A passage is planned

We'd been thinking about a trip further south and discussed whether Tom Colt might join the crew. He'd been pottering about the estuary between the two rivers; his red sails making a pretty picture as he tacked this way and that, between buoys and fishing boats. We thought he'd fit in; he had our take on life, or sort of, and he was an experienced chap on many levels. He been seen crewing with a local lad on his lugger as he tended pots and shown himself to be an able hand on the traditional rig. I'd been cautious as to his ability and even his story at first but Colt soon put all doubts to rest as we watched him handle his tiny boat expertly among the yachts and tenders. one evening we caught up with him in a bar.
'Do you fancy the Morbihan?' I inquired eventually. 'Vannes is nice and an extra pair of hands might be useful backing headsails.'
'I hear its a challenge, The Morb', he smiled. 'But I ain't going far this week. I'd say why not?'
'Tides are good,' I added. 'Past the springs, so not too much race through the entrance.'
'And less in the way of eddies and back currents. Even for a boat like The Promise,' he nodded. 'There's places I'd like to see down there. Old places; prehistoric, made of stone by a forgotten people,' he sipped his frothy Blonde and sighed. 'Nice beer.'
For an American, he seemed to have a scholarly interest in early European culture. I asked him, why so interested?
'Oh, I guess that's it, an interest. I did prehistory at UW Seattle. Native American and pre Columbian, then Europe and the Middle East. Love it. Love to handle a spear point someone made four thousand years ago. Touching earth, man.'
'Did you see much in Iraq?' I eyed him over the edge of my glass.
'You don't get to do much archaeology from the gun sights of an Apache. I've seen more stuff destroyed than you'll ever see in a museum. Bastards.'
'Who's that?'
He snorted cynically, 'All of 'em,' He sauntered out to a table on the quay.
I watched him slump into a seat and puff his cheeks. Best not go there then, I reasoned. Let the bugger be. I don't care where he's been or what he's seen; I liked him and thought we'd all get on. 'So how about a run then, Are you on?'
'Hell, yeah,' he half turned, squinting in the evening sun. 'You just say, Cap't. Give me the nod,' He raised his glass and we joined him in another round or three while the sun set the river ablaze in bronze and the swallows entertained us by skimming across the ebb tide to catch tiny flying things, invisible to our eyes and lost in the haze that softly deepened in shades of indigo against the wooded distant shore.