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.