Two nights ago I left my apartment and headed to the waterfront. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, calling gulls back to perches not so far from my balcony. The sound pushed me outdoors, down to the sea where it was smelling particularly of seaweed and crusted salt. Small interactions were taking place everywhere. A man was repairing his boat engine, his face tanned and lined from countless years absorbing harsh sea winds. Fishermen strolled the wharf, swigging cans of Efes and taking long drags on cigarettes in preparation for a night on the water. One man, alone in his small boat, sat clicking his prayer beads in contemplation, occasionally glancing back to shore as if waiting for someone who would not come. Human sized piles of nets hulked every few feet, reminding me of empty ant hills home to crabs rather than insects. The peace of the evening was consuming and almost terrifying. It was a place nearly impossible to infect with unwanted stress. Time did not exist, only the steady click and swish of countless men stitching nets while waiting for the anchovies to return. These people reminded me how the world is constantly turning; millions of lives operating in tandem like a watch wound through the action of its parts. While night was falling in Sinop, the sun rose over my childhood home in Blanchard. In between the two towns, the world turns and life goes on.
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