cast off in the dark. the fog had settled before the boat woke, thick enough that the bow light made only a yellow patch on nothing. left the harbour by sound, by feel of the cleat-knock and the slack of the rope. nine passengers, all asleep or pretending. one small dog.

kept to the inside line by the chart, by the time, by the old habit of counting. the lighthouse showed nothing — you can hear it through fog if you know which silence to listen for. landed at six on the dot. nobody late. nobody early either.

— a quiet morning. the sea said nothing. i said less.