The sea is very quiet today. Little bluish waves crawling over the gravels along the shore are almost motionless.
The short, frothy white crests of the waves are so calmly disappearing before reaching the shore. A number of seagulls are soaring and resting without a hurry, but with a few cackles of their presence.
The sea has made it imperative that the clear blue sky up there bows down to touch at the farthest horizon and amply infuses its blue there.
The climate is so generous today.
Big black shapeless rocks making the cliffs and the shiny rounded pebbles, and the shells strewn across the sand is all – nothing else. Everywhere is water, and water and water.
Only living creatures are the seagulls and the sea vultures. Their quacks and the roar of the sea.
No, wait. There is another.
A man. Sitting far away from the shore, he is watching the sea before him. His fingers are clamping together round his folded knees to hold them tight.
His eyes were not moving. He was gazing at the monotony of the sea waves coming up and going down the shore, with his mind hovering elsewhere.
Other waves were roaring inside him, none to see that. But his face was expressionless and there he had let no sign of disquietude brim over.
A fishing boat lay on its side to his left. The words ‘water nymph’ could be seen carved on it, clearly readable in this hot forenoon light.
A thin line of sweat trickled down his right sideburn. His firm jaws were declaring that he was determined to do something.
His ears resented to listening to the roars of the sea or the quacks of the seabirds. Rather they were listening to his inner roars, waves after waves breaking mercilessly.
‘Go. Do something with the farm land. It’s all we have. Forget about fishing’, his wife told him yesterday in some rough altercation with him.
