarah sanded teak trim when she had the strength. She picked the upholstery fabric. She hand-painted the name on the transom in navy blue letters with gold leaf edges, the same colors as the Coast Guard dress uniform.
She was in a wheelchair by the time we launched her, but she was there. She popped the champagne against the bow herself. She missed twice because her hands were shaking, but on the third try, the bottle cracked clean, and the foam ran down the hull into Taylor's Creek, and Sarah laughed the way she used to laugh before the diagnosis, full and reckless and completely alive. She died 11 weeks later.
The Sarah Grace was docked in slip number one, the closest slip to our house, the one with the clearest view of the channel. I could see the boat from our bedroom window. Sarah could see it from the hospice bed I'd set up in the living room. The last thing she looked at the night she died was the masthead light I'd left on for her.
It glowed through the salt haze like a small white star sitting on the water.
After Sarah died, the boat became two things. First, it became my livelihood. I run a licensed charter fishing operation, Moran's Offshore Charters, serving recreational anglers out of Beaufort. Four trips a week during season, two during winter.
Fully licensed, fully insured, inspected annually by the Coast Guard. My clients are families, retirees, corporate groups, and the occasional bachelor party that thinks deep sea fishing involves more beer than it does. The business nets about $72,000 a year after fuel, maintenance, and insurance. Not enough to get rich, enough to live the life Sarah and I planned.
Second, the Sarah Grace is a registered Coast Guard Auxiliary Facility. That means I volunteer the boat and myself for Coast Guard operations when needed. Search and rescue, safety patrols, regatta escorts, environmental response. The Auxiliary is the civilian arm of the Coast Guard and facility vessels like mine carry official status.