The story
The old relay mast made a fine landmark until the clouds moved across the moon. Then the headland became one dark shape and the mast another. I kept the skiff in the sheltered water of this imagined bay and watched the moon return piece by piece.
There was no reception beneath the cliff. I put the radio away and listened to the water against the hull. A fish passed below the boat, silver enough to be visible for a second and then only a suggestion. The brightest things were moving slowly.
The notebook entry that followed contained no catch, no discovery and no useful measurements. It described the shape of the headland when the moon returned. I have kept that page because it is the one I can still hear.
A silent receiver does not mean the night has nothing to say.