I remembered that from last time, so I went to bed early (after watching the Man in the Iron Mask – I <3 D’Artagnan). The fishermen come out at the brink of dawn. I watch through a narrow crack in the shuddered windows as they pile their gear into the boats eagerly bobbing at the shoreline. They head off to sea, disappearing into the pink and periwinkle mist of sunrise. Then I do my thing. I make breakfast, I clean, I shower, I tend to Tequila. When we’re through, I perch myself beside the window again. This time I fling the shudders wide open. It’s only 7:00am, but the sun is high and the day golden, and the fisherman are returning to the beach. They search anxiously for the bowlines that hold their boat to shore; once found, they climb off and strip down to their shorts. Somewhere hidden beyond my view they stash tables, which they unfold in the water beside the boat. Then comes the cooler.
Within the cooler are the fish from the morning’s adventure, some still flopping meekly as the fisherman places them on his table. He finds his tools, and I watch in awe as he casually cuts the fish one-by-one before tossing them back into the cooler. When he’s through, he washes his hands in the salt water of Bonne Terrasse, and disappears with the cooler. Another morning done, another day in the south of France to enjoy.
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