Marinorama

Fishboats troll from Sunset Cliffs to reefs beyond La Jolla Bay, leaning with the northwest wind, lurching in the shallow troughs, slewing on the southward run, with heavy seas abeam. People on the cliffs squint and shade their eyes to watch the twelve-foot jig boats take the swells. They exclaim and stare and lean forward in the wind of their own hillsides, loving the clean white bow-stroke deep across the humping backs of the waves, waving their heads in time with brown stick masts waving back and forth, wishing they themselves might be fishermen and feel the touch of sea.

The fishermen wipe salt spray from their eyes, and scream profanely to the wind, cursing wind and tangled lines, plunging hull, crosswise waves, broken hooks, diesel smell, the everlasting stink of fish, the bloody deck, the slipping boots and slimy handholds, and wish to God they were ashore, standing with the landsmen on the cliff, wishing they were fishermen.