The Wild West

Two days ago when I was in the town of Goldbanks (population one hundred, including the spittoons) I visited the local watering hole hoping for a shot of my favourite Jack when the drunken stranger sitting on a barstool and cradling his beer like it was a newborn decided he’d try muscle in on the new guy, show him who’s top dog in this town, if you catch my drift. The barkeep was a burly man, stronger no doubt than the buffalo that roamed the area and twice as hairy, but even he seemed too timid to chuck the troublemaker out, so I knew I was in a bit of a difficult situation.

The drunk identified himself as Tex (they usually do, it’s a popular name out here in the desert) and said he’d never seen me before. Course he hadn’t, I told him, I just got here. He then told me he didn’t like my attitude, and that he was in the right mind to teach me a lesson. I warned him, of course I warned him. I told him he was disturbing the wrong passenger, but he’d have none of it. Outside, he told me, we’d settle this outside because he didn’t want to ruin his favourite bar and I agreed, I didn’t want to give a bad first impression after all. Besides, the barkeep seemed to be a good man, I’d hate to ruin his day.

So outside the stranger went, expecting that I’d be following him and we’d fight it to the death like gentlemen of old. Imagine his surprise when he turned and all he saw was dust, and the swinging saloon doors. I hadn’t finished my whiskey yet, didn’t want to waste my money. The man cursed and shouted but didn’t come back inside; instead he threatened and warned that I’d have to come out sometime and that he’d wait for me until I did. I’d embarrassed him, see, and if he came back in to beat the living daylights out of me he’d be going back on his word (not that his, or for that matter anyone’s, word meant much) and it would ruin what reputation he had. So he planted his sorry ass outside the door of the bar and I enjoyed my whiskey. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that the sun had just started setting and long shadows were spilling all over the chairs and tables. Patrons were giving me a funny look as they slowly trickled out of the bar, but I ignored them and tried to clarify my options.

The barkeep cleared his throat and gestured to the clocktower. It was getting late. I forked out some money, then came up with an idea. I gave him a very generous tip and asked if there was a back exit. His eyes widened and he gulped in fear, but he nodded and tilted his head towards the rear of the bar. I thanked him and sure enough there was a door that swung open to the side of the saloon, an alleyway nestled between it and the bank next door. I walked to the front corner, peeking my head around the building to see if the stranger was there. He seemed to be about to fall asleep, but there he was, leaning on the wall with his back to me. I looked for a moment and found a metal crowbar on top of a dusty anvil behind the stranger, so careful to not make any noise, I crept up toward the anvil and picked up the crowbar. Then, losing all pretence of silence, I ran at the stranger, feet crunching loudly on the dirt. The stranger turned, confusion quickly melting away into surprise, then to fear as I brought the crowbar down with a grunt. The crowbar connected and an unpleasant cracking sound echoed through the town, and the stranger crumpled like a sack of potatoes. I dropped the crowbar and spat on the still body of the stranger.

“I told you you were messing with the wrong passenger, stranger.”

I left town immediately afterwards.

Tides Change

The best time do go fishing is when the tide comes in and brings with it the snapper from Port Phillip Bay. Usually that’s about midday and midnight, but that can vary throughout the year. Today the tide would come in at 10:30 in the morning and at night, and Greg prepared his tacklebox, cooler and fishing rod to fish the night away. He left home at 10, giving himself 30 minutes to cross Hitchcock Avenue, walk down Ozone street past the old run-down beach home that had lost its occupants but retained its spirit, round the bend and continue down the now-deserted street, with a silent playground that nudged the shore of the Barwon river on his left and a row of short brick homes to his right. Lights played out occasionally from the windows of these homes, but they were rare and Greg was left more often than not alone and bathed in nothing but the moonlight on the days the moon was out, and darkness when it was absent.

It never took him more than 15 minutes to arrive at his favourite fishing spot, on the footpath of the Barwon Heads bridge, but so used to arriving early and casting off was he that to leave later than 30 minutes before the tide change was inconceivable. He spent the remaining time checking and double-checking his bait, lure and tackle, making sure everything was secure. A few nights ago he’d lost his hook and tackle to a monster of a fish; chopped it clean off as if it was a strand of spaghetti. Such fish were rare, even out in the bay so he’d come prepared this time, with a thick fishing line and double-knotted fastenings. He was wary of tying them too tightly; the knots are always the weakest part of the line, and the more you knot it the weaker the string can get.

He wasn’t the only one out on the bridge tonight. The weather was incredibly kind, with only a light breeze coming from the south to signal they were outside at all, so it had lured out a large amount of people, amateur and professional fishermen alike. Greg liked to think of himself as a professional, but he didn’t make a living off fishing. In fact, he didn’t make a living off anything anymore, not since he retired six years ago. His wife would always chide him for his obsession with fishing; she’d claim he loved the hobby more than he loved her. That wasn’t true, of course, but it had bothered Greg slightly that she would even suggest that. Regardless of how long he’d spend outside at night though, when he returned he would always find a bowl of soup and a warm bed to greet him.

Greg smiled sadly. This year had been harder than all the others, but the daily routine of heading out at night to catch fish that would no doubt just clutter up his freezer had helped cope with a lot of things. With change, mostly.

It was almost 10:30. He cast his line in and winked at no one anyone could see.

“This one’s for you, love.”

Dear Diary

“Dear diary.”

The words stared up at Bryan from the very first page of his journal. His pen quivered, its point almost touching the page as he tried to think of something relevant to write. His Fiction lecturer suggested keeping a journal as a way to develop his writing talent, and to also have a wealth of ideas to draw upon when he felt like writing a story. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so Bryan had gone out and bought a journal right after class, ready to write about today’s riveting events the moment he got home.

Now he was home, and today’s events were hardly riveting. He scratched his head and flakes of dandruff fell to the diary. He stared at the flakes for a second, and then he wrote “Remember to buy Head & Shoulders”. Then he sighed and scribbled the sentence out. This wasn’t going well at all. He dropped the pen and leaned back, rubbing his eyes as he did so. He then mentally shook his head, narrowed his eyes, picked up the pen and attacked the journal with renewed enthusiasm. From behind him, he heard the front door unlocking, and his father ran– or perhaps stumbled – in, drenched in sweat and looking dishevelled and frightened.

“Bryan! Oh God Bryan, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way here.”

“Sorry dad, can it wait? I’m trying to write.”

Bryan’s dad, a bespectacled old man with a balding head and a perpetually worried look glanced at Bryan, eyes wide. “You know I respect your privacy and need for silence when you’re trying to write, but this is very important!”

Bryan scowled, stood up and slammed his door shut. He’d cop an earful later, but this was for his future, and copping it would be worth it.

Then the front door blew in, and an 800-pound Grizzly Bear barged in, teeth bared in a horrifying snarl. Bryan’s dad shrieked and ran to the back of the house and the Grizzly more or less followed, stopping every now and then to sniff out a new, strange smell. Bryan was still wracking his brain, trying to think of something interesting to write as his father battled the Brown Bear with a fire extinguisher he’d retrieved from the garage. He pointed the nozzle at the bear and pulled the trigger, unleashing a torrent of white foam the blinded and disorientated the bear, causing it to stumble and crash through chairs, tables and couches. The bear roared and Bryan banged on his door.

“Look I’m sorry for slamming the door on you, but can you please turn the TV down! This is for my future!”

The bear roared again in response as his vision cleared and barrelled towards Bryan’s father, who was still holding the fire extinguisher. Bryan’s father screamed and pulled the trigger, releasing one last burst of white foam before it expired, and he threw the extinguisher at the bear. The bear stumbled from the foam, but it quickly recovered and battered away the extinguisher like it was a fly. Bryan’s father turned and ran down the stairs to the garage again, and the bear followed.

Bryan sighed. Finally, some peace. His unused pen still hovered precariously over the blank page. What happened today? What can I write about? God is my life really that boring?

From the depths of the house emerged another ungodly roar, this one as much full of rage as it was of pain and anguish, and the bear ran up the stairs towards the front door. Bryan’s dad laughed in wicked glee as he chased it, holding a butane blow torch that spurted a lethal blue-red flame. The smell of burnt fur and charred flesh wafted from the depths of the garage, and the bear’s howls of pain soon faded as it fled out into the neighbourhood, chased by a middle-aged man with glasses and a look of death on his face.

Inside the house, Bryan scowled. What the hell is he doing? I had no idea dad could be so vindictive!

Then atop Bryan’s head, a virtual light bulb blinked on. He had it! He put his pen to paper and began writing furiously. It went something like this:

“Dear diary. Today I discovered how petty my dad could be…”

The Kill Jar

“And that over there is the kill jar.”

Ben turned his gaze to where Daniel, his senior orientation officer was pointing. It was sat atop a worn coffee table, in the middle of a pile of strewn magazines and coffee mug rings. The jar was about half full with coins – all of them quarters.

“Why is it called the kill jar?” Ben asked.

“Well every time you perform a successful hit, you put a quarter in the kill jar, and at the end of the year whatever’s in the jar goes to our Christmas party.”

Ben nodded. “So, kind of like a swear jar? But instead of swears, kills?”

“You got it. But we don’t try to discourage people from killing the way swear jars do with swearing. Think of it as building a better party.” Daniel smiled, and Ben faked a smile back.

“So what about advancement opportunities? What are my chances at scoring a better job here?”

Daniel’s smiled faltered and he suddenly looked nervous. “Eh, well everyone has an opportunity to advance, but promotions are strictly… merit-based.”

Ben nodded. “So basically work hard and you’ll get noticed? How long does it typically take?”

“Well that’s entirely dependent on how…enthusiastic you are. You see when you are promoted, you take someone’s place, right? So that person you want to replace, he has to… disappear.”

It suddenly dawned on him. “So what you’re trying to say is, in order for someone to be promoted, you have to whack the guy whose job you want?”

Daniel grimaced. “Yeah, you could say that.” Ben nodded again.

“So… how many times have you been promoted?” He asked as they made their way to Ben’s cubicle.

“Twice so far, but can you keep a secret? I’m planning a third one sometime this week.”

“Interesting.” Ben said and sat down in my seat. Daniel said goodbye and left him alone in front of the blinking computer screen that outlined his first mission. He sighed and closed his eyes, Daniel’s words ringing in his head. The person that you want to replace has to disappear…

Ben turned to look at Daniel’s office. It was small and nestled in an out of the way corner of the floor. The walls were faded and the wallpaper slightly frayed, but hell, it was an office. An office that Ben would thoroughly appreciate.

Ben shook his head and looked back at the screen. There were contracts from jilted lovers or desperate crims facing a long prison sentence. In other words, boring, mundane contracts. He sighed and looked at Daniel’s office again.

“Ah, fuck it.” He got up and pocketed his pair of scissors, before making his way to Daniel’s office. He knocked on the door and in a few moments Daniel opened the door and let him in. There were voices, then silence, and Ben exited the room, straightening his tie. As he walked back to his cubicle, he passed the coffee table with the kill jar.

He paused for a moment, looking at the jar filled with money. Then he smiled, took a quarter out of his pocket, and threw it in.

Homeless

You have the cold, wet nights where there’s nothing but a flimsy piece of paper to shield you from the dampness, or the blistering hot days where you’re too afraid to take off some of your clothes for fear of losing them. There are the stares you get from people who pretend like they’re not bothered by the fact that a broken husk of a man is splayed out helplessly on the street, or the remarks they make when you think you’re not listening, or even when they think you are. What a bum, they’d say. He should get a job, they’d comment. They’d lament about the state of the human condition, of society and pretend that it actually affects them.

But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is when people genuinely don’t care. The suits that walk past on their phones, not even giving you the briefest of glances. They wouldn’t even notice if that homeless man who had been living on the corner of King and Lonsdale for the past five years just vanished one day. Gone, as if he’d just fallen through the cracks. It happens more often than you think.

But for all this, for all the horrible circumstances the destitute are put through, there are glimmers of hope. There are things to admire, and there are things to be grateful for. The first, which you might think strange considering what I just told you one paragraph ago, is the people. For every ten rotten eggs you might encounter, there’s a kind soul who is more than happy to take some time from their busy day to help you, buy you a meal and just talk. You don’t get to talk much when you’re homeless, and even when you do any dialogue is usually preceded with plenty of ‘pleases’. So the simple act of talking, something that so many take for granted, is a rare occasion and a true gift for many of the drifters and the beggars who call the streets of your city home.

There’s also a sense of freedom that can never be emulated unless you yourself are homeless. No amount of money can buy what a homeless person has: nothing. And with no possessions comes no responsibility, (funnily enough) no debt, no one to look out for except yourself. This freedom can be at once the subject of envy and pity by many, but no-one can deny the allure of it. Of course, there’s still stress. There’s always stress, regardless of who you are, because stress is a part of life. You worry about whether you can find shelter for the night. You worry about the weather, about being arrested simply for staying too long in one place, or where you can get your next meal.

For some of us, being homeless is a transient thing, as we pass through our different stages of life and progress to bigger and greater things. For many, though, we are destined to remain as we are, living off the land and human generosity as best we can, until we finally succumb to a simple, easily treatable cold during a harsh winter, or simply waste away under the gaze of an uncaring populace.

It’s a sobering thought, isn’t it?

Cairo Speakeasy

The city was Cairo, with her mud brick buildings that hugged the ground like they were afraid they’d fly away. I was assigned there by the University; or should I say by some impotent balding professor who didn’t like the way I was eyeing his daughter. Ah well, I should be grateful. If he’d have known the two of us were doing the nookie before I was shipped off… well, I’d probably be looking for dinosaur bones in Antarctica.

Look the name’s Ben, Benny Maine. Been into Archaeology since I was a babe. I guess you could say I was born into it; my mother was a researcher at the same university I was kicked out of, and my father an archaeologist. They met during class and fell in love, as lovebirds do, and their dreams of a peaceful and trouble-free existence were shattered when they had me, old Benjamin Leonardo Maine. See I was a handful to say the least; if there was a tree anywhere within five blocks of home, I’d climb it. No wall or fence could keep me from trouble; I was a rascal and my parents aged prematurely just trying to keep me safe. I remember one time my poor Aunt Gracie was babysitting me while my parents went out to watch a moving picture. She was a dear old lady who thought the world of me, and one hot summer day she’d asked me as I was playing out in the yard if I wanted some lemonade. Now, Aunt Gracie may not have been a popular old bird, but she sure knew how to make good, honest lemonade. So of course I said yes, but being the devilish troublemaker I was, I attached the hose to the outside tap and hid behind the corner of our old mansion. As Aunt Gracie came out through the back door looking for me, I jumped out, turned the nozzle on her and drenched her head to toe in water.

Of course she was unimpressed, and I spent most of my remaining summer locked up in my room as punishment.

Well it seems I’m rambling. I get that from my dad. But you gotta give me some credit. It’s hard to concentrate under this oppressive sun. The sun turns your clothing into stifling blankets and your head underneath that hat into your very own mobile sauna. But don’t even think about taking that hat off, or wearing lighter clothing, because the sun will cook you like a sausage on a barbeque. But it’s not all bad. The nights here are magical. It’s always cool, and the sky is always clear. The stars twinkle with a nonchalance I wish I could emulate, and there’s this breeze that seems to come from everywhere that just blows your discomfort away.

And it was at night when I was sat on a deck chair, laid out flat on my back admiring the view. Behind me were a bar and a live band that belted out the sounds of Billie Holiday and Bert Williams, reminding me of the local speakeasy I used to frequent back in Chicago. Around me were people of like mind, either swaying to the tune or speaking amongst themselves. Not too many to be crowded, but not too little to be lonely, either. I raised my hand, holding an empty martini glass.

“Another drink for the American!”

I smiled and gestured with my hand to show my appreciation. Then I sighed and continued to gaze at the stars. You know, this may not have been such a bad transferral after all.

Helluva way to spend the grant money, that’s for sure.

The Boxing Ring

In front of a small, makeshift boxing ring was a sign held up by string that read in big bold letters “100 silver pieces to the man who can defeat the Panther! Only 5 silver!” and in smaller letters underneath those bigger ones “No refunds”. Behind the sign and beside the ring stood two men, one smaller than the other by a great deal. The smaller was a young man who went by the name of Oren, with wiry arms and gaunt features. His hair was a raven black and pulled back into a knot. He wore a loose body-length tunic with a piece of rope tied around his waist. He had a scowl on his face as he glared at the larger man.

The large man, who called himself Baek, stood nearly two heads taller than the petulant Oren, with copper brown hair and a thick moustache that blended seamlessly with his sideburns. His eyes were crinkled with crow’s feet, a sign of a life not taken too seriously, and he wore what looked like a blacksmith’s apron. It was thick, heavy and made of cured leather. His arms, quite on the contrary to Oren’s weedy-looking limbs were wide and muscled, covered in coarse hair. He wore a look opposite to his companion’s; a small but genuine smile that wrinkled his wrinkles and drew attention to his eyes.

“I don’t see why it had to be ‘The Panther’” Oren asked, arms crossed in juvenile annoyance.

“Why not?” Baek replied, still smiling.

“Because I look nothing like a damn panther, that’s why!” Oren shouted, drawing glances from the passing crowd. Baek laughed and raised his arms, trying to placate him.

“Now now Oren, don’t scare the customers away. Leave that for when they’re in the ring.”

Oren grunted and turned away, coming face to chest with another man. He reeled back and looked up, squinting his eyes as the sun struck them. “Can I help you?”

“I want to fight the Panther.” The man growled, gazing down at both Oren and even Baek, who nearly reached the newcomer’s nose with his forehead. Baek glanced at Oren, who nodded and waved his hand. “Fine, fine. Where’s your silver?”

The giant deposited five silver coins onto Oren’s outstretched palm, who passed them on to Baek before entering the ring. The giant followed, and the ring threatened to break under the weight. It creaked, even leaned, but thankfully the shoddy foundations held.

“All right gentlemen, no eyes, no balls and no teeth, and no death.” He eyed Oren, who pretended he wasn’t paying attention. “When one competitor taps out or touches the ring boundary, or when I see anyone in grave danger, the fight’s over. Understood?” The giant nodded, and so did Oren – barely.  

Then Baek rang the bell, and the fight was on. The giant lunged with a vicious right hook but Oren ducked and spun, sending an elbow behind him and into the man’s exposed chest. The giant exhaled sharply and Oren bent the man’s arm over his shoulder, using what was left of his momentum to tip him over and send him sprawling head over heels out of the ring and onto the dirt. The giant groaned and lifted himself to his feet, but it was too late. The battle was over, and Oren had won.

The Abandoned Village

The village had been abandoned for some time, and all that lingered was a dead silence. I walked carefully, acutely aware of the stories that have been told of hallowed or haunted ground. The dead were restless here, I could feel it on a level that reverberated through my bones.

It wouldn’t have been a large village back when it was still full of life, probably home to no more than 300 people. Ahead of me stood what remained of the village hall and chapel, a single towering building whose stones did well to weather the elements. It was in this building I would spend the night, as the sacred walls of the chapel would do well to shield me from any malevolent spirits and poltergeists. I couldn’t tell if the door was locked or just sealed into place by the crooked timber frame. Nonetheless I managed to pry it loose and it creaked open with an almost obscenely loud noise, making me cringe.

The hall was dark; the last few wisps of pre-dusk light filtering in through the stained glass windows doing little to throw any kind of illumination onto the darkened corners. I was in the meeting hall, and all along in front of me was a plush carpet, still noticeably red and lined with modest gold trimmings. There were doors on either side of the hall, though most looked immovable and a few had simply fallen off their hinges. Down at the far end of the hall was a raised platform, no doubt where the village elder would address the townsfolk during a time of crisis. On the platform but toppled to its side was a lectern and a pair of wrought-iron candelabras. What little sound there had been outside from the voices of the forest that slowly crept forward to reclaim this village ceased, replaced only by a stillness so severe I caught myself holding my breath more than once. I inhaled deeply after one such time and the smell of dust and mildew invaded my nostrils, and I sneezed once, twice, three times. I felt a shiver run down my spine and an almost unbearable need to apologize for the noise I had caused. I fought the urge away and walked down the hall, toward the raised platform.

To my left was the chapel. It was an archway leading to the opened room that housed pews and another lectern, this one upright. The windows were taller here, more elaborate and as a result more of the fading light lit up the area. I entered the chapel and a weight I didn’t know even existed lifted off my shoulders, as if the very air in the hall had been laced with lead. I sighed in relief and a small smile crawled its way to my face. I unfurled my bedroll and began preparing a fire. Normally I would consider lighting a fire inside to be incredibly foolish, but I was hungry and cold and I’m sure the gods wouldn’t mind.

Would they?

A New Promise

Yesterday was my 40^th 500 word entry. This is a monumental achievement, because it proves that I can stick to something by my own will for the same length of time as lent during Easter. It tells me that I can keep my promises, to myself and to others, and that I can develop my passion for writing into something more than a mere pastime. You may think it’s pretty insignificant; after all, what’s 40 days? A little over a month? But to me it’s so much more.

Have you ever made a New Year’s Resolution? Or let me rephrase that: Have you ever made a New Year’s Resolution you didn’t keep? I’m sure many of you have, and many of you have also felt a pang of regret, maybe a twinge of guilt, but that quickly evaporates as the year gets into full swing.  But nonetheless there’s a seed of doubt that is laughed off and calmed by the thought that, sure, maybe you didn’t keep your resolution, but neither did all the other people you know, so it’s not like you’re on your own. I’ve made these failed resolutions since I was old enough to comprehend what they meant. Do better in class, exercise more, eat less unhealthy food; all resolutions, all failed.

That’s why when I began this little experiment of mine, I wasn’t expecting much. I was expecting I’d continue maybe, say, a week, two tops? Then an excuse would pop up and I’d say to myself, I’ll do today’s 500 words tomorrow. And so on and so forth, until that little snowball collapsed right on top of me and my goals. And believe me, I was very close to calling it quits, many times. One day, when I went out for dinner and didn’t come back until about midnight, I was so tired I couldn’t think straight. The laptop screen was blurry and the words were illegible. I don’t know how I managed, but 500 words miraculously formed and I just about fell asleep slumped over the computer. Another night I was out late with my friends, nearly a repeat of the previous scenario. I pumped out 500 of some of the worst words I’ve ever written in my life and collapsed in a tangled mess of blankets and body parts.

So that’s why, with yesterday’s 500 words, I’ve decided to set myself a new challenge. I’ll continue writing my 500 words, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. But instead of writing them at night, when I’m tired and my brain’s all clouded up from the events that have transpired that day, I will write them before 7pm. At least then, after normal business hours I’d have completed all my daily chores, phone-calls and paperwork, but it’s within a timeframe where I’m still fully awake and aware of what I’m about to write.

Anyway, I know this isn’t the regular 500 words you were expecting, but I felt the need to share this, perhaps in the hope that if it’s out there on the internet, it would be easier for me to keep it.

Fishing under a canopy of grey

It’s a tumultuous kind of serenity here.

I’m aware of the contradiction, but it’s apt. Here, out in the middle of the bay, surrounded only by the seagulls and other lonely boats as rain falls from the heavens and patters gently on the roof of the cabin, I can’t help but feel serene yet restless at the same time.

The water was still as glass and the heavens had simply opened their banks and torrential rain fell, limiting my view of the horizon to only a few hundred metres. The canvas was up, shielding me from the majority of the rain, but droplets still found their way in, snaking through cracks and gaps in the sheet. I had been trying to fish, but the undersea was as dead as the surface. So I reeled my line in, packed the rod up and went into the small cabin of my boat.

This cabin is small, only just fitting my length in and too low for me to stand, or even sit upright. Nonetheless it provides ample cover against the rain, and I can’t help but close my eyes and let my thoughts melt away as if they were ice being struck by the rain. Somewhere in the distance, a seabird crows, and I can’t help but feel more alone out here than I ever have been in my entire life. But it isn’t unsettling. Neither is it worrying or even frightening. It’s relaxing; it’s the greatest amount of solitude one could ever hope to get. The rain obscures vision and drowns out sound. Boats that surrounded me moments ago are now a world away, trapped in their own canvas-covered cocoon and as uncaring as I am. The sea is kind and gentle, rocking me only by fractions. Other than the rain and the bird, I hear nothing else, and soon even the bird’s cries die away.

The rain doesn’t last long, but for that brief moment I feel like a castaway on a desert island, fishing for food and collecting rainwater for drink. Then the rain dissipates and the mist recedes, revealing the other fishermen and I withdraw my fishing rod, ready to catch a lucrative bounty.

I quickly lose count of how long I’ve been on the open water. I’ve become bow-legged as a result of the gentle rocking of the boat. I feel isolated even from time, disconnected from the rest of the world that relies so heavily on being able to get to point B within a predefined time frame. Who needs time, when you’ve nowhere to go? The only clock I bothered checking was that of the Earth’s, the slow but inevitable retreat of the sun signalled the passage of time and before long the sun had all but disappeared entirely from the face of the world. The wind begins to pick up and the waves become tougher, more forceful, as if trying to tell me that it’s time for me to go.

I sigh and pack my things, raise the anchor and start the engine. A grand total of zero fish were caught today, and I couldn’t have been happier.