The land is made of low lying, green hills, shrouded in a thick fog out in the distance.

The land is damp. It might have rained, but it is difficult to tell. There is no rain at the moment however.

The harbor is quiet except for the sounds of our own ship, now pulling up to the pier. The engines are churning the water into a white froth, as the giant ship approaches slowly and rubs it’s fenders against the ancient pier.

Misty shrouded men scurry along the side of the ship, carrying giant ropes that make them appear minute and weak. They are not. They are the men who make all of our ventures possible.

We thank the men and women working in the shadows who go, mostly, unseen.

The gulls have noticed them and swoop and cry as they look for scraps of food among the bits of trash and small stones. They think that the men are the fishermen that they follow and know so well. They know  food is never far from these hard working men. They are mistaken this time.

The giant pilings are covered in old rope and bird droppings. Large black mussels hang on the pilings, moving side to side in the white water, filtering their rich food from the cold sea water. They are waiting to become dinner on someone’s table, but they are unaware if that.