The pen I kept for 17 years

Found it in my jacket pocket yesterday—same cheap plastic pen from a school supply drive, the kind that leaks if you tilt it too much. I’ve used it on every ferry logbook since I started as mate. The ink’s faded to ghost-blue, but it still writes. Kids today don’t hold pens like that—like they’re afraid of breaking something. I used to watch them fumble, fingers tight, wrist stiff. Now I just hand them one and say: ‘Try not to stab yourself.’