Behind the bar
He knew your name, your drink, and when you needed a second one before you did. His bar wasn't just a place to drink. It was where half the town's best stories started, and the other half ended.
Some people pour drinks. George poured good times.
He ran the bar like he ran his life: doors open, glasses full, and always room for one more at the table. When he wasn't behind the counter, you'd find him out on the water (on somebody else's boat, naturally), sun on his face, a cold one in his hand, wondering why anyone would ever want to be anywhere else.
On someone else's boat
George never owned a boat. Why would he, when his friends did? He'd turn up right on time, claim the best spot in the shade and open the cooler someone else had filled. Ask him to chip in for fuel and his phone would suddenly lose signal, right there in the middle of the sea.
At the table
The first to raise a glass, the last to leave, and somehow always in the bathroom when the bill arrived. With George around, a quick drink turned into a long night, and a long night turned into a memory you'd keep forever.
“Fair winds and following seas, George.
Don't worry, this round's on us. It always was.”
Raise a glass for George
He'd want you to. Tap the glass and toast the man.
0 glasses raised
Last call
The lights are down and the stools are up, but somewhere out there the sun is setting over calm water, there's a boat drifting easy (not his, obviously), and George is behind the bar saying “One more. Then we go.”
We miss you, George. Cheers. 🍻