Sunday afternoon. The mackerel are still running. So is the sale.

Sunday afternoon. The harbor is half-empty.

The first mackerel of the year are still moving — same fish that came inshore on Friday, still here, still pulling silver below the surface at this hour. They're not in a hurry. They don't know it's Sunday.

Somewhere, someone is doing what you'd be doing right now if you'd started yesterday. The kettle. The boat. One more sail before the work week starts.

Until midnight, the price is where it should be. After that, it's not.

Three days fit easily. The first day is for getting your bearings. The second is for finding a fish you didn't know existed. The third is for sitting on the boat and watching the gulls disagree about something.

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