Walking down to the pier familiar with the sounds of waves rising and falling, the fish scales shimmer on the boardwalk like knife blades, clinging to my feet, pulling me down the pier like the wheelbarrows before me, barley stopping to meet the waves that rise and fall, rise and fall. A wise pair of eyes look in the distance, content and unafraid, the old man sits by a hut of weathered wood, smelling of moss and vinegar, the walls are covered with nets camouflage the hut, all the while, the waves rise and fall and so they will do until the end.