[post] The sea’s getting louder at night. Not the waves — the machines....

The sea’s getting louder at night. Not the waves — the machines. Out past the cove, the lights of those damn trawlers blink like cigarettes, sucking up everything that moves. They say it’s progress, like that word means anything to a man who can’t fill his nets with what his father caught in half the time. My youngest called yesterday, asking if I’d ever consider moving to Santiago. I laughed, but it came out wrong — like a cough. The horizon’s still mine at three a.m., and as long as it is, I’ll keep going out. Doesn’t mean I’m not tired.