Extract from a short story.
We arrived in Fleetwood at 11 30 with half an hour to spare. It was a dismal day, a misty white frost covered the pebble beach, the clouds were low and heavy with late autumn drabness, Winter was well on it's way.
The little row of gift shops was closed, metal shutters adored the windows, It looked tired, unwelcoming.
Well what a difference a few months makes it had been so alive in the summer, but now there was a damp sleepiness about the place. Suddenly I got a whiff of fish and chips, "Ha there's a cafe across the street," I said, so we went inside to wait, as I pushed the door, it opened with a loud creek, a man who was sat with his back to the door,wrapped up warm in a thick overcoat and wearing a scarf, huddled over a steaming mug of-something? momentarily turned his head and glanced in our direction, gave a knowing nod and a sympathetic smile.
We sat by the window.I wiped the condensation from the glass with the sleeve of my coat."I must be bloody barmy," I said to our David," Why I let you talk me into this God only knows." For the second time today David roared with laughter, Well I'm so glad you can see the funny side to it I thought, looking out towards the cold grey sea, It's bad enough in here, but out in the middle of the Irish sea, I may well freeze to bloody death. David didn't care, he was hovering on the edge of the world, waiting for his trip of a lifetime. One last voyage in his beloved boat, or was it a ship? I didn't know, and anyway when did a boat become a ship, I was thinking but didn't like to ask, so kept that question to myself.
Then I saw the trawler in the harbour: It was time.