The southern dock gets its name from the lamps beneath the warehouse eaves. Their reflections drift across the water like little pieces of fire. I arrived after the last worker had gone, carrying a jig tied with red thread from a torn seat cover.
Small fish gathered where the light met the dark. Beyond them, something larger moved with a completely different patience. I dropped the jig outside the bright patch and let it drift toward the edge.
The harbour after the lamps come on
The bass took so gently that I first thought I had caught a rope. Then the rope accelerated. I moved between two bollards, keeping the rod low beneath the mooring lines, while the fish carved a broad circle through the glowing water.
At the ladder, I finally saw its size. I released it without bringing it onto the planks and sat beside the empty net for a while. The warehouse lamps switched off one by one. I packed up when the final reflection disappeared. The night shift had ended exactly on time.
The edge of the light can be more interesting than its centre.
