We closed the shop for a day and crossed the bridge together, heading out toward Tennessee Valley. No fittings, no deadlines—just a hike up the trail as a team. It felt good to be out in the open, joking around, watching the waves crash against the cliffs, looking out over the Pacific from way up high. Trust falls were proposed, but looking over the cliffs, it became clear the exercise might prove too literal.
Very little work was discussed, which was probably the point. No performance reviews, no talk of next year’s goals. One of the real privileges of a small business is being able to step back like this—to make room for the kind of connection that keeps the day-to-day work grounded. A handful of people who get along, who enjoy spending time together, can make a visit to the shop feel like something more than a transaction.
We ended the day at the Pelican Inn, an old English pub that was shipped over and rebuilt just outside Stinson. Ales, Guinness, fish and chips, candles burning under a low ceiling. An oft-asked question floated our way about why a group of men under seventy were all wearing sport coats. The answer is always the same: because we like to.
Rugged tweeds, soft cashmere, heavier flannel. A fine time to make a winter sport coat.
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