These boats probably know more about fish than I ever will.

The marina was alive with the quiet industriousness of docked fishing boats. Their weathered hulls bore the marks of countless voyages, each one carrying stories of the sea. The water was so still it mirrored their masts perfectly—an upside-down fleet suspended in blue. I wandered along the rocky shore, letting my thoughts drift as easily as the boats might on a calmer tide. There was a rhythm to this place: ropes creaking against wood, the occasional call of a gull overhead, and the faint hum of activity from distant boatyards. It felt like time here moved differently—measured not in minutes but in tides and catches. I leaned against a railing and watched as a fisherman adjusted his nets with practiced ease, his movements as natural as breathing. It was hard not to envy that kind of simplicity.