The pocket tee is utility stripped down to form. Canvas in the Navy Yard. Denim before the rivets. Cotton heavy enough to carry tide charts and a pen that leaks, soft enough to forget it's there. A shirt for the docks at Bahrs Landing before sunrise, or the sand below the Popamore when the last ferry crosses at dusk.

The "Above the Hook" mark sits quiet over the pocket, a reminder of where the bluff meets the bay. On the sleeve, the house pennant. Both are printed, not embroidered, because permanence here is earned in saltwater and sun, not thread count.

True Navy fades like the hulls along the Navesink. Grey holds the color of October fog rolling through the Narrows. Butter is the light at 6 a.m. when the lighthouse beam cuts the haze and the clammers are already out.

This isn't technical. It's not heritage cosplay. It's the shirt you pull on when the rest of the morning is still uncertain — coffee first, then the rest. The kind of thing that works because it doesn't ask for much. You either know the place or you don't.