by Ibrahim Azam
O’Neill watched the sun peek over the horizon. The first of its rays had bled through the sky. Brady looked back at the village, shrinking out of sight as they pushed the johnboat further into the water.
It was a cold morning. The wind was callous, hitting both men in the face, spattering pockets of seawater with each strike. Unruffled, O’Neill began preparing the fishing rods. Three decades parading this ocean, he thought. And I ain’t letting some rookie slow me down.
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