On the quayside, in front of the Ship Hotel, David bent for a moment to tic a shoelace while I dug my hands in my pockets and looked around. I'd never seen the harbor when the fishing fleet was out. It didn't look at all forlorn, as I'd expected. Instead it had the peaceful and serene demeanor of a housewife who, having finished her day's labors, had found an hour of freedom in the absence of her family, and had settled down happily to enjoy herself. Not that the "family" was entirely absent. Three boats, at least, had stayed behind, and from the far end of the harbor came the strong persistent throbbing of an engine, competing with the shrill cries of the herring gulls that dipped and wheeled above our heads. "Which boat is Brian's?" I asked David, and he raised his head from his crouching position, scanning along the narrow length of the harbor. "That one," he identified it. "Second up along the middle pier." The middle pier, I gathered from the direction of his nod, was the long bit running parallel to us, on the far side of the harbor, though why it should be called the middle pier escaped me, as it didn't appear to be in the middle of anything.
