The story
I noticed morning first on the edge of the skiff. The rail, which had been a dark line all night, turned a pale green. Then the ropes became brown and the pelicans on the posts became distinctly unimpressed. The harbour was being coloured in around me.
The radio stayed switched off. I had enough sounds: the soft knock of a mooring, a bird landing badly, someone opening a distant shed. The fishing line was packed away, but I kept the notebook on my knee until the last useful sentence arrived.
At the steps I looked through the night’s pages. Some were about fish. Most were about waiting, looking and finding out that a familiar place could still surprise me. I closed the book before breakfast and let the morning belong to someone else.
Not every ending needs a dramatic final catch.