Sunset over the
fishing boats. Where have all the sea lions gone? It's so quiet you
can hear the sheets slapping the masts in the breeze. No seagulls. No
otters. A distant fog horn. No fog here.
The fishermen pack
their things away weary and uneasy. They don't talk much and seem
guilty when they do. The beauty of the quiet had been broken. They
have sinned.
The sun is now down.
The men gone. The breeze has retired for the night. Even the ocean is
unsettlingly still. As if the world has ground to gentle halt. Time
to sleep.
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