The Fishermans Secret

By the time I met Sarah for coffee yesterday it was only 11:30am. A bright Spring day, though as we had coffee it had begun to gloom over. Only temporary though. The sun shone all afternoon.
After I had left Sarah, I caught the bus to Rottingdean. I knew everyone else would be hungover, thanks to the Hove Beer Festival the night before. I had forgotten to get a ticket, and by the time I tried to, they had sold out. Nothing worse than spending Sunday inside so I caught the bus to Rottingdean, and walked back along the coast. I had done this walk on numerous occasions before, the last time with Jen, back in January, but never on my own.
The Undercliff Walk was littered with families, students on bikes, old men. Dogs ran wildly ind elight.
The Marina, coming up quick.
So busy.

The pleasure boats there don't interest me, a crop of affluence and utterly lacking in interest. Plastic vessels, beguiling as furniture bought from brand name warehouses.
Below a sign which said 'this is a working quay, do not enter' were a line of boats that were much more appealing. Fishing boats. Working vessels. Surprisingly small, and all hunched in. Dark wood and a cramped cabin. Ramshackle masts from which fluttered black plastic-bag flags. Heralds for some obscure sea empire. From the deck of one of these fishing boats there rose a street lamp. I think I would die of happiness if I ever saw it lit. Nets and buckets lay about the walkway. Smell of fish and the sea and the deeps.
A fisherman.
I would love to be a fisherman, I thought, suddenly. Set off while it's still dark. Un-still waves, and a mind still longing for sleep. Dream-tides and lonely current. Can't see the land fromm the cabin. Alone here with the dawn. It would be so beautiful.
The moment passed.
There was only a single man on this line of boats. Down at the end. Sawing away at something I couldn't see.
Lost in his work.
And above him, in the marinas and the restaurants and the Asda car park, and the roads leading up into Whitehawk, and back into Brighton, no-one heard him but me.

Dark later and later. Called around Andy's house for a cup of tea. Was about 5:00pm. He was, as thought, just getting up. Called round Jo's house afterwards.

Walked back through the night. A spring night. You can always tell a Spring night, the darkness goes all blue and electric. Sea-wind fresh and hopeful, deepening, things pooling in the shadows.

I thought of boats and summers, and by the time I had arrived back at the House of Bedsits, there were only slivers of the day left, out over the sea, near that unreachable horizon only the fishermen know.