Fishing
At the seams of the coastland where cratered mud roams the pathways and the truculence of certain near amphibious bird species is met with laughing intrigue and breadcrumbs they sojourned, the two. On a task called exile or leisure or vocation. Marked on their schedules a dedication to step off the wheel on which they trudged and abscond together to a thing near sacramental in its colloquial reputation. That banded rite as old almost as mankind itself. Once it had been performed for subsistence only but now it was the relaxation of many who pine for the stringent customs of a bygone era reprised. For unfiltered air and sun and stinking shore. Reacquainting themselves with a discipline they might not ever have to know, a luxury that can abrade a man's contentment the way the leak of a busted faucet can set his mind to ruin. An itch. The single, small yearning of a muscle so atrophied it could scarcely be said to still be in the body at all. It was there, a remnant instinctual, but n...