Hey there. I know it's not safe or smart to send you this, and I definitely don't expect for you to send me one back.

In fact, let me go ahead and say right now, do not send me a message back. That would just be stupid.

But I miss you, you know? And I can't always send you cryptic messages when I'm filling in for the traffic report,

hoping you'll not only hear them but understand them.

Also stupid.

But, speaking of stupid, I mentioned you on the air a few weeks ago, and I've wondered ever since if you heard it.

Not by your real name, obviously, but I was talking about how I used to tell you stories you hated.

Like that one about the faithful girl and the skeptic?

And I've been thinking, which one do you think I am?

The faithful or the skeptic?

Oh, and you can go ahead and wipe that smug look off your face because I'm not

asking who wouldn't push who into the ocean to meet her doom. We both know the answer to that.

I can practically hear your cackle echoing in this little room. Anyway, while I'm talking about

stories, there's one I never told anyone, least of all you.

And while I've got you here listening, I think I'm ready to tell it.

Remember that breakwater off the eastern shore where we spent a few summers?

Where there were those cabins and that campsite my dads would take us to?

I'm sure you do.

The beach faced the Chesapeake Bay, and they had those half-sunkin old concrete ships way off the beach to protect the shore during storms.

They built that fleet to transport goods and whatnot during World War II.

Concrete is cheaper than steel, I guess, and it's just as tough, maybe even more adaptable. I've always thought it was so romantic that these huge, broken-down ships that no one really knew about got a second chance at finding their purpose in this world.

That sunken graveyard helped keep others alive. Well, you know

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