Morning air was nearly still or as still as island air by the sea could be. Barefooted man was sitting on a wooden cart at the end of the pier, gazing far into the boundless sea. He was at ease, not observing the noise brought by passengers coming off the wooden ferryboat.
Watching boats come and go brings him back to the days when he was going to the sea himself. Only those who spent countless years at the sea know the true feeling of a boatman’s freedom. At that minute he was far and free, in the wide waters, endless skies and Mother Nature with her sundry moods.
Pier is his secret escape.