130. Down by the fisherman's wharf

Banking and plummeting with the on-shore winds, the seagulls squawked overhead as Elaine and Jim eased back into the rattan chairs on the veranda of the weatherboard cottage close to the inlet. Beside them, jutting out 50 meters into the waters of the bay, stretched the timbers of the wharf, which had seen better days.

It had been a most satisfying day, and a long time since simply mooching had felt this good, without a non-productive guilt setting in, especially for Jim. He had toiled for so long now, that the hours, the stress and the looming penury seemed like God’s sentence for some unfathomable wrong.

Blinking into the salty glare, Jim wiped the paper towel across the corners of his mouth, pushed his chair back from the wobbly table, and levered himself erect. He felt a slight pang. Apparently you rarely know the big one when it strikes you.