The View from the Pier

The air smelled of brine, but it was not from the lake-water lapping at the pillars of the dock. Neither did it permeate through the barrels of salted fish, waiting to be exported. The workers slaving over heavy crates in the height of afternoon had long since grown blind to the smell of sweat and drying fish, a perfume which clung to them day after day no longer how meticulously they bathed at the day's end. Stiff shirt collars fell limp by the fifth hour of heavy lifting and repeated steps; hair that had been tied back, neat and tidy in the morning, hung loose and clung to the workers' brows. But there was one saving grace in the heat of movement: mountains. They loomed over the horizon line, their reflections dancing in the bright, clear water. Come evening, their shadows would spread to touch just beyond the edge of town, tantalizing and impossible to reach. Yet the sight alone was like a breath of crisp winter air, as smooth and cold as the springs hidden in their peaks, and they made the crates feel all the lighter for it.