The tide was out

Captured after leaving the Chowder House after lunch with an old friend, Goat Island sat low and white against the blue water. The lighthouse stood as it always had, plain and useful. There was nothing grand about it. It did its work.

The channel wound through the sand flats like a river that had forgotten where it belonged. The mud showed dark along the edges. Gulls picked at it and called to one another. Their voices carried across the harbor in the clean June air.

The fishing boats waited for the tide. Some leaned a little. Others rested flat on the bottom. They looked patient. Fishermen learn patience whether they want to or not.

We had known each other a long time. Long enough that silence was easy. We watched the harbor without needing to explain it.

Across the water the island keeper’s house and the light caught the sun. The white walls were bright against the sea. Beyond them was open ocean and the horizon, hard and straight.

The harbor smelled of salt, bait, diesel fuel and seaweed drying in the sun. It was the smell of work. Men would be out again when the tide returned. Lobster traps would be hauled. Lines would be tended. The day would continue as it always had.

We stood there a while longer and watched the water move slowly back toward the sea. It was a good day. The kind of day that asks nothing from a man except that he be there to see it.