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Willy’s favorite thing about living on a south-facing beach at the tip of the continent is the sun. Not its warmth or light, which can be too intense in the height of summer, but the fact that he can see it both rise and set over the ocean from the dock that serves as his front porch.
Every morning that the skies are clear, even on the coldest winter days, Willy stands with a mug of coffee, tea, or hot cocoa (depending on his mood) and faces east. The sky transforms before his eyes: from blue-black to violet, then from violet to lavender, from soft pink to orange, and finally to gleaming, radiant yellow. Willy sighs, content to see another day.
Many people don’t understand how treacherous the life of a fisherman can be. Choppy seas, sudden storms, even a too-strong fish on the line can all be dangers on the open sea. Especially if, like Willy, you fish alone.
It strikes him, sometimes, that if something were to happen to him out at sea, no one would ever know how he died. He would just… never come home. Elliott would probably notice his absence first, then the farmer and Kent, his on-shore fishing buddies. Some folks wouldn’t miss him until the fresh fish he reeled in stopped showing up at the general store. Others might not even notice he was gone until the next town festival, when he didn’t show up.
Such morbid thoughts are never too far from Willy’s mind, even though he does his best not to dwell on them. He tries to look at the bright side—his profession has given him an appreciation for every single new day. Every sunrise and every sunset.
When the day draws to a close, Willy once again finds himself standing on the dock, facing west this time. He always returns from sea or closes up shop early enough to make this part of his daily ritual. Sometimes he holds a second mug of something warm. Sometimes he smokes his pipe. Sometimes he holds nothing at all, opting to keep his hands warm in his pockets and simply observe without distraction as the morning’s spectacle is reversed.
The yellow light fades to deep orange, punctured by gray-blue-indigo clouds. On good days, the clouds all across the sky turn an almost neon pink streaked with purple. Those are the days that Willy hears a door open and close, and he is joined at a distance by his poet-neighbor who can never stay away from such beauty. In silence, they watch the sky darken, inch by beautiful inch, until the sun vanishes below the surface of the water on the horizon.
Sometimes Willy leaves, then. Sometimes he stays until dusk has faded nearly to night. He sighs once more, thanking Yoba for another day of life, precious life. He turns and heads to the saloon for a pint and a chat with a friend.
And tomorrow, he’ll step out his door in the pre-dawn morning, and do it all over again.