Not a great writing weekend for anything but this little prompt writing. Just am not feeling the motivation these days, even with the fake sunlight lamp switched on.
The local fishermen went out just after sunset five nights a week. They putted out of the anchorages to their favorite fishing grounds navigating by the stars. No fancy GPS to keep dry or out of the bilge water in the bottom of the shallow boats. All they needed was a view of the stars to lead them out and home. Not that they needed to go all that far offshore, the waters around the island had been declared a marine preserve over thirty years before so there were plenty of fish to catch. The rules said they could only fish with hand lines, not nets, but Santiago figured what the fish police didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He always trailed a net behind the Santa Marta on his way from his little bay on the coast of Venezuela to the Town Pier. He made sure to haul the net in, put the fish in the well, and stow the net before getting too far into Bonairean waters. If anyone asked he had plenty of fishing line scars to brandish to prove how he caught the fish. The nets were good for covering the other cargo Santiago carried, the things the gringo Manning waited on the beach for every Tuesday night.
--Barbara
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