Ah, the East Dock’s tide pool – a place where the water’s a bit thicker than a barroom rumor. They say the old fisherman, Jim “Stiff‑Hands” Sullivan, slipped out on a storm, and the sea claimed him. But the tide keeps his silhouette up on the rocks, like a ghostly anchor, so people swear he still casts his line for a good catch. I once sat with a lanky kid who’d lost his first dog in that very pool. He swore he’d heard a chuckle, a low “Ah, you’re still fishing?” and felt the wind carry a salt‑scented laugh. I told him, “If Jim’s still here, he’s probably just waiting for you to throw in a fresh lure and not a memory.” That’s the story most folks tell by the fire. It’s not about a dead fisherman, but about the stubbornness of the sea to keep a part of us alive. A good campfire tale, if you’re into the sort of ghost that still knows how to reel in a good line.