Ian had never been inside the Olde Salt before. As they strode in, Bo still in his black cloak along with his swashbuckling motorcycle boots, Ian expected all eyes to turn their way. But one glance around the place and he realized he’d gotten it all wrong. Bo didn’t stand out here, because the Olde Salt seemed to be the mothership of all the offbeat eccentricity of Lost Harbor.
The beards alone were extraordinary. Trimmed, overgrown, everything in between. He noticed little braids in one fisherman’s bushy growth. Another fisherman had waxed his beard into points. Alongside the fishermen was a scattering of the younger generation, more Bo’s age, kids with ear gauges and reggae hats and pierced eyebrows. Ian wasn’t sure who had more tattoos, the fishermen or the hipsters.
But maybe there w
