holding his chipped fishermen do it hook , line and sinker mug , dad stood , feet braced apart , on the front porch - every piece of timber comprising the whole sagging and weather-beaten to all f**k. it was a miracle that anything made of wood could survive here , and yet this place had endured , somehow , for decades - defying wind , rain , tropical storms and the relentless salt water that permeated the whole town with its brackish scent day in and day out .