Moving.
As she began to sag in the stern, I found myself near tears, wanting a police boat to roar up and announce a last-minute plan to pump her out and save her. I’ve always automatically anthropomorphized mechanical things. Slowing blinkers revealing a dying battery make me sad. At the end of a long motorcycle trip, I pat the tank, and mean it. And watching the sinking of a great big once-beautiful old girl called the S.S. United States … well, yeah.
(All of which would have been slightly more profound had the goofballs at the Pensacola News Journal not dubiously advertised the imminent transformation of the ship into a “coral reef.”)
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