Don’t talk to me. Let me drink the coffee smell, diesel, and ocean here on this wet, hard bench—painted white, slick with morning dew, chipped and unforgiving, nothing soft about it. Overhead, the low tar-paper roof holds the chill, and gulls circle with that broken-hinge cry.

Wawa cup on one thigh—dark roast, lid half off, steam curling once and disappearing. Burnt, cheap, perfect.

The mate’s at the bait table, sleeves shoved up, knife working. Frozen squid comes out in stiff white blocks with a pink seam. He slices them—thwack, thwack—into white triangles that land with a soft slap in the bucket.

We’re supposed to be after sea trout this morning. We’ll drift the lumps until they go quiet. Then the captain will shrug and drop us on the wrecks on the way back in.

Black sea bass will be there, stacked on the twisted steel below—predictable, stubborn, always there. You can catch them.

The coffee’s down to a cold, gritty swallow. I crush the cup and drop it in the bolted barrel.

Engines rumble deeper, then push. The deck hums through my shoes. Diesel thickens the air—the smell of leaving the dock.

Sea trout or sea bass—it doesn’t matter. Right now it’s just cold painted wood, burnt Wawa, and the boat rolling out past the jetties.

I may not look happy. I am happy.

Don’t talk to me.

Years from now, some grown kid will catch that same mix—diesel, cheap coffee, cold paint—and give a quick, private smile.

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