Living near the spit was a treat in life. It was colder than expected and much noisier. Not just gulls and sea lions but the fishing boats. Motor sounds carry and bounce back. Long-time residents recognized other boat sounds and would ramble old family names and say what the catch of the day will likely be. Every morning, I awoke to the sound of one. Loud and distinct. It started out to be soothingly familiar, until the sound haunted me. I pictured the wife of the fisherman and the day the boat’s sound ends. The big one that got away.
by Cindy Patrick
From: Friday Flash Fiction